by Mary Logue
Brad picked up a spike and stuck it into a piece of wood. “He didn’t. I killed our father.”
Then he hit the spike with the ax, and the log broke in half.
You know the witch in The Wizard of Oz—when Dorothy throws the bucket of water on her—that’s how I feel some days. Like I’m melting. My tears are the water and my sorrow is melting me. I have no substance.
So you’re saying that your sadness weakens you?
When I dissolve into it, it does.
Could it strengthen you in some way?
I know it must.
How?
I understand other people better.
I feel like sadness gives you X-ray vision. You see inside people. You see how they’ve been ripped apart by their own losses.
Does that help you in your line of work?
You mean being a cop?
I believe my work is about finding out the truth. This can lead to punishment. But sometimes when you discover the truth you see the guilty have already been punished.
Have you been punished enough?
That’s the question.
21
CLAIRE left the Spitzler place in much worse shape than she had been in when she arrived. It was rare that she felt so disheartened when her police work turned up such dramatic results. She leaned on the hood of her car and radioed in that she was bringing Brad Spitzler in. Give the sheriff advance warning.
Right before she and Brad walked out of the house, Jenny had run upstairs, crying. Mrs. Gunderson was wiping the kitchen counter, trying to hold her tears back. Nora was sitting at the kitchen table, drawing a picture of a windmill that looked like it was spiking the sky.
Climbing into the patrol car, she looked back at Brad. He was sitting up straight and tall in the back of the patrol car. Claire had handcuffed him; it hadn’t seemed necessary, but it was proper procedure. He had said little after his confession. As they had left the farmhouse, he had told Mrs. Gunderson that the combine was ready to go and that the sunflowers needed to be harvested in the next week, or they would lose the crop. He reminded her that they needed the money desperately.
After they had been driving for ten minutes or so, Brad finally spoke up. “What’s going to happen to me?”
Claire looked back at him in the rearview mirror. He was trying so hard to keep it together. “I’m not sure. That’s not really my line of work. I apprehend the criminals, the lawyers take it from there.”
“Are they going to put me in jail? I can’t leave my sisters like that. They won’t make it on their own.”
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen. I’ll be eighteen right before Christmas.”
“That will work to your advantage. You’re technically still a juvenile, although they’ve been waiving that more and more in murder cases.”
Brad was quiet again, his head dropped. Claire kept a close watch on the road ahead. This part of the county was hilly, and the road wound through the glens and coulees. They dropped down off the bluffland and followed a coulee down to the river flats that would take them up to Durand. When the land opened up in front of them, it was a lovely sight: farmhouses tucked into groves of trees, the low hills topped with forests, even the fields golden with ripe crops. Claire noted that she wasn’t in the right mood to appreciate this vision.
It was a rare occurence that she felt bad when she had apprehended a perp. She had gone out to the Spitzler farm hoping to learn more about what had happened to their father, but she wasn’t quite ready for the case to break open, yet again, in front of her. It reminded her of following a new path through the woods—around every corner she didn’t know what she would find.
“What was your father like to live with these last few years?”
Brad lifted his head and looked out the window, then answered, “Oh, he could go along fine for a while, and then he’d get in one of his moods. Then nothing we did was right.”
“What would put him in a mood?”
“Often it was money, I think. Not enough money. He blamed us for everything. Staying on the farm. That the farm wasn’t doing that well. But it was all his own fault. He tried too many different things. Like the sunflowers. Although as a crop they might be fine. They have certainly produced.”
“What would he do when he was in a mood?”
“Pick on one of us. Usually Jenny. Often me. Never Nora. At least not yet.”
“What does that mean? Pick on you?”
“Rag us, ride us. Slap us. Nothing we could do would be right. He didn’t hit us too often, and hardly ever so’s it would show. But he would swear at us and tell us how stupid we were.”
“That sounds awful.”
Brad nodded, his head dropping again. After a minute or so, he said, “But you know what was the worst?”
“What?”
“When he would say he was going to kill us.”
Claire couldn’t imagine a parent telling a child such a horrible thing. She decided it was time she did something she had never done before. “Brad, I have some advice for you.”
He looked at her in the mirror.
“When we get to the sheriff’s office, I want you to lawyer up.”
“What does that mean?”
“I want you to ask for a lawyer and then not say anything until you get one.”
When Ruth Snyder opened the door and saw her husband standing there, she dropped the broom she had in her hand and jumped on him, wrapping her legs around his sturdy belly and her arms around his neck. He walked into their house carrying her, then unwrapped her legs so she was standing and held her tight. She sobbed.
He said her name softly: “Ruthie.”
She couldn’t stop crying.
He held her against him and rocked her.
Finally, when she was able to stop crying, she started talking. “The house is the cleanest it’s ever been. I had to do something with myself. So I cleaned and baked and sewed. But mainly I cleaned.”
He looked around. The house was incredibly clean. “It looks nice.”
Then she lifted her arms up, balled her fists, and pounded him on the chest as hard as she could. “I am so mad at you. How could you do that to me? Do you know what I’ve been going through?”
He grabbed her wrists and gently held them in his strong grip. “I’m sorry.”
She stood apart from him and said, “I was afraid I would never get to be with you again. Ever. My whole life. I couldn’t bear it.”
She started to cry and walked back into his arms.
“I’m home,” he whispered in her ear. “I’m not going anyplace for a while. You’ll even get tired of having me around.”
She gave a hiccup laugh, and he knew that she would get over it.
Claire stopped at the bottom of his driveway. Looking up through the trees, she could see that the lights were on in the kitchen. She should go home. It was after eight o’clock. Meg was probably waiting for her with Ramah, her baby-sitter. She would have her pajamas on, and they might be reading a book together. Now that Claire worked the regular day shift, it didn’t happen very often that Ramah had to get Meg ready for bed.
But, she thought, this would take only a minute or two. She felt like she owed it to Rich. Not that she might not have gone out to talk to the Spitzlers again on her own, but he had certainly helped point her in the right direction.
She could call him when she got home, after Meg was in bed, but since his house was right on her way, she thought she would stop. Admit it, she said to herself; you want to see him. It was as simple as that.
Claire drove up the driveway and parked the car in front of the barn. By the time she was out of the car, he was standing in the doorway.
She waved at him. “Hi.”
“Hi yourself. What brings you out this time of night?”
“Actually, I’m on my way home.” She walked up his steps.
“Come on in.” He motioned her through the door.
“I can only stay a minute.
Meg’s waiting with Ramah. I got tied up at the office. That’s what I wanted to tell you about.”
“Do you want to sit down?”
“Sure.
“Can I give you something to drink—beer, coffee, water?”
“Just water, thanks. I’m pretty keyed up.”
He got her some water from the tap and sat down opposite her at the table. She noticed that he was being careful not to get too close to her.
“I went out to the Spitzler farm today, and Jenny and Brad showed me the sorghum press. That’s what killed their mom.”
Rich nodded his head.
“Have you ever seen a sorghum press?”
“Probably. I don’t know for sure, but I have an idea what they look like.”
“They’re huge. Much bigger than I thought it would be.” Claire paused and then said, “The kids told me that their father had pushed their mother into the press while they were doing the sorghum.”
Rich closed his eyes and shook his head. “Shit.”
“Yes, and then he threatened them. That’s why they never told anyone. He said he’d kill them.” Claire put her hand up to her mouth to keep from crying. “They have had to live with him for all these years. He was a monster.”
“Sounds like it.”
“Brad killed him. He told me today. I had to bring him in.”
“That’s your job.”
“I don’t blame him.”
“I don’t imagine many people will.”
They both sat there. Claire took a sip of her water. “I had to tell someone before I went home to see Meg. It’s hard going home, and there’s no adult I can talk to. I don’t want her to know such things.”
“That’s fine. I’m always here. How’s your therapy going?”
“Good, I guess. I don’t know how you know when you’re done or if you’re making progress. I still am having panic attacks, but I don’t feel like they scare me as much as they did at first. Maybe I’m getting used to them, or maybe I simply understand them better.”
“Probably both.”
Claire stood up and handed him her glass. “I should go. I haven’t even had dinner yet.”
“Glad you stopped by. I’m sorry to hear about Brad. I hope they give him a break.”
“I do too. They’ve gotten so hard on juvenile offenders lately, it scares me.”
He walked her to the door, and she stepped outside on the stoop.
She turned to him and asked, “Would you kiss me?”
Rich gave her an odd look.
“I think I need it. I’m starting to feel like I don’t exist anymore. I’m thinking too much, I guess.”
He didn’t say anything. He reached for her, and she walked into his arms. He kissed her full on the lips and held her tight, then let her go.
She walked down the steps to her car and felt ready to go home.
Brad counted the blocks that made up the wall of his cell: 213. Then he counted the bars that went around the room: 47. Then he counted the flies stuck to the overhead bulb: 6. It all added up to nothing.
His food plate sat on the small table that he had pulled up to the cot. Thin slices of rubbery roast beef covered with a thick, dark gravy. Mashed potatoes that came from a box, and a small pile of yellow corn, the only dot of color on his plate. No dessert. Maybe that was the difference between a jail meal and a school meal. With a school lunch you always got dessert, even if it was only a piece of solid red Jell-O. He had drunk the milk, but that was all he could get down.
It had been a big mistake to start talking about his dad with the deputy. Once he had started, he hadn’t been able to stop. He had always known no one would understand what his life had been like, and he had been proven right about that. He was in jail. Fat lot of good that would do his sisters.
He put his head in his hands. He had promised his mother he would take care of Jenny and Nora. He had told her that no matter what happened, he would watch over them. He hadn’t done a very good job. The one time he had tried to stop his father, his arm had been broken in the fight.
How would he ever get to sleep in this place? He could hear other inmates down the hallway, but at least no one was very close to him. He had been told he wouldn’t be held long here. Within a day or two, he would be transferred to some kind of juvenile detention center.
His lawyer had talked it all over with him. Brad had done what the woman deputy had told him. When they arrived at the sheriff’s office, he had said he wouldn’t talk until he had seen his lawyer. It took them a few hours to drum up a lawyer, because Brad didn’t have one and couldn’t afford to pay for one. But as he suspected, his lawyer—a public defender—did not inspire great confidence. Sandy Burnet was his name, and he looked like a ferret with a wispy little mustache. He had talked to Brad in private, and then he told the police that Brad would make no statements until he knew how the case was going to be handled. He wanted to talk to the prosecuting attorney. They had set up a meeting for tomorrow morning.
Brad lay down on his cot and wrapped the blanket over his legs. What about a shower? He always took a shower before he went to bed. He was conscious of all the other bodies that had slept on this cot. He closed his eyes so he wouldn’t start counting blocks again.
Suddenly he heard the jangle of keys. Assuming they had come for his plate, he sat up and was all ready to apologize for not eating much of it when he saw a tall, thin man in a suit entering his cell. The deputy behind him was carrying a chair.
“Hi—Kent Byron,” the man said and put out his hand.
Brad shook his hand and said, “Hi. You probaby know that I’m Brad Spitzler.”
The deputy put the chair down, and the tall man sat in it. He loosened his tie and set down his briefcase. “Sorry it took me so long to get over here.”
“I wasn’t expecting you.”
“How are you doing?”
Brad stopped to think how he should answer that question. It felt like a trick to him. If he said fine, then they would think he had no remorse for killing his father. He gave up trying to work it out and just shrugged and said, “Not bad.”
“Not good, though. Am I right?”
“Yes. Why are you here?”
“It was Pit’s idea.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m your new lawyer.”
22
WHEN she was little, her mother read her fairy tales when she was sick: “The Tinder Box,” “The Wild Swans,” “Hansel and Gretel.” In these tales, the heroine always overcame evil. The daunting tasks were accomplished. Her mother would sit on the bed next to Jenny and read stories that would help her grow up strong.
Jenny wanted to do the impossible.
She had set her alarm and risen with the sun. She had put on a T-shirt and overalls so she could work in the field. She had borrowed Brad’s big straw hat and put on her mother’s old Red Wing boots.
Her father would have never let her do this. Even though he was dead, she still wanted to show him that she could do anything she wanted to better than he would ever imagine.
She sat on the seat of the tractor and tipped her head back to the sky. It was early in the morning, and the sun was peeking over the roof of the far barn.
Jenny loved riding on the tractor. She sat up so high, and she could feel the power of the engine under her seat and in her hands as she worked the gears. Brad had taught her how to drive it when her father hadn’t been around. He told her if she could drive the tractor, a car would be a piece of cake. Now that he was gone, she might need to drive the car if an emergency came up.
After Brad had been taken away last night, Jenny had decided she needed to do something to help keep their family together. She knew that the sunflower harvest was critical; Brad had planned on harvesting the crop this weekend. So as she lay awake in bed last night, jittery from taking no sweet little pills to get her to sleep, she decided she would have to take on the harvesting herself.
Maybe if she could do it, it would change ev
erything. With the money, she could hire a lawyer and get Brad out of jail. She could prove that she was good at something. Mrs. Gunderson would believe in her again and not just see her as a stupid druggie. She would save the farm, and they all would still have a place to live. She would accomplish happily-ever-after.
She knew that Brad had worked on the combine all yesterday before he had been taken away. He had oiled it and checked it over. Then he had attached it to the tractor. Most of the new combines were tractor and harvester in one, but theirs was an old model, 1966. Same year as their tractor. Their father could never afford to buy anything new. It was a faded red color with big cutting blades. As long as the tractor, it was actually bigger, and she was always amazed that the tractor could pull it along through the fields.
Jenny had tried to call Brad yesterday at the jail, but they wouldn’t let her call go through to him. She’d wanted to ask him some questions about the combine, but she would just have to wing it. She had sat up reading the combine manual last night and thought she knew what she needed to try to set the adjustments for harvesting sunflower seeds.
First thing to do was to drive the tractor and combine down to the field.
She started up the tractor and put it in a low gear to get ready to pull the combine. When she tried to move forward, the engine cut out on her. Easy, she thought, give it the gas easy. She tried again, and this time it chugged a couple of times, but caught and moved forward. Once she had it moving, it was a straight shot from the barn to the field.
After driving alongside a fallow field, she came to the beginning of the sunflowers. They spread out in front of her like a roomful of thoughtful children, their heads bending down over their work.
She sat in the sun at the edge of the field and readied herself. It would all be trial and error. It would have been even if it had been their dad doing it. He had never harvested sunflowers before. He would be swearing up a blue streak. At least she didn’t have to listen to that. It was so quiet out in the fields. She could hear a bird trilling its early morning song. If Brad were here, he would know what it was. He knew all the nature stuff. If he were here, the fields would be as good as harvested.
