He nods. “Seems he was injured by flying debris. But shortly after that, Lance went out east. I mentioned it to Daisy and she said she doesn’t want me asking Chad or his uncle a bunch of questions, stirring up dirt right before an election. And Lance has cancer. But I’d really like to talk to him. He’s one of the few remaining survivors, and it doesn’t sound like he’ll be around long.”
I should have known Harry would find out about Lance’s injuries.
Harry closes his notebook. “The thing is, Daisy said you know Lance Dugan.”
“We went to school together. A very long time ago.”
“I wondered if you’d be willing to go with me to talk to him?”
“But Daisy said…”
“I was hoping you could go as a concerned friend. And if the subject of the fire comes up, well then.”
“Oh, Harry. I barely know him.”
“Just think about it,” he presses. “I really need your help.”
“Okay,” I say. He walks out and I close the door behind him. I’m terrified by the thought of talking to Lance and the things he could tell Harry.
I go fix myself a cup of tea. I doubt I’ll be able to sleep at all tonight.
Twenty-nine
2007
Lance Dugan lives in a new senior community home, the kind that brags a putting green, fitness studio, spa, and library. It also provides nursing care at all levels and looks out over a lush golf course.
“This place is nice,” Harry says as we pass the landscaped walkway. “Almost makes you forget you’re in a nursing home.”
“This isn’t like any nursing home I’ve ever been in,” I say, thinking of how hard it had been to keep Sid at home that last year, even with hospice care. “This must cost a fortune.”
“Well, he can afford it, I guess.”
I stop in front of the entrance. “What if Daisy finds out we’re here?”
“So what? You’re just visiting a friend, remember?”
“But what can he tell you that you don’t already know?”
“There was a report of an explosion, but the wiring had been recently checked, so I doubt that was the problem. A friend of mine has architectural software that can re-create the fire based on what we already know. I had him run it with the old evidence on file, and the way the fire spread, something big must have caused it. And maybe Lance remembers seeing or hearing something that he didn’t report. They didn’t ask him back then because he was injured, and as far as I can tell, there was no follow-up questioning.”
“Why is this so important to you?”
Harry opens the door for me. “I don’t know exactly. My parents used to tell me about the original Surf ballroom, how the lights glistened on the water, and how they wished it hadn’t been rebuilt away from the lakeshore. I have a sense about these things, and something doesn’t feel right about this fire. Too many contradictions.”
We walk into an expansive lobby. Behind it is a restaurant-style dining room where we’re told we’ll find Lance.
The director, a woman with sharp eyes and a kind smile, takes us aside before we meet with him. “He gets confused easily,” she says. “Don’t be too concerned if he isn’t able to remember you.”
“We understand,” I say nervously, “but I hope we don’t upset Lance.”
“Oh, no. He loves visitors. I’m afraid he doesn’t have many. He’s a bit cantankerous. Some people get that way with age.”
Harry whispers to me as we follow her to the dining room. “Chad’s wife refuses to visit him because he’s such a mean old coot. Chad doesn’t like him either, but he’s the only relative Lance has.”
Lance’s wheelchair is pulled up to a mahogany table decorated with a vase of fresh daisies. He has oxygen nubs in his nostrils and he’s bent over, fumbling with a straw, trying to get a drink of water. An aide attempts to help him, but Lance pushes him away with his papery hands, knocking the glass as he does so and spilling some of the water.
“May I help?” I ask. I take the napkin next to him and soak up the spill.
Lance’s expression changes from annoyance to puzzlement. “Who are you?”
The director flashes a benevolent smile. “Lance, this is Lorraine Deters and her son-in-law Harry O’Donnell. Lorraine went to school with you and wanted to visit.”
“School?” He stares at me, as though the word is foreign to him.
“Well, I’ll let you talk. I’ll be in my office if you need anything.”
Lance barks at his aide, a young man with long hair who stands off to the side. “Leave us. I can’t talk with your suffocating presence.”
The aide, who I remember seeing at the hospital with Lance, shrugs off the insult and smiles at us. “I’ll be in the other room. Let me know if Mr. Dugan needs help. Or causes trouble.”
“You don’t know anything about trouble,” Lance yells after him.
I glance at Harry. I can see he’s questioning whether we should have come.
It’s that odd time between breakfast and lunch, and we’re alone in the dining room. Garlicky smells seep from the kitchen. Spaghetti, I’d guess. Or lasagna.
Lance fiddles with the nubs in his nostrils. “I smoked two packs a day for fifty years. The cancer is putting me in my grave, and I’d still kill for a cigarette. You don’t have one, do you?”
“No. I don’t smoke.”
“That’s a damn shame. They won’t let me have any.”
Harry shakes his head and mutters, “He’d blow himself up.”
“Lance, I don’t know if you remember me,” I say.
“I saw you at the hospital. I’m not as feeble-minded as they make me out to be.”
“Yes. We went to school together. I was a few years younger than you.”
“I left this town years ago. Went to college out east, you know. Got a Cadillac Coupe de Ville for graduation. One of the first ever made.” He spits into a handkerchief. “Then I married a girl from out east. Didn’t last long. Still, I never thought I’d come back here.”
“Well, it hasn’t changed all that much since you left.”
He looks over at me. “Everything changes. You say we went to school together?”
“My name was Lorraine Kindred back then.”
“Did we date?”
“No. You dated my friend Stella.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell. Was she a looker?”
I shrug.
“No,” Lance says, and he leans back a bit in his chair. “Not school. I remember you from the Surf.”
Harry straightens up and pulls a small notebook from his front pocket. “Speaking of the Surf, Mr. Dugan, I wondered if I could ask you a few questions about the fire.”
“Fire?”
“The fire at the Surf Ballroom. The one that burned down in 1947. There are few people left who remember it.”
Lance touches the scar on the side of his face. His eyes are panicked, as though he’s seeing the fire again. I remember that fear, the nightmares that haunted me for months afterward.
“Do you remember that night, Mr. Dugan?” Harry asks. “You were there.”
I hold my breath.
“I was there,” Lance says, and a puzzled expression replaces the panicked one. He looks at me clearly for the first time, as if he’s in the midst of remembering.
Harry persists. “Is the fire where you got that scar? Do you remember it?”
“How did I get out?” Lance asks me.
I purse my lips together.
“No, you weren’t inside,” Harry says, “You were hit by debris.”
“I couldn’t get out,” Lance says. “There was smoke everywhere. I couldn’t breathe. It was so hot. Thought I was a goner.”
“You were inside?” Harry asks. “But they didn’t report anyone inside. Do you know how the fire started?”
Lance coughs into his handkerchief and looks around. “Where’s my lunch?”
Harry sounds frustrated. “Do you remember anything about the fire? What
part of the building it might have started in? Anything at all about that night?”
Lance starts coughing more intensely, a spasming type of cough that brings his aide running.
I offer Lance a drink of water, but he’s coughing too hard to take any.
“It’s okay,” his aide tells us. “This is a common occurrence. Lance, let’s get you back upstairs to rest awhile.”
We take the hint and leave.
“I’m sorry, Harry. He wasn’t much help,” I say as we walk to the parking lot.
“Did you see his eyes when I mentioned the fire? He was terrified.”
“Well, he was injured in that fire.”
Harry shakes his head. “It’s more than that. He said twice that he was inside. And you know what? His injuries were consistent with someone who was inside a burning building, not standing outside. He knows something. If I can just figure out a way to get him to tell me.”
I pray he never does.
Thirty
1946
One day that winter Miss Berkland stopped me on my way to lunch. She was wearing a tight skirt and sweater set that made her bulky figure look even larger. But her eyes held a contagious excitement. “I met with a former colleague of mine this weekend who told me about the wonderful music program at St. Olaf College in Northfield, Minnesota. I mentioned you since you’re my best student, and he’s interested in having you apply there.”
“College?” I had thought about singing with a big band, not attending college. “I don’t think my father can afford to send me to college.”
Miss Berkland kept talking as though she hadn’t heard me. “I know it’s a Lutheran college, but there’s a wonderful Catholic church in town and a Catholic student association. And the best part is that you could get a scholarship!”
“What kind of scholarship?”
“A singing scholarship, of course,” she said, as though it should be clear to me.
“I’m not sure my parents would allow me to attend,” I finally said.
“Then we’ll have to convince them.” She squeezed my arm and left beaming, as though it was all settled.
I hadn’t given much thought to my dream of becoming a singer lately, not with all that had been going on. Would I be content, left on the farm with Mom for the rest of my life? I only knew that whatever my future held, I wished that Jens could be part of it. The war had been over for a while now, but I still hadn’t heard from him. Not a single word, not even a note to let me know he’d made it home. I began to wonder if I’d exaggerated what had happened between us; if I was a diversion he’d forgot about as soon as he left our country.
A few weeks later Miss Berkland approached me again about college. “You’ll need to audition. And I have the perfect song for you. It’s a new Rodgers and Hammerstein number called ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone.’ Gorgeous melody that runs from the base of the voice to the top, and can really showcase your range. We can start practicing next week.”
I hadn’t encouraged her. But Miss Berkland couldn’t be dissuaded. I still didn’t have any real plans for after high school and, somehow, the idea took hold of me. I wanted to get away from home, and getting an education seemed more important now that the war was over. It might provide an opportunity for something other than farm life.
We practiced for several months and in the spring Miss Berkland drove me to Northfield herself to visit the campus and attend the audition. I hadn’t told my parents the purpose of our visit, just that I was accompanying my favorite teacher. I reasoned that I might not get in, so why bring it up? Plus, I knew that Daddy couldn’t afford college. He’d just taken out a loan to buy a hay loader, and he’d had to hire help since Pete was no longer around.
Miss Berkland turned onto the road leading to the campus, and the manicured lawns and limestone buildings came into view. It was like a picture postcard.
We first met with Miss Hilleboe, Dean of Women Students, a thin, serious-looking woman who impressed upon me that “college is a privilege, doubly so when so many are denied the opportunity. And opportunities always imply responsibilities.” Her eyes fixed on me as though sizing me up. “I recommend a rigorous program of self-discipline and training to fully develop your intellectual capabilities.
“Above everything else,” she went on, “there must be continued growth in spiritual vision and power, an inner strength that comes from the fear and love of God Himself.”
I wasn’t sure I could live up to all that.
“Isn’t she wonderful?” Miss Berkland said afterward. “And she teaches Latin, too.”
“She’s so smart,” I said, feeling more than overwhelmed.
Miss Berkland patted my arm. “You’ll do very well here, Lorraine. As she said, it’s a rare opportunity.”
After eating our bag lunches in the shade of a tall oak, we found the building where I’d be auditioning. There were four other girls there, all vying for a spot in the prestigious choir. We would be performing for Mr. Olaf Christiansen, a younger version of the founder and director, Dr. Melius Christiansen, who had recently retired. Judging by his expression as he listened to the other girls sing before me, he wasn’t someone who was easily impressed. And the other girls all sounded far more talented than me.
I put a hand on my unsettled stomach as I sat with Miss Berkland in the audience, a nervous wreck.
Finally my name was called. “Oh, dear. You look as white as a sheet,” Miss Berkland said. “Take a deep breath and hold it for ten seconds.”
I did as I was instructed.
“Now let it out. Feel better?”
I gave a slight nod.
“Chin up. You can do this,” she said, giving my hand a squeeze before taking her place at the piano where she would accompany me.
My voice trembled. I sounded nervous, but Miss Berkland kept smiling at me and I concentrated on the words and melody. As the song progressed I felt better and my voice didn’t warble. I finished strong.
“Lovely,” Mr. Christiansen said, and he nodded encouragingly.
As we drove home, Miss Berkland was ecstatic. “He said lovely!”
I said a wistful goodbye to the picturesque campus. I knew the odds of getting a scholarship were stacked against me.
The beginning of summer was uneventful. I spent time at the beach with Betty Lou, whose brother was finally home, and went to a couple of dances with Stella when Lance was out of town. Stella cried on my shoulder, telling me that she didn’t think Lance had been faithful to her while he was away at college. I consoled her as best I could, knowing she was probably right.
Then one morning Miss Berkland called and asked me to meet her at school. I found her in the empty choir room that held so many memories for me. She was beaming. “Lorraine, you may want to sit down. Because I have wonderful news.”
“News about what?”
“About St. Olaf. About your audition.”
“Are you saying that I was accepted?”
“Yes! With a full scholarship, no less! I’m so excited for you!”
“How?! What did he say?”
“He said a voice like yours is a rare gem. One that should be nurtured.”
“I can’t believe it! I didn’t expect this at all.”
She hugged me and I walked giddily through the rest of the day, repeating the words “rare gem” over and over in my head. It wasn’t until later that I started to worry. How would Mom and Daddy cope without me? And then there was Jens. Part of me wanted to go on with my life, like Jens had told me. The other part worried that he wouldn’t be able to find me if I left. I still held on to a sliver of hope that he was alive and hadn’t forgotten me.
That night I finally worked up the nerve to tell Mom and Daddy about the scholarship. “It’s not that far away. I’ll be able to take the train or bus up from Mason City and come home once in a while to help out.”
“Honey, I’m proud of you,” Daddy said, smiling.
I looked at Mom. “What do you think?” I asked her.
Mom put down the cross-stitch she was working on. “It costs too much.”
“I got a scholarship.”
“There are other costs. Who’s going to help around here? Your father can’t do all the chores and the fieldwork, too. We’ll have to hire someone else. And why do you need to go to school to learn how to sing?”
“She’s smart. She should get a good education. We’ll find a way,” Daddy said. “Don’t you worry about it, Lorraine. You’re gonna be the first Kindred to go to college.”
“Well?” I asked Mom, my voice edgy. “Daddy said I should go.” I wanted her to be more like Daddy, to say it was okay so I wouldn’t feel so bad about leaving. I knew it would be extra work for them, but I wanted her to be excited for me, not make me feel guilty. Why couldn’t she ever support me?
“You asked my opinion. I told you. If you want to be selfish and think only of yourself, then go ahead and leave.”
That September I went anyway.
Thirty-one
December, 1946
“Going home for Christmas?”
I nodded at the elderly woman across from me on the train. “My first time home since leaving for college.”
“You must be excited to see your family.”
I nodded. I felt as though I’d been gone for years. Life at St. Olaf was a completely different world. My teachers were strict and expected so much from me. I’d made a new group of friends, ones who valued the same things I did, who saw singing as more than just a waste of time. I also came to realize that it took more than talent to succeed, that it took hard work, too.
The train slowed and I spotted Daddy at the station. He was dressed in his Sunday suit and he had a huge smile on his face. I waved at him, my eyes tearing up just at the sight of him.
“I’ve missed you,” he said, wrapping me in his arms when I got off. He smelled of Old Spice. I took a deep sniff, and a flood of memories overwhelmed me. Christmases past. Cousin Viola’s wedding. Easter Sunday.
He ran a hand across the ends of my hair. I’d cut it in college so that it hit my shoulders in a bob.
“I didn’t expect this,” he said.
“I can’t always look like a little farm girl, Daddy. This is how all the girls style their hair.”
Stars Over Clear Lake Page 16
