Bloodline

by Jess Lourey

There’s a roll of maps beneath the desk in the center of the office. I want to know what the Xs were on the one Deck, Clan, and Ronald were studying that day I stormed in after my first meeting with Dr. Krause, when he’d called me a risk, back when I still thought I knew Deck.

  When I locate the map, I’m horrified to discover that not only are there red Xs over where Paulie’s house was, the Gomez house is, and four other spots, but there’re also percentages written on each of the poor neighborhoods. The biggest concentration is around the Baptist church Kris and I visited, the one surrounded by houses that had been licked by fire.

  Is Ronald controlling the makeup of the town?

  Very few want to go to the deep dark below.

  I bet if I matched up the X’d houses with property insured by Schmidt Insurance that listed Lilydale as beneficiary, I’d find a perfect match. I’m confident I am looking at one source of Lilydale’s benevolence: controlled burnings of people’s homes—poor people, migrant workers—after they’ve been coerced into handing over their insurance premiums. And then what? They probably move on.

  A house or two burning every few years wouldn’t draw too much suspicion. But what else have the Mill Street families done to create the balance they are after? How else have they terrorized families, made them move on to keep the percentages where they want them?

  It’s the price of living in Lilydale, where “everyone” is protected.

  Ronald’s hubris in keeping this information in plain-enough sight is breathtaking. It’s better than I could have hoped. It will be his downfall and my baby’s guarantee of safety. I lay out the evidence I’ve gathered. It’s crucial that Ronald not know exactly what I have—he must live in as much fear as me—and so I cannot simply take the files and the map. Instead, I will snap photos and then return everything as I found it. To get clear pictures, I must turn on the light.

  I have the Gazette’s Kodak with the flashcube.

  It’s not nearly powerful enough to capture a legible photograph in the dark.

  I go to the window and peer out. The street is empty. If it stays that way for the next sixty seconds, I might pull this off. My pulse shredding my veins, I hold the camera in one hand, flick the light switch with the other. I snap photo after photo, my hands moving so fast they’re a blur, making sure to take close-ups as well as wide shots that show the incriminating evidence in the identifiable office.

  Click flash.

  Click flash.

  Click flash.

  I’m sick with fear that I’ll be caught, but I have to do this. Without incriminating evidence to hold over them, they’ll always come after me. Always. I snap more photos. Finally, the camera’s shutter won’t click. I’ve used up the film. With a shaking hand, I flick off the light.

  Within seconds, brightness sears the front of the window.

  I drop to the floor, landing hard on my butt, but not before I spot the patrol car flashing its searchlight into buildings. I hold my breath. The car stops outside the store. The light returns, now a glare of yellow in the office. Can he see the files I’ve left out? I slowly pull my knees toward me, making myself as small as I can around my swollen belly.

  Waves of nausea overtake me.

  It can’t end like this.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, counting down my last moments of freedom. I think of my mother, beautiful Frances, a survivor, always looking out for me, always keeping me safe, me and her against the world.

  You can do this, Joan. You’ve got this.

  My eyes snap open at the sound of the car pulling away.

  Finally, a stroke of luck.

  Nauseous with adrenaline, I roll up the map, return it to its storage location, and then do the same with the files.

  I’ll drive until I’m out of Lilydale, and then I will mail the film to Benjamin with instructions to develop it and bring the prints to the publisher at the Star should anything happen to me. I have the padded envelope stamped and ready to go. The city paper may not care much for small-town affairs, but when it’s arson and possible murder, they’ll have to stand up and pay attention.

  Then I’ll send Ronald a letter telling him I have enough evidence to put him away for murder. He doesn’t need to know it’s only theories. He has too much to lose to take chances. I’ll tell him that if no one follows me, the evidence will never see the light of day. If I suspect I’m in danger, I will destroy him and the Lilydale demons who have benefited from his evildoing.

  Plan in place, I go.

  Or I should have.

  CHAPTER 55

  The curiosity is too much. It yanks me back like a lasso before I reach the back door.

  I must know if they have a file on me.

  I return to the cabinet. I slide it open. I search under “Schmidt.” I discover a regular life insurance policy for Deck. It’s dated December 14, 1967. The day he took me to the Gobbler and got me pregnant. His beneficiary is his child. Such arrogance.

  There’s no mention of me in that file.

  I locate my policy under “Harken.”

  Skim it.

  My tongue goes sour.

  The policy is brief and to the point: if anything happens to me, Deck receives $1 million.

  It’s almost enough to make me go back and glue his balls to his leg.

  I intend to drive to Interstate 94, take it east until I hit a southbound highway, drive until I’m far enough away, and then drive some more. No one will even know to look for me until tomorrow morning, when Deck doesn’t show up for work.

  That gives me at least ten hours.

  I flip on the radio. Van Morrison is singing “Brown Eyed Girl.”

  I stab the button, remembering Deck and me dancing to the song in the tiny apartment before we moved. Why did he have to fall in love with me, and me with him? Couldn’t he simply have married some woman who wanted to be in Lilydale, someone like Miss Colivan?

  It hits me again with a fresh wave of grief: Ursula believed Deck, not me. I’m alone, alone except for my baby, and I will not let anything happen to him. I roll down the window and let the night breeze glitter across my skin. I am so close to free.

  When I reach 94, though, I remember Grover’s phone call, the one I hung up on hours earlier. He’d discovered something important. Would it confirm who Paulie’s father was?

  I realize I need to know if my child’s grandfather is a rapist.

  It will take less than an hour. I have the time. It’s late, but I won’t ever be in this state again, so it’s now or never. I drive through Saint Cloud, reveling in the feeling of invisibility. When I pass a blue mailbox, I pull over to scribble a note to Benjamin, toss it in the prepared envelope containing the film, and sink the works into the box.

  One step closer to safety.

  I don’t know what I’ll find at Grover’s, but I think it’s likely that he’s discovered that Ronald was Paulie’s father, Ronald or Stanley.

  I grow more certain of this as I steer toward Grover’s house on the north side.

  I’m so focused on untangling the pieces that, at first, I don’t register the ambulance’s wail. Grover lives close to the hospital, the hospital where I would’ve been forced to give birth had there been any complications. I rub my belly absently, for comfort. But as I near Grover’s house, I realize with dawning horror that the ambulance is pulling up outside his home, screeching to a stop alongside the police car already there, its lights flashing.

  My heart galloping, I park the car. I leap out, watching, unbelieving, as the medics jerk out the gurney and race into Grover’s house. Moments later, when they hurry out with an unmoving body on the stretcher, I fall to my knees. I can see Grover’s impassive face and a corner of his hand, both still under the glow of the streetlamps.

  I retch into the grass.

  They killed Grover.

  And it’s my fault.

  I never warned him how dangerous they were. How deadly. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. I use the car door to pull myself to my feet.
I need to see him one last time, to beg forgiveness even if he can’t hear me. I step forward.

  The sheet moves, and the man coughs.

  “Grover!” I scream, running toward him. The ambulance driver tries to block me, but I’m a wild creature. I growl and push through. Grover’s wrist is warm where I clutch it. “What happened?”

  The ambulance driver speaks, not unkindly. “He was attacked, ma’am. A burglar, they think. We have to get him to the hospital.”

  “Gave ’em more than they bargained for,” Grover says, his voice weak. “I think they heard I got my hands on this.” There is trembling under the sheet, but he doesn’t appear to have the strength to move his arm.

  I reach under and come out with an envelope, bent into an impossible shape.

  Grover’s gurney is guided into the back of the vehicle.

  “Is he going to be okay?”

  They don’t answer.

  “Is he going to be okay?” I scream. They close the rear door, leap into the front seat, and slam their doors before driving away, their lights flashing. A police officer steps out of Grover’s house, his face questioning. I stumble into my own car and start it up, clutching the envelope the whole time. I don’t know who’s watching here. I drive downtown and park the car beneath a streetlight.

  I open the crumpled envelope with shaking hands.

  I discover Paulie Aandeg’s birth certificate inside.

  Grover’s favor had come through. It had nearly cost him his life.

  It may yet.

  My eyes glide over the words without understanding. I reread them, disbelieving, and flip to the image clipped to the back of the birth certificate. A picture of Virginia Aandeg. My lungs shrink as my body goes leaden. I suddenly realize what about Stanley in that 1944 photo looked familiar.

  Dear God save me.

  It finally all makes sense.

  PART III

  CHAPTER 56

  I fumble for the key in the ignition, my fingers numb. I’m positive I’ve forgotten how to drive, but within moments I find myself in front of the Saint Cloud Police Department. I leave the car running as I bolt in. I realize from a great distance that I’m hysterical. That I’m screaming and yelling. That I am saying that my life is in danger. Swearing that I have proof of things. I’m waving the birth certificate and photo in one hand and the empty camera in the other.

  I am led to a room and seated across from two men out of uniform.

  They hand me water.

  I tell them everything.

  Everything.

  They keep exchanging incredulous glances. Against all odds, I see they believe me. Finally. Finally someone trusts my story.

  When I’m finished, the dark-haired of the two detectives reaches for the phone. He turns to his blond partner. They nod at each other, and then the dark-haired man turns to me.

  “We’ll handle this. You rest. Let us do our job.”

  I nod. My blood feels sluggish. I am so tired. But finally, I’m not the only one who knows about Lilydale. I’m led to a room with a couch. I lie down. The detective pulls a scratchy blanket over me.

  Somebody else is in charge now.

  Somebody else will take care of everything.

  I wake to a commotion outside. It takes me a moment to remember where I am. The smell of stale coffee. The industrial furniture. I’m inside the Saint Cloud police station. They have Paulie’s birth certificate. Irrefutable evidence. I run my hands through my short hair and stand.

  This is the story that will make my career.

  I grimace at the thought. It’s a dying gasp from the old version of me, the girl who believed in ambition and love and happy endings. Still, Grover and Angel deserve their stories to be told.

  I reach for the doorknob. The people in charge may want me to stay around for questions, but I’m hopeful I can simply check in at a nearby hotel and get to work writing this up. It’s no longer about the byline. It’s about the truth.

  The doorknob turns under my hand. I jerk back.

  Amory Bauer strolls in, as big as a mountain, pistol straining at his side. He’s pleased, as glossy as a snake who’s swallowed the whole rabbit.

  I choke on my own tongue.

  His smile is vicious.

  “She’s awake!” he calls over his shoulder.

  He steps aside so Ronald and Deck can stride in. Deck appears as shamefaced as a child and still groggy. Son of a bitch. I lunge at him and start pummeling him with my fists. Amory pins my arms at my side with no effort at all.

  “Better take it easy. You won’t like it any other way,” he says.

  He pushes me out the door, marching me past the two plainclothes officers. They won’t meet my eyes. “See you at the next meeting,” Amory says.

  He doesn’t speak again until we are in the car, him behind the wheel and Ronald and Deck on each side of me in the back. Amory adjusts the rearview mirror, our eyes meeting in the glass.

  “I can’t believe Grover tracked down your birth certificate. I was sure we’d destroyed all your papers, Paulie.”

  CHAPTER 57

  I remember little of the drive back to Lilydale. When we reach town, we drive straight to Dr. Krause. They’ve woken him up, and he looks disheveled and annoyed. Oddly, I don’t think he’s in on any of this. I think he’s just a plain old-fashioned sexist. He tells them I’m to be under constant supervision, not alone until the baby is born. Krause administers another injection. It must be stronger than the one he gave me after Kennedy was shot, because I remember nothing after the needle pierces my flesh.

  I wake up in the lemon-colored room. I stand, teetering, and stumble to the window. It’s open a few inches. I can look across the way and see the bedroom I’ve shared with Deck for over two months, the flowered wallpaper splattering the walls like blood.

  A roar deafens me, the sound of my reality splitting.

  My childhood memories are coming back, coursing like boiling water over my brain.

  They took me to this room, only for a night, before they moved me to the basement. I was wearing a sailor suit.

  The jolt is so strong that for a second, I feel as though I’m standing next to my own body. Bile races toward my mouth. I hold it down, just. I see Slow Henry standing below, on the driveway. He meows up at me. I can’t get to him. My tears start pouring out.

  Ronald’s voice comes from the doorway. “Can you believe Paulie Anna was your real name? I wouldn’t have let Stanley and Dorothy keep it, even if we didn’t need to hide your identity. It was too on the nose. You’ve always been such a goody-goody girl, at least until recently. So placid, when you were young. So docile.”

  I don’t turn immediately. I can see his reflection in the glass. The birth certificate that Grover finally tracked down had been clear. Paulie Anna Aandeg had been a girl.

  She was me.

  Virginia Aandeg was my mother, though I knew her as Frances Harken. The man I’d been told was my father must have given my mom the new surname and me the birth certificate with a new name and birth date to hide us from these monsters. I shudder at what it must have cost her.

  “The newspaper articles,” I say. “They referred to Paulie as a boy.”

  Ronald steps closer. “Virginia cut your hair herself. It was identical to the atrocious mop on your head right now, by the way. You looked like a boy then, you look like a boy now. Between that, the sailor suit, and it being the first day of kindergarten, poor Becky Swanson didn’t know who was what. When the newspapers descended on Lilydale for a day or two, I made sure they thought you were a boy. Made it easier for us if they were looking for a male. The town got on board.”

  I lean my cheek against the cool glass. It’s going to be a scorcher out there, yet I’m shivering.

  “You’ve always known,” he says, now standing immediately behind me. “You wanted to pretend you didn’t, but you knew. You were six when Dorothy took you. You couldn’t possibly have forgotten.”

  A rage explodes inside me. I want
to punch through the wall, through the glass, through his face. I whirl. “I was a child.”

  “A slow one, by all accounts. But we still took you. You were chosen. The Mill Street families only had you for five days, Joan, but we loved you like our own.”

  He walks over to the oak dresser. Opens the top drawer. Takes out a folded sailor suit.

  I suck in my breath.

  “We didn’t want you to find out this way. Lord knows it almost broke Dorothy’s heart that it’s fallen to this. We were hoping you would come around. Deck offered to bring you home, you know. No one better for the job.”

  I think of the night I first met him at the 620, how he pursued me. I grow ill all over again. I was so naive, thinking he was infatuated. He’d been acting. My eyes fill with acid tears. “Did you set him on me, back at the bar?”

  Ronald shrugs. “Think of it as an arranged marriage.” His tone is strangely syrupy. “You and Deck have so much in common. You just didn’t know it. Children of Lilydale, reunited.”

  “Did Stanley rape my mother?”

  “Stanley and Virginia had an affair. When Dorothy found out, she snatched the product, as was her right, though we would have preferred she waited for us to get your mother to agree beforehand. It would have kept the out-of-town newspapers out of Lilydale. Still, everything would have gone smoothly if your mother hadn’t sobered up and come after you.”

  I imagine my hands around Ronald’s neck. It’s all I can think about. Squeezing his bones until his lips turn blue. He will thrash and scratch, and I’ll revel in the blood I draw. He must see the murderous hatred in my face, because he scowls.

  “You stole me from my family,” I growl, not recognizing my own voice.

  He moves surprisingly fast, rushing forward to pin me against the window. “We’re your family,” he spits. “Virginia was only a vessel. You’re half Lily, which means you’re ours.”

  I want to weep with frustration. “Please. I’m an adult now. You can’t keep me.”

  His face shifts like a kaleidoscope. “Whatever do you mean? This is the only way.”