Bloodline(7)

She nods, and something slips in her face. It’s gone so quickly that I almost believe I imagined it, like Stanley’s flash of intelligence. “Most of our lives. I tell you what, I wouldn’t mind moving south, at least for the winter, but with Stanley’s condition, travel is out of the question.”

Sad Stanley and Saint Dorothy, the Lovely Lilies of Lilydale.

“I’m so sorry,” I murmur, unsure whether it’s the proper response. “Will you excuse me?”

I suddenly, desperately, want to return to the grungy little one-bedroom Minneapolis apartment Deck and I shared for the last six months. Just me, him, and Slow Henry, tucking into eggs and toast in our kitchen nook, watching Sunday television on our drooping couch, making love like we invented it in our tiny bedroom.

Deck, catching my eye across the space, seems to read my mind. He smiles, his dimples lighting up the room.

I paste on a matching grin. I will make the best of this.

For Deck.

For the baby.





CHAPTER 4

“They really all live on Mill Street?”

Deck’s perched on the edge of our bed, which one of our neighbors set up and made for us, sheets, pillowcases, bedspread and all. (Who makes someone else’s bed?) After meeting what seemed like the whole town, I spent the rest of the afternoon in the kitchen, accepting hot dishes and feeling stunned, like a cricket dropped into a beehive.

I’m exhausted to my core.

“My parents, plus the eight who were here right away,” Deck says.

“Some of the people who came later seemed nervous,” I say, remembering the way the non–Mill Streeters seemed to be staring at Ronald for approval. Come to think of it, the whole welcome party was like some sort of royal gathering, with the highborn first and the commoners allowed after.

Deck chuckles. “Probably because you were hosting the most important families in town. The latecomers were ass-kissers. I didn’t know half of them. They just showed up to get in good with my dad and Amory, mark my word.” He pats the open spot next to him. “Come to bed?”

I drop my nightgown over my shoulders. “I have to brush my teeth first.”

“Isn’t it nice, having a bathroom right off the bedroom?”

“I won’t remember all their names.”

The lie gives me a fizz of pleasure.

The people I’ve met today are locked in my treasure chest, their names my rubies and sapphires. And I finally have space to spin their stories. Clan the Brody Bear hibernates in his cave while Catherine the Migrant Mother hunts to feed her starving children. Browline Schramel and Mildred the Mouse live in someone’s cupboard, like the Borrowers. Amory Mountain and Birdie Rue solve crimes. She’s the brains, he’s the brawn. Sad Stanley and Saint Dorothy, the Lovely Lilies of Lilydale, embark on a romantic adventure, one where they realize Stanley really can walk. They simultaneously inherit a million dollars, which they use to open a wheelchair factory for orphans.

Deck sighs. He doesn’t like this game, but he’ll play it. “You know you never forget a name, Joanie. You’re just tired. You’ll recall my mom and dad, of course. Clan and Catherine Brody live next door. Clan’s employed at Dad’s insurance company, where I’ll be working, too. Teddy Schramel with the glasses is an engineer at the phone company. His wife is Mildred. Amory Bauer is the police chief. His wife’s name escapes me at the moment because I guess I’m tired, too.”

Birdie Rue.

“Stanley’s in the wheelchair. That’s new. He’s a direct descendant of the original founders of Lilydale, you know, practically royalty here back in the day. His wife is Dorothy, and that’s it for the Mill Streeters. The others who showed up live in town, but not on this street.”

I duck into the bathroom and then step out, gripping a toothbrush with a pearl of toothpaste gleaming on it. “But the person who owns the newspaper never dropped by?”

“Joanie, you know I would have told you if he did.”

“It’s just that I need a job, Deck. I have to write.” This is true. If I don’t get all the stories I carry in my head out on paper, they turn on me, like an infected sliver just beneath the skin. I’ve been that way for as long as I can remember.

I return to the bathroom, run water over the toothpaste, and start brushing. Clan the Brody Bear needs insurance to survive the winter, and Catherine the Migrant Mother won’t sell it to him. Browline Schramel and Mildred the Mouse live inside a telephone, one that Browline Schramel is always tinkering with.

“I know you have to write, baby. Come to bed?”

“What did Stanley do before . . . before he retired?” I ask around a mouthful of toothpaste.

“Attorney.”

Sad Stanley earns a million dollars in the case of a lifetime, and he and Saint Dorothy donate the money to crippled children.

I brush all my teeth for another full minute, rinse, spit, wash my toothbrush, drop it into the holder, and pad into our bedroom. “I wish we could fast-forward to being done, being settled in, everyone knowing about the baby,” I say, pulling my thoughts back. “I want to be on the other side of all this, where everyone’s happy.”

He’s suddenly studying the wallpaper as if it’s a love note.

I don’t know why he’s acting uncomfortable, but he is. I change the subject. “Why do you think the house looks empty next door?”