Watkins - 01 - Blood Country

by Mary Logue

  She hadn’t been to a funeral since her husband had been killed. She hadn’t been inside a church since then. But as she looked around the small church, she wondered if this wasn’t a place she could come and find some solace. The sun poured in the western windows, and the dust motes danced in the late-evening air. The organist played “Abide with Me,” and the music drifted down from the choir loft.

  Claire had left Meg in Bridget’s care. She knew this funeral would be hard enough on her as it was, without Meg by her side. She imagined it would have also been difficult for Meg, although sometimes her daughter surprised her with her strength.

  Meg had handled her father’s funeral well. She had been pleasant and talked to everyone and been a model little girl. She had dressed herself and kept her room clean and taken a bath without being told. But she had started biting her nails and sucking on her hair and grinding her teeth at night, all nervous habits that she didn’t seem to be able to control. She wouldn’t sleep without a light on in her room and didn’t want to go outside after dark. Claire bought her a special soft light for her room and tried to avoid anything that would take her out of the house after the sunset.

  But the night that she found Meg sitting in the corner of the bathroom, soaking wet from wetting her bed and crying from a bad dream, was the day she decided they had to move. She found the clean old farmhouse down on Lake Pepin, close to Bridget, who Meg loved. She bought it as soon as she saw it and quit her job the next day. She had never returned to work since the leave of absence she was asked to take for mental health; given two months off, she had quit a week before she was to go back. She and Meg moved down to Fort St. Antoine a month later, before their house in town had even sold.

  At first the trains passing at night would wake Meg and scare her, but soon Claire could see the country was soothing her daughter. Meg stopped sucking her hair, and her nails grew small crescents of white on their tips.

  One night, after they had lived in Fort St. Antoine a month or so, Meg had told her that she was afraid.

  “Why are you afraid?”

  “I’m afraid that I’m going to forget Dad.”

  “You might not always remember him as well as you do now, but he will always be with you.”

  After reassuring her daughter, Claire had gone downstairs and pulled out some old photos of them as a family. A few days later she had one framed and put it up in the house where they could both see it every day. Steve looked so full of himself in the picture, happy to be with his family. Claire wasn’t afraid of forgetting Steve; she was afraid she wouldn’t remember how human he had been. They had loved each other, but their love wasn’t perfect. They had irritated each other, quarreled over stupid things like how to load the dishwasher and the correct way to dress the bed.

  She remembered their last fight. He had asked her to pick up milk on her way home, and she had forgotten. He harped about it, saying she probably had to stop off for a drink with Bruce. Lately, her relationship with Bruce had been getting on Steve’s nerves. He claimed she spent more time with her partner than with him, her husband. Claire could not deny that; eight hours a day added up. Then he yelled that she seemed to like Bruce better than him. She had stood in the middle of the kitchen, shaking her head.

  The next day he was dead.

  What Claire was afraid of was that she would make him a saint, and then certainly no one would ever be capable of taking his place.

  The organ started another song, and the congregation rose as the pastor came down the aisle. Claire sank into a reverie as the pastor started speaking. It always happened to her. The church she had gone to growing up had had a pastor who droned, and whenever she heard anyone with a similar voice now, she drifted off. She didn’t go to sleep, she just went deep into her thoughts.

  She started to plan her garden in her mind: the rosebushes she would line up next to the road on a white fence, the lilac bushes she would plant, and the hollyhocks she would put next to the house. And then in herself, she knew that Landers was gone and would not be there to answer her questions, and she felt tears, like a good slow rain, run down her face.

  BRIDGET TURNED THE page and looked at the picture. Laura and her sister were staring up at the pig their dad had slaughtered. Bridget found the picture rather grisly, but Meg, who was tucked in next to her in the bed, didn’t seem to mind it. Bridget read about how the girls went sledding all day long, and when they arrived home their mother had pig’s tail ready for them to eat.”

  Bridget turned to Meg. “They eat pig’s tail?”

  Meg explained, “They didn’t have much good food when this whole place was nothing but a big forest.” Meg waved her hand around. She had told Bridget that Little House in the Big Woods was set just a few miles south of Fort St. Antoine when they started reading the book.

  “Haven’t you ever been to the birthplace of Laura Ingalls Wilder?” Meg had asked, astonished. “Jeez, we go there every year from school. It’s kinda cool.”

  “No. I’ve never been there.” No reason to go, Bridget thought to herself. No kid to take. Bridget shut the book and asked Meg, “Do you like being an only child?”

  Meg stretched out in bed and closed her eyes for a moment, thinking. Opening her eyes, she gave her answer, “Usually I like it fine. But I worry about Mom. When I grow up and go away, she’ll be all alone. And I think it would be fun to have someone to play horses with.”

  “How do you play horses?”

  “You know, you pretend you’re a horse. They pretend they’re a horse, and then you go running through the fields. Hard to do all by yourself. Or play secret fort.”

  “Do you have a secret fort?”

  Meg didn’t say anything.

  “Oh, I see, that’s a secret.” Bridget poked her gently in the sides, and Meg curled up and giggled. “What would you think about having a cousin?”

  “You mean, like a baby?”

  “I guess that’s the way it would start out.”

  “I think it would be neat to have a baby. I’d like to learn how to change a diaper. Except for poopy diapers.”

  “Oh, this baby would never have poopy diapers.”

  Meg sat bolt-straight up in the bed and stared at Bridget. “Are you going to have a baby?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Bridget turned her head as they heard a car pull up in the driveway. “Who’s that?”

  Meg shook her head. “It’s too early for Mom, isn’t it?” She hopped out of bed.

  “Get back here,” Bridget yelled at her.

  “Why? I just want to see who it is.” Meg ran to the window. “It’s a truck. Some guy is getting out. I can’t see him very good.”

  “You climb back in this bed, young lady. After all, you’re in your pajamas. I’ll go down and see who it is.”

  Bridget tucked Meg back in bed. She went to the window but didn’t recognize the truck. Maybe that guy that Claire mentioned, Rich, who raised pheasants. She kissed Meg on the nose and turned out the light in her room. A knock sounded on the back door. She ran down the stairs to see who it was.

  RICH LOOKED OVER the heads of all the people in the church and didn’t find who he was looking for. He knew that Teddy would have come to the funeral if he had known about it.

  Rich decided he should have called him. Darla and Fred obviously didn’t think Teddy needed to know about Landers’ death. Rich was so mad at them, he wanted to shake them. Darla had been busy being infuriating all her life, or at least as long as Rich had known her. He had known her well when he was growing up.

  He had been good friends with her son Teddy, and they often had spent hours reading comics and even making up comics in their basement. Darla hadn’t liked that. She wanted the two of them outside playing baseball or something. Actually Rich liked to do that too, but not with Teddy, because Teddy wasn’t any good at baseball and thought it was dumb.

  The service started, and he tried to pay attention. While they sang the hymns, he calmed down, but when the sermo
n came he grew angry again about Teddy not being at the funeral. It must have been Darla who had kept him from being told. She had a mean streak.

  Rich remembered one time she had gone into Teddy’s room and taken the pages of a comic book they had written and drawn together. She had burned them, or at least told the two boys she had when they got home from the Fort. They had gone to get some pop with a couple quarters she had given them. He thought that was awfully nice of Darla, but when he found out she had destroyed all their work, Rich called her a bitch to her face.

  The shit had hit the fan at home. He had been grounded for a week and then had to go over to her house with a bouquet of flowers from his mother’s garden and say he was sorry.

  She had taken the flowers graciously and said she accepted his apology, and then, without stopping for a breath of air, she had turned to his mother and said, “I’m going to have to ask you to keep Richard away from our Teddy for the rest of the summer. These comic books and the profane language they use have just gotten to be too much for the boys. You understand.”

  The two boys had seen each other in school that year, tenth grade, but they didn’t have any classes together. Teddy seemed to be pulling into himself even more, and even Rich found him a little odd. The episode with Darla had left a bad taste in his mouth that made Rich not like doing comics as much and avoid Teddy. And then, of course, Teddy had left town right after high school. He moved up to the Twin Cities and had seemed to have found a way to fit in. He had gone to the College of Art and Design and was making quite a name for himself now.

  Rich had been asked to be one of the pallbearers, and he had accepted. He had always liked Landers, a kind old man who had moved through life gracefully. He would miss him. Landers always put in an order for half a dozen pheasant, and Rich would drop them by and then stay for a cup of coffee. At the end of the service, he stood with the other five men, lifted the heavy metal casket, and carried it down the middle of the church.

  Near the doorway, he saw Claire. She was sitting with her head bowed and her eyes shut. He hoped to get a chance to talk to her at the graveside. He hadn’t seen her since they had gone to the meeting together, but she had been often in his thoughts.

  As he left the church, he saw that Darla was still seated, facing the altar. Her shoulders were shaking. At first he assumed she was crying, and then a horrible thought crept into his mind. He was afraid she might actually be laughing.

  BRIDGET WATCHED A familiar figure get out of the truck. Her husband, Chuck, was bearing down on the front door. She thought of not letting him in, but she might as well hear the worst and get it over with.

  “Where have you been?” Chuck demanded when he came in the door. “You left the house before I even got up.”

  “Before you got home, you mean.” Bridget made him stand by the door. This wasn’t going to be a pleasant chat.

  “I was home by midnight. You were sleeping on the couch, so I left: you there.” A smile lit his face. “You looked so peaceful and cozy there, I didn’t want to disturb you.” He stepped into the room and sprawled on the couch, patting the place next to him.

  Bridget stood her ground. “Where did you sleep?”

  “In bed.”

  “I thought you were gone all night again.”

  “Did you look in the bedroom?” “No.”

  She twisted her wedding ring around her finger. She looked down at her husband as he leaned forward on the couch. She believed him. It made sense, and she felt so stupid. She hadn’t heard him come home, hadn’t looked in the bedroom, and had assumed he was still gone. All that gut-wrenching for nought. Silly, pregnant woman. She hadn’t told him about her premonition. She would soon.

  “I’m an idiot.”

  “Sometimes,” he admitted. He patted the couch next to him.

  She told him, “Claire should be home soon.”

  “Whatever.” He smiled and opened his arms.

  She slid into his embrace. Lovely husband. They kissed, and he gently nibbled her lower lip. “Let’s sleep together tonight.”

  “Great idea,” Bridget whispered in his ear.

  “Hi, Uncle Chuck,” Meg yelled from the top of the stairs. “My story isn’t done yet.”

  “Did you know there used to be cougars here?” Bridget asked Chuck, pulling out of his embrace far enough so she could see his fece.

  “What are you reading her?” They both stood up and walked up the stairs.

  “Little House in the Big Woods.”

  “I’d like to see a cougar.”

  STANDING IN HER driveway, Claire looked up at the firmament. She picked out the planets, which shone red-tinged light, steady and focused. Other stars hinted at blue and flickered as if a celestial wind blew them. What Claire loved best was the Milky Way, but it didn’t look like milk to her, rather salt strewn over someone’s shoulder.

  Her life was good down here. Claire dropped her eyes down to Meg’s bedroom window. She had eight more years before Meg would leave home to go to college. They would be happy years, Claire promised herself. Maybe some nice man would join them. Not to take Steve’s place—that could never be—but a man who would be kind to Meg would be so good for her.

  Claire had assumed the pickup truck in the driveway was one of her brother-in-law’s, so she was not surprised to see him on the living room couch when she walked in the back door. She was surprised to see him in a tight clinch with Bridget.

  “Worked things out, have we?”

  Bridget sat up, flushed and pretty. “We have indeed. He was there sleeping in bed. He came in while I was sleeping, so he was always there.” Bridget looked closer at Claire, then asked, “What’s the matter with your eyes?”

  “What?”

  “Looks like someone punched you.”

  Claire walked into the bathroom and surveyed her face. Crying always made her look like a raccoon. She turned on the hot water and washed her face. “Never wear mascara to a funeral.”

  When she emerged from the bathroom, the two of them had their coats on.

  “Thanks, Big Sis,” Bridget said. “Was the funeral hard?” she asked as an afterthought.

  “Yes and no. It is easier when the person has lived a long life,” Claire told them as they walked out the door. “Thanks for watching Meg.”

  Bridget turned around in the yard and yelled back, “I think she was watching me.”

  CLAIRE STOOD IN the doorway to her daughter’s room. Meg was sleeping so soundly that she didn’t go in and touch her cheek like she wanted to do.

  She wanted to gather her sleeping child in her arms and croon to her all the promises that a mother could make: “It’s going to be all right No one will ever hurt you. I will watch over you and care for you until you’re bigger than me. Until the world is your stomping ground. Until you are your own person.”

  Lately, Claire had had moments of hopefulness. She prayed nothing would happen to take them away.

  15

  Claire leaned over her desk, reading the paper and chewing a tuna fish sandwich. She made it a point to read the local paper. The headline of the Durand paper was about the opening of fishing season. She usually liked to read what the police had been up to—how many people they had stopped for speeding, if there had been any serious crimes committed.

  There had been a fuss in the paper a few weeks ago when one of the deputies escorted a man home after he had fallen asleep at the McDonald’s drive-through. The man had ordered and then nodded off. The server wasn’t able to wake him, so she called the police. The deputy came, made him move over, and drove him home. He had been called on the carpet because he hadn’t given the guy a Breathalyzer test Claire thought it was sad that even in a small town, helping somebody home was seen as the wrong thing to do.

  There was nothing so exciting in the paper today.

  Sheriff Talbert poked his head into her office. “Any good news there?”

  Claire lowered the paper. “Great deal on radial tires.”

  “You
got a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  “When you’re done eating, come on in my office.”

  As soon as he left, Claire sat up and tried to figure out what she had done wrong. He never wanted to see her in his office. It sounded so official.

  The tuna fish sandwich hit the wastebasket with a thud. She folded the paper and swatted a fly with it. Her phone rang, and she picked up immediately.

  “Hello?”

  “Claire, it’s Bruce. Can’t talk right now. I got a sniff of someone knowing something about your husband’s death.”

  “What?”

  “I’d like to come down tonight and tell you about it. It would be better.”