by Mary Logue
This thought poked at Jared until he sat up in bed and then tried to stand, but he couldn’t seem to move his feet. He crashed to the floor.
Seconds later his mother pushed open the door. Davy peeked around her legs. The two of them stared at him from the doorway.
“Was at?” Davy asked, pointing at him.
His mother patted the little boy’s head reassuringly. “You know him. That’s your cousin, Jared.”
“Was matter?”
“He’s not feeling so good I’d guess.”
His mother came and bent over him, putting an arm under his elbow. She helped him back onto the bed. Thank god he was wearing boxer shorts and a t-shirt. He hated for her to see him like this, but at least he wasn’t naked.
“Hungry?” she asked.
Jared shook his head.
“I made your favorite, caramel rolls.”
The thought of food still made him queasy. He had to get out of the house. Any excuse. “I need to go to school, Mom.”
“No, don’t worry. I took care of that. I called in sick for you.”
He looked up at her. “You did?”
“You’re in no shape to go anyplace. Plus I need you here. I want you to help me with Letty’s funeral.”
For a flash Jared remembered Letty running back into the trailer. She hadn’t made it back out. He wasn’t surprised. “She’s dead?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
His mother folded in on herself for a moment, then she straightened. “What happened over there?”
Jared couldn’t bring himself to tell her the truth. “Just one of those things. We were in the kitchen and all of a sudden there was a big explosion. I think the stove blew up. Probably a gas leak.”
“You were making that stuff.” She didn’t say it as a question.
He said nothing.
“Well, even though there’s not much left of her, we need to bury her. She was my sister. There’s no one else left to do it.”
“When?”
“In a couple days.”
“Maybe I should go over there, check on the trailer,” Jared suggested, thinking this might be a way to get out of the house. “Could I take your car?”
“Don’t worry about that trailer. Good riddance. I don’t think there’s anything left of it. What you need to do is eat. You must be starving after all that sleeping. If you don’t want rolls what do you want?”
“Nothing, Mom. I need to get out of here.” Jared stood up again and tried to walk, but his legs still wouldn’t move. This time he looked down at his feet and couldn’t believe what he saw.
His old bike chain was wrapped tightly around his ankles and then padlocked to the bed. “What the hell …?”
***
5 p.m.
Bridget answered the phone, “Wabasha Pharmacy.”
“Hey, it’s me. I’m sorry to call you at work, but I’m having a hard time here. I need to understand what goes on with meth a little better.” Claire often checked in with her sister about drug-related issues. As a pharmacy intern Bridget had worked at a Poison Control center and a drug-rehab treatment program.
“I’ve got a minute. We’re kinda slow today.”
“So tell me what you know about methamphetamine.”
“Meth is bad.”
“I think I know that.”
“Extremely addictive. The figure I remembered from school that astounded me was that over a six-month period 94 percent of users that smoked it got addicted.”
“Yikes. Why?”
“Well, meth is a stimulant. From what I hear it makes you feel very, very good. Like there’s nothing you can’t do. It has a similar high to cocaine only longer and stronger. Where a cocaine high might last a half an hour, meth can last for eight to twelve hours. In the process it depletes the epinephrine in the body. And then the user wants more.”
“A first-time user, might they want to kill themselves?”
“Highly unlikely. But they might try to do something that they can’t do and end up dead.”
“Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of. Thanks.” Claire then told Bridget what she was afraid had happened to Krista.
Bridget said how sorry she was.
When Claire hung up the phone, she felt weary and hid her head in her arms on the desk. Sometimes the job weighed a lot.
After a moment, she felt a tap on her shoulder.
“You okay?” Amy’s broad sweet face looked down at her.
“I went out to the Jorgenson’s again.”
Amy pushed back some papers and perched on the edge of Claire’s desk. “They’re taking it really hard, huh?”
“Unspeakably hard. When I did this in the cities, told people how their kids had died, I didn’t know them. My daugher wasn’t best friends with their daughter. It could have been Meg.”
“It can’t have been suicide. Krista was such a happy-go-lucky kid. It was a probably an accident. Goofing off.”
Claire sadly shook her head. “You haven’t heard the latest news. I got a call on the autopsy. Evidence of meth in her bloodwork.”
Amy stood up so suddenly she sent a rush of paper sliding off the desk. Neither one of them did anything about the papers. “Meth? What the hell is going on here? Looks like this county has caught the meth disease just when I thought we might escape the worst of it. That trailer that burned? Meth lab.”
“Didn’t you say that a body was found in there?”
“Yes, Letty Crandall. She’s been a well-known tweaker for the last few years so it should come as no surprise, but I never thought she was cooking the stuff. Sad story. She used to be a real beauty. I think she was even homecoming queen. Dark hair, great figure. She was a few years older than me which would make her about thirty now. Last time I saw her in Durand, I thought I was looking at a sixty-year-old bag lady. I kid you not. She was so skinny and haggard.”
Amy shook her head. “The good news is her three-year-old kid was at her sister’s when the fire happened. So at least he’s still alive.”
“He should probably be checked out for methamphetamine exposure.”
“I’ll tell Arlene. The thing is I’m sure that Letty was working with someone else, some guy. That’s who I want to find.” “Maybe we should go talk to this sister.” “Okay. The funeral’s tomorrow—let’s wait until after that.”
“Krista’s funeral is tomorrow too,” Claire said. “How’s Meg doing with all this?” Amy asked. Amy and Meg had met when Amy had dropped over some paperwork a
few months ago. Claire hadn’t been home yet and they started talking about music and the coolest blogs.
When Claire had seen how well the two of them got along it underscored the fact that Amy was much closer in age to Meg than to Claire. Claire was nearly fifty, Amy was twenty-three and Meg was fifteen. Maybe Amy could give her some advice on what to do to help Meg get through this tough time.
“Meg’s taking it so hard, it’s kinda scaring me. She’s totally blaming herself and I don’t seem to be able to talk sense into her.”
“Well, maybe she’s not ready for sense yet. Maybe you should try agreeing with her.”
Claire lifted her head. “You think?”
Amy shrugged. “It’s worth a try. I remember my mom doing that to me. I’d come home from school and whine and say how fat I was. She’d look me up and down and say, ‘You’re not exactly fat, but you could stand to lose a couple pounds.’ It sure shut me up and made me look at myself. Listen, having Meg upset about her friend’s death from meth might not be such a bad thing if it keeps her from ever trying the crap.”
CHAPTER 11
November 4, 11 p.m.
When Claire slipped into a pew right by the door of the church, she found herself sitting next to the Bakkes, who owned the gas station in Fort St. Antoine. Grace Bakke, blond hair spun into a cotton-candy-like shape, whispered, “This is such a very sad day for us all.”
Grace could go on for a good long while if you ga
ve her a chance so Claire just nodded.
“Krista was a lovely girl,” Grace said, then she couldn’t help adding, “But a little wild.”
“Yes,” Claire said with an edge in her voice. To herself she said, Give her nothing. The woman will just repeat it all over town.
“How’s Meg taking it?” Grace continued.
“About as expected.” Claire turned away to see if she could find her daughter and Rich.
Way up at the front, she made out the backs of Rich’s and Meg’s heads. She thought of trying to push her way through the crowd and sit with them, but decided it would be too much work and she wasn’t sure there was any room in the pew.
The small country church was overflowing, people standing all along the sides of the aisles and out the front steps. She
was lucky to have found a seat. More than half the people in the church were kids. She knew the school had closed for the afternoon to let all the students come to the funeral. They would have come anyway.
The Almalund Moravian Church’s simple interior gave Claire a sense of peace whenever she was there, which wasn’t often. The walls were painted a salmon color, the windows simple stained glass. A plain wooden cross, the size of a man, hung over the altar.
As the pastor entered the sacristy, the organist started playing the hymn, “Abide with Me.” Everyone stood and sang. The sound of so many voices raised together in the small church was like a clean wind coming across newly planted fields.
Claire tried to pay attention to the service, but as she so often did, when the sermon started, she slipped away into her own thoughts: this time about her daughter and what might have happened to her best friend. More than ever she wanted to know what had made Krista jump off the cliff. She didn’t believe—whatever it was—it had anything to do with Meg. But she knew she wouldn’t be able to persuade Meg of that—Meg would have to come to it herself.
After the sermon, the pastor announced that Krista’s father, Roger Jorgenson, would like to say a few words.
As Roger stood, Claire noticed how much he had aged in the past few days. She had seen it before when people grieved, but was still shocked by his transformation. He seemed to have collapsed in on himself.
His tall body sagged, grief pulling every muscle and bone toward the ground, slowing his steps, blurring his eyes. Some of his spirit had been stolen when his daughter died.
As he walked up to the lectern to speak, Roger looked so unsteady Claire was afraid that he might fall. Although he tottered, he righted himself and, after setting down a piece of paper, grabbed both edges of the wooden lectern and stood taller.
“Friends and neighbors, thanks for coming today.” He cleared his throat and looked down at the piece of paper that he had laid on the lectern. “You all know our eldest daughter died this last week, Krista Ellen Jorgenson. I can’t tell you,” he bowed his head for a second, then continued, “how much we’re going to miss her.
“Krista was a good kid and helped around the farm. She especially liked to gather the eggs in the morning. She kept track of how many eggs she found every day. I don’t know why, but she liked to do that.” He bent his head and wiped at his face.
Claire heard sobs breaking out in the audience and felt the pressure of tears build in her eyes.
Slowly Roger Jorgenson shook his head. “I do not want to be here today. I would rather be any place else. I’m not one for talking to crowds. I’m a farmer. But I can’t stay silent.”
He spoke more loudly. “My daughter was murdered.”
Claire felt the hair rise on the back of her neck.
“She is not the only one. People are being killed in our county. Not just adults, but teenagers. Our children are being killed by this horrible drug—methamphetamine. We must stop it.”
Roger stared out at his audience. “You think you can ignore this problem. You think it has nothing to do with you. I know, that’s how I felt. You know something weird’s going on at that old trailer down the road. You think someone’s been siphoning ammonia hydroxide from your tank, but you don’t bother to report it. You know, but you don’t say anything. You keep silent.
You don’t want to get involved. Well, I’m here to ask you to get involved.”
Roger shook his head. “Krista had just turned sixteen. Many of you had known her all your lives. She had just got her license. She had big plans. She had her whole life ahead of her.
“If any of you kids know anything about what happened that night, I want you to tell me or the police. I will not stop until I find out who was responsible for my daughter taking this drug. Whoever gave it to her, killed her. It’s as simple as that.” He looked out at the crowd. “I’m asking for your help. Thank you.”
There was silence, punctuated with the occasional sniffle as Roger slowly made his way down the stairs to his seat, bent over once again.
***
12 p.m.
Rich nodded at neighbors, shook hands with old farmers and friends, but didn’t see Claire any place. He and Meg walked out of the church and down the steps. Meg hunched inside her jacket, not meeting anyone’s eye.
“Where’s Mom? She said she would be here,” Meg asked Rich as they stood out on the lawn and watched people come out of the church. Warm for a fall day, the wind smelled of burnt leaves.
“She’s probably gone already. She told me this morning that she wasn’t positive she could get away for the funeral and if she did, I don’t think she was planning on staying afterwards.”
Meg snapped, “She can’t even take time off to stick around at the funeral. Krista’s funeral. I hate it that she’s a cop.”
Rich didn’t answer. No sense in pointing out that Claire was probably working to solve Krista’s death. Meg would only get more angry. There were no good responses to Meg’s thrashing these days.
“You want to go back in for the luncheon,” Rich suggested.
Meg shook her head.
“We need to eat.” Rich had been looking forward to the meal the church ladies would have set out: hot dishes of every variety, salads and bars.
“I’m not hungry. I don’t want to see anybody. I just want to go home.”
“What about me? What if I’m hungry?” Rich asked gently.
Meg snapped out of her funk for a second and a hint of a smile lit on her lips, then she said, “You do go for that tuna casserole in a big way.”
“As long as it’s noted that I have made a big sacrifice for you, we can go home.”
When they reached the car, Rich asked, “You want to drive?”
Meg had her permit and begged to drive everywhere they went. He thought it might take her mind off of the funeral for a moment. He hated how hard she was being on herself for Krista’s death. Sadness was one thing, but blaming herself the way she was could be damaging.
To his surprise Meg nodded. He tossed the keys over to her and they got into the car. She backed the car up very carefully, checking both sides.
She drove through the farmland and Rich relaxed in his seat. Meg was getting to be a pretty good driver. He just hoped she
wouldn’t pick up any of the bad habits people learned driving these empty country lanes, like driving in the middle of the road unless someone was coming from the other direction.
As they started down the hill toward Fort St. Antoine, Rich thought Meg’s foot was a little heavy on the pedal, but he didn’t say anything. It was good for her to learn these things on her own. He found his foot pumping the floor on the passenger side. A lot of good that would do. But Meg was making the curves without too much trouble so he kept quiet.
As she came down to Highway 35 she didn’t slow up enough to make the last turn and a whoop came out of his mouth as she headed across the steep road and managed to aim the car onto a deeply rutted field road.
Grass ticked at the underside of the car carriage and she stopped the vehicle before it went into the field.
“I think I was going a little too fast,” Meg said without looking ove
r at him.
“I think so.”
Meg didn’t say anything for a second. She turned off the car and they sat in silence. “Maybe I shouldn’t be driving.”
“No, this is how you learn. You’ll be fine if you slow down a bit. The car’s okay. We’re fine. Could have done a lot worse.”
“I don’t do anything right anymore.” Meg blubbered. Tears poured down her face as she sank back into the seat. The crying turned into wailing, then long sobs tore out of her throat.
Rich let her cry. She needed to get it out of her. She had kept all this sadness bottled up inside of her and it wouldn’t let her alone. When she started to throttle down, he patted her shoulder. She turned toward him and he hugged her.
“Rich, what am I going to do?”
“About what?”
She pulled away and looked at him, her eyes red and swollen from crying, her face splotched. “About my life. It’s all ruined. I don’t know what to do.”
He knew it would do no good to tell her that she would get through this horrible time. No teenager should have to feel responsible for the death of their best friend.
“Do you really want my advice?” Rich asked.
She sniffled and nodded.
“You need to focus on one thing at a time. And right now I think you need to back up slowly and get us home. That’s enough for you to do right now.”
“But,” Meg wiped her face. “I think I should try to find out who gave Krista the meth.”
“That’s not your job.” Rich decided not to mention that it was her mother’s job. Meg seemed to be down on Claire these days.
“But I could ask around. Like Mr. Jorgenson said. Someone’s gotta know who she was with.”
“Is there anyone in your school who you think is doing meth?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “There might be someone I could talk to …” She cut herself off and started the car.
