Bloodline

by Jess Lourey

  A cough. “That was a long time ago. I won’t turn down company, though. I don’t leave my house much, but if you bring the doughnuts, I’ll make the coffee.”

  “This is Grover Tucker? Former Stearns County sheriff?”

  “None other.”

  “All right, how does tomorrow morning sound to you?”

  Another cough. “I like the plain doughnuts. Nothing fancy.”

  I’m about to confirm when the screech of a car sliding to a halt rips through the glass of the booth. It’s so loud and so startling that the phone drops from my hand. Two hundred feet away, at the intersection of Highway 23 and Augusta Avenue, a car has jumped the curb. Next to it, there’s a body sprawled on the road. I push against the door and step out, mouth hanging open.

  I stagger forward.

  The unmoving body is dressed in the same clothes as the “mugger” I thought I saw over the weekend, right down to the porkpie hat resting a few feet from the body. I’m going insane, the pregnancy eating my brain. There’s no other explanation. But here he is, laid out flat on the ground. I push through quicksand, toward the contorted figure lying on the pavement. I need to see his face.

  “Joan! Where are you going?”

  Gray-skinned, rodent-faced Mildred appears in front of me. Behind her, the Lilydale lunch crowd closes in around the body. I try to jostle Mildred aside. She is surprisingly sturdy.

  “Who is that?” I yell. “Did he just get hit by a car?”

  Mildred forcibly turns me around and leads me back toward the phone booth. “Did you leave your handbag in here?”

  She doesn’t wait for an answer. She retrieves my purse and loops the strap over my shoulder. The far-off keen of an ambulance slams against my skin. I shuffle toward the noise. Mildred is tugging me back, I’m stretching forward.

  That’s the mugger on the road, I’m sure of it.

  There are about twenty folks between me and him, though. How are there so many people? It’s like they showed up to deliberately block my view. When the ambulance careens around the corner, the crowd steps back as one to make room. Over their heads I can see the paramedics emerge from the front of the ambulance and hurry around to open the rear. Then they disappear into the throng. They reappear in moments, the gurney heavy with a body. They slide it in the back of the station wagon, close the door, reclaim their seats, and drive off.

  Away from the hospital.

  I know this because Lilydale General is on my end of town, southeast. The ambulance is driving northwest.

  “Mildred,” I groan in a voice I don’t recognize. “Where are they taking him?”

  “The hospital, dear.”

  “But it’s the other way.”

  “Saint Cloud hospital, then. It’s bigger.” Mildred is searching the crowd. I realize she’s looking for help in controlling me.

  I am a risk. They don’t want me to become hysterical.

  Was my mugger a risk? Did Lilydale take care of him? I must control myself.

  “I think I need to visit Dr. Krause,” I say.

  Mildred’s relief is so tangible that it would be hilarious if not for the circumstances. “I’ll walk with you,” she says.

  I must be cooperative. There is too much danger, too much on the table. I smell it, and it smells thick and coppery, like great amounts of drying blood. “Thank you.”

  She weaves us around the edge of the crowd, distracts me with chatter, but she needn’t worry. I am looking nowhere but at my own feet. I fear there is no one in Lilydale but Regina who would believe me, no one, not even Deck, who wouldn’t commit me and take my baby away if I tell them that I’m certain I’m always being watched, that I have the same scar as my boyfriend and a stranger who claims to be a boy who disappeared twenty-four years ago, that somehow the man who mugged me in Minneapolis showed up in Lilydale, and now he’s been hit by a car.

  Hell, I’d commit whoever told me that story.

  I’ve heard of that before, of women who lose their mind because of the disequilibrium of pregnancy. They never get it back.

  I don’t want to be crazy.

  I hug myself tighter, letting Mildred lead me inside the doctor’s office. She murmurs something to Cornelia at the front desk. I am immediately guided to a back room.

  Dr. Krause appears moments later. I’m not surprised.

  “I’m not feeling well, Dr. Krause. Not like myself.” I won’t offer details. I will not tell him that either this entire town is insane, or I am. “I feel like I’m overstimulated. Growing upset over minor things.”

  “I’m glad you came,” he says, nodding, his expression concerned. He has brought a chart with him. He opens it. “September 5 due date. That’s right.”

  He peers at me through his round, rimless glasses. He has yet to examine me beyond the cursory check last visit.

  “You’re being a thoughtful mother, very obliging, following medical orders,” he continues, his gaze serious.

  Silence shrouds the room, a quiet so forceful that I can feel its heat.

  The doctor’s threat is clear. Follow my rules, or else.

  I nod to show I understand.

  “Very good,” he says. “I’ll increase your Valium, and you’ll promise to come back if you feel unsettled again, won’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  CHAPTER 30

  “I think it may have been the heat,” I say. I’m standing next to Deck, holding the relish dish I forgot to put out with the rest of the food. Ronald and Barbara have joined us for dinner, which I’ve cooked. It’s too late for relish, the main course is almost finished, but I need to show them I’m trying. Deck is carrying brandy to refill his glass as well as Barbara’s and Ronald’s.

  I’ve prepared a new recipe from one of the women at Catherine’s gathering. It’s a hamburger hot dish that calls for corn mixed in with the cream of mushroom soup. I’m grateful everyone appears to have enjoyed it.

  “We’re just glad you’re okay,” Ronald says. He scoops out his third serving of the hot dish. He seems to especially enjoy the cornflake crust. “That’s what’s most important. You’re carrying our grandbaby in there.”

  I smile and let Deck slide his arm around my thickening waist. “I agree. That’s the most important,” I say. Then, almost as if it’s an afterthought: “I was also upset by the accident I witnessed.”

  Barbara and Ronald exchange glances. I notice because I’m watching for it.

  Deck is oblivious. He selects a sour gherkin from the dish and pops it into his mouth. “What accident?”

  “A man was hit by a car.” I gamble on keeping my focus on Barbara because I can watch only one of them. I’m rewarded as she blanches.

  “He’s fine,” Ronald says. “Dennis is going to run a bit about it in the paper.”

  I swivel my gaze to him. He’s been studying me like I’ve been watching Barbara, just like he was reading me the first day we drove up. Tendrils of warning brush my flesh. I force a smile. “I’m so glad to hear it. When the ambulance drove in the opposite direction of Lilydale General, I worried it was really serious.”

  “An abundance of caution,” Ronald says. “Now, what did you learn about Paulie Aandeg?”

  Deck drops into his seat, and I rest the relish tray on the table and take my place kitty-corner to him.

  “He’s a good-looking fellow,” I say. “But it’s impossible to know if he’s really the boy in the sailor suit.”

  “I wasn’t even born when Paulie disappeared,” Deck says, “but I’d like to meet this fellow. I think I’d know if he was telling the truth.”

  “He has a scar,” I say. I hadn’t planned to bring it up, but I find I want to see their reaction. “The man who claims to be Paul. Deck, it looks just like ours.”

  Barbara’s fork clatters to the floor. “Deck doesn’t have any scars.”

  I pull up my sleeve, smiling. I’ve unsettled them, but they won’t know that’s why I’m smiling. They’ll take it for innocence. “It’s a smallpox scar.�
�

  “Everyone has one of those,” Ronald says quickly. “I have one of those.”

  I notice for the first time that he and Deck hold their forks the same, like they’re stabbing their food.

  “Not like ours,” Deck says. He’s stopped eating. His brow is furrowed. “Joan and I have figure-eight scars.”

  For the first time since we’ve moved to Lilydale, I think the Deck I fell in love with might still be here. I fuss with my napkin so he can’t see my grateful tears.

  “Did you actually see this scar on the man who claims to be Paulie?” Barbara asks.

  I nod. “He showed it to me. Problem is, I have no idea if the real Paulie Aandeg had it. It’s not mentioned in the articles, the local ones, at least. Would either of you know about vaccinations both Paulie and Deck would have received?”

  “It’s so long ago,” Barbara says brightly. “Impossible to remember. Did you make this cake from scratch, dear? It’s so much better than the one you brought to Catherine’s.”

  CHAPTER 31

  I shouldn’t have to manipulate Deck to leave for work an hour before he planned—early bird catches the worm, honey!—or lie about why I’m driving to Saint Cloud (shopping!). I especially shouldn’t have to slouch in my seat as I motor out of town, worried that someone will see me and stop me.

  But I do, aware that I’ve gone from being afraid to leave Lilydale to desperate to escape.

  Hunched in the driver’s seat, I drive past the lonely ramblers at the outskirts of town, feeling their sleepy, sticky pull: a life of work, family, growing more familiar every day as responsibility and inevitability pour like gravedirt onto my shoulders. But that’s dramatic. The situation doesn’t call for it. I agreed to move to Lilydale. We have a nice house, Deck’s job is solid, and I’ve just been granted the biggest story at the newspaper. The pregnancy is making me unreasonable.

  Hysterical.

  Barbara’s and Ronald’s behavior last night could be explained away as completely normal. Of course Barbara went pale when we talked about a car accident. Obviously they would be concerned about my health. And a porkpie hat does not a man make. Still, it’s not until I pass through the dark sentinel trees surrounding Lilydale, pass through the thick skin of the town with a pop—just like the day I arrived, except out rather than in—that my neck relaxes, that I can loosen my grip on the steering wheel, that blood returns to my fingers.

  Saint Cloud is charming, a river city that’s so open it feels familiar. On the drive, I unclasp my purse, locate the bottle of Valium, and swallow one dry. Then, I close my eyes and anchor myself in the memory of my mom. She understood how important my stories were. She didn’t think it was foolish how I saw the world. She loved my imagination, and she loved me.

  I park in front of Grover Tucker’s house.

  “What do you think, sweetheart?” I ask my stomach, stroking the firm bump. “You ready to go inside?”

  The house is a cozy Cape Cod with a well-kept lawn. I park and walk up the granite walkway. A soft breeze murmurs through the neighborhood trees, making the honey-scented pink rosebushes on each side of Mr. Tucker’s front porch wave. I knock on his door.

  He answers immediately.

  My jaw drops.

  He laughs, a wheezy sound. “Not what you expected?”

  CHAPTER 32

  “Thank you for the coffee.”

  He’d brought me to the sunroom on the back of his house, where I’d tried to hide my surprise as he poured me a cup. It wasn’t that I hadn’t seen Negroes before, of course. Of course. Mom and I had lived in the South. It’s just that in my wildest imagination, I never pictured a black sheriff in Stearns County in 1944.

  “There weren’t a lot of us,” he says.

  My embarrassment doubles. “You’re reading my mind.”

  He laughs. It’s a friendly sound. “Your face, anyhow. You haven’t recovered from the shock.”

  “I’m so sorry. It’s just that . . . I haven’t lived in Lilydale long, but in the short time I’ve been there, I haven’t seen a single Negro.”

  “And you probably won’t. It was the same when I was elected—thanks to a mix of blacks in Saint Cloud back from the war and the fact that I ran unopposed—and it’ll likely be the same for a while. Didn’t make my job any easier, but then again, the only people who ever like a sheriff are the innocent. I didn’t run across much of those in the execution of my duty. Are those doughnuts for me?”

  I had set the box down but had failed to open it. I lift the lid. “Yes. I bought some plain ones, but also frosted. For me.”

  He smiles. “All right, then. I might as well try those, too. Now, you didn’t drive all this way to watch an old man eat, did you?”

  He moves slowly, as if his bones are made of glass.

  “Do you mind me asking how old you are?”

  He throws back his head and guffaws. “That’s right. You mentioned you were a reporter. Not afraid to ask the hard questions, are you? Well, I’m glad to have lived as long as I have, and I don’t mind telling you about it. I’m seventy-seven.”

  “I hope I’m half as sharp as you at that age.” His face is leathered, a newsboy cap pulled over his white hair, but his mind is quick. “I’m here about the Paulie Aandeg case. Do you remember it?”

  He stops halfway in the middle of pouring himself a cup of coffee. “The boy disappeared on September 5, 1944. Can’t ever forget that. His mother’s face will follow me to my grave. Broke my heart we couldn’t find her boy for her.”

  “What if I told you he’s shown up?”

  Mr. Tucker tugs his hat off and fans himself. “You don’t say.”

  “I do. I met with him yesterday.” I open my portfolio and remove the photos I’ve taken of Kris. “This is what he looks like now. Do you think it’s Paulie?”

  Mr. Tucker handles the pictures, examining each. He sips his coffee. He takes a bite of his doughnut, and then another. Finally, he says, “Could be. Age is about right. Coloring. Paulie had brown hair and eyes. It’s hard to know for certain.”

  “Did Paulie’s mother mention anything about him having a scar?” I pull up my cap sleeve. I chose the dress for this reason. “Like this one?”

  Mr. Tucker grabs his reading glasses off the table. Beyond the sunroom are more plants than I’ve seen outside of a park.

  “Smallpox?” he asks.

  “Yes, but shaped like mine. A figure eight.”

  He sits back. “Can’t say that I remember. I can get my hands on the old file, though. Maybe.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. “Would I be able to see it?”

  “Not if there’s any sensitive information. But if I can call in a favor—and that’s a big if—and if I come across anything that might make up your mind about this man claiming to be Paulie—a littler if—I’ll call you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Tucker.”

  “Grover.”

  “Thank you, Grover. Do you mind if I ask you a few more questions?”

  “As long as there’s doughnuts, you may ask questions.”

  I yank the article copies from my portfolio. “My research says Virginia Aandeg’s—Paulie’s mother’s—house burned down five days after he went missing, and she was never seen again. Do you have any theories about who started the fire?”

  Grover squints into the past. “That’s right. There was a kerfuffle around that. An insurance fraud investigation, if I remember correctly.”

  My pulse picks up. “They think it was arson?”

  “Something like that. All I remember is that the town of Lilydale received the insurance payment for Mrs. Aandeg’s house burning, and that was enough to draw some attention.”

  I turn the fire article to face him. “This fire?”

  He skims it. “Yes, that’s right.” He taps his finger over Ronald’s name. “That man. Ronald Schmidt. He still around?”

  “He is,” I say cautiously.

  “Always thought that one knew more than he let on.”

  “He�
��s my boyfriend’s father.”

  Grover sets his doughnut down. “Forgive an old man.”

  “Nothing to forgive.” My smile is tight. I’m walking a thin rope, trusting this man I’ve just met. “I think there is something off in the village of Lilydale.”

  If Grover recognizes his old quote, he doesn’t let on. “That’s true of many places.” He brushes sugar off his hands. “You know, I find myself mighty tired all of a sudden.”

  A chill envelops me. Is he going to tell on me? Is he one of their agents, like Dr. Krause? “I’m so sorry, Mr. Tucker. Have I said something to offend you?”

  “Grover, and no. I’m getting up in years, and that’s the beginning and the end of that story. Leave me your phone number, and I’ll reach out if I hear anything. In the meanwhile, you’re always welcome to drop by.”

  I jot down my number and let him lead me to the door, feeling like I’ve lost an opportunity. I can’t think of any more questions to ask, until: “I saw an accident last week in Lilydale. A man got hit by a car. An ambulance took him away. Looked like it was coming this direction. Did you happen to hear anything about it?”

  Grover leans against his door, shaking his head sadly. “I didn’t see anything in the papers, but I’m so sorry you witnessed that. Once you hear the thump of a car hitting a body, that’s a noise you won’t likely soon forget.”

  He closes the door, but I can’t move.

  My heartbeat is pounding too loudly, realization crashing through me.

  There hadn’t been a thump.

  Just the screech of the car, and then the body lying there.

  CHAPTER 33

  I won’t call Ursula again.

  And anyone else would lock me up.

  That’s how I explain what I’m doing outside the alley entrance to Regina’s upstairs apartment. I almost turn around rather than knock. She isn’t expecting me. I don’t want to intrude. She was welcoming in the bar, but she might not want me in her home. Seriously, what the hell am I doing here?

  I spin on my heel and start down the rickety wooden stairs, hitting the ground behind Little John’s. I’m halfway to my car when I meet Regina coming toward me, carrying a Wally’s grocery bag.