See Also Deception (9 page)

I knew it had been a mistake charging Betty Walsh with Hank's care. She was nothing more than an irresponsible teenager. She was probably talking to one of her girlfriends or Jaeger, if he had gone back home for something. I didn't know what I had been thinking.

Of course, since my phone was on a party line, the culprit talking up a storm could have been any of my neighbors. A busy signal was as common as a purple martin swooping over a freshly mowed hay field.

I took my dime back again and called Jaeger's house. I had dialed the Knudsens' phone number a thousand times over the years, and I knew it as well as I knew my own. I was relieved when the phone began to ring. But my hope didn't last long, as the phone rang and rang. No one was home. I wanted to scream, but I couldn't find it in myself to let out the frustration I felt.

I tried the number to my house again, but the busy signal persisted, mocking me and chastising me at the same time. I had no choice but to hurry home and give Betty Walsh a good piece of my mind.

I started to calm down a bit as soon as I was free of town. I had always thought that the Ivanhoe was the tallest building in Dickinson, but according to a recent article in the
Press
it was two feet shorter than St. Joseph's Hospital, making it the second tallest building in town. I wasn't sure how that made the proprietor's feel, but the Ivanhoe cast a long and enduring shadow over the business section of town. It was six stories tall, made of brick and concrete, and built in 1952. It had the character of a cardboard box, but it looked sturdy enough to survive the wind and weather for the next couple of centuries. It was a hotel with the best restaurant around, a place where special occasions were celebrated and the most delicious bread to ever slide across your tongue lived deep in the memory of nearly everyone who'd tasted it. Hank and I had eaten there once, a celebration of sorts for a long ago profitable wheat season, but he'd been so uncomfortable with the fanciness of the place that I'd never suggested a return visit. I hadn't ever wanted to see him fidget like that again. Calla and I'd had lunch there more times than I could count, and now I was more like Hank than I'd ever hoped to be. If I never saw the inside of that building again, I would be happier than I could possibly say.

It didn't take long to be back out into the emptiness of open fields, low-lying buttes, and rolling hills, the place where I could breathe, see what was coming, and have plenty of time to react to it. There were no thermals for a hawk to ride, with the sky as gray and unsettled as it was. I spotted a red-tail, most likely a big female, sitting on top of a telephone pole, staring down, waiting for some poor unsuspecting rodent to move about when it shouldn't.

I looked into the rearview mirror, found that I was on the road alone, and pressed down the accelerator as close to the floorboard as I could without jamming the toe of my good shoe through the firewall. The Studebaker shimmied and groaned, then bolted forward with an annoyed lurch. I really needed to talk to Jaeger about giving the old truck a tune-up.

A half hour on an empty road in the middle of land and sky that goes on forever seemed like an exercise in futility. Even though I recognized familiar landmarks, it felt like I wasn't any closer to home than I had been when I'd left town. The roof of my mouth was as dry as the road, and I could taste gravel dust over everything else. It was a wonder that my throat hadn't been cemented shut. A cigarette would have only made things worse, so I passed. Besides, I could still smell the inside of the tavern on my clothes. Hank would be able to smell it, too, but I was sure he'd understand why I felt the need to stop and see to Herbert Frakes once I explained my reasons for going into the tavern. He would have done the same thing, if he'd had the chance, or ability, to do it.

The radio was silent. I had no desire to hear the news or another sad song by a dead singer.

I slowed the truck as the turn to the house came into view. Our property was marked with four-foot cones of rocks as big as pumpkins on both sides of the road. My grandfather had stacked them there one by one, a monument to the work he'd done clearing the first field to plow. Digging rocks was how my father had developed his endurance and strength as a boy, and there had been a time when folks thought this land wouldn't grow anything but boulders and worry. Rocks still rose to the surface like pieces of flotsam in a calm and tamed sea—rocks that could do, and had done, serious damage to a sturdy plow.

I brought the truck to a stop even though I hadn't planned on it. I noticed a six-foot tall plant growing behind the cone of rocks on the north side of the road. It was a dead thistle plant, one like so many others that I hadn't noticed before I started indexing the
Common Plants
book. The weed looked like it belonged there, like it had been growing there since the prehistoric seabed had receded and vanished from sight and memory. But it was possible that I didn't know what I was looking at. It could have been another immigrant, anxious to flee the old country and spread seeds all across the new land, from New York to North Dakota and beyond, just like the rest of us.

Curious, I made my way out of the truck. The wind pushed my dress up as the dry dirt crunched under my feet. I made a halfhearted attempt to pin down my hemline. I was alone, out of view of any house or car for miles; I could have been naked and it wouldn't have mattered. At least to any human. A nearby jackrabbit popped its head up and froze, hoping to blend into the dun landscape like everything else. I didn't let on that I saw it. No use ramping up its heart rate any more than it already was.

Thistle had no practical use that I knew of, which, of course, meant that there was no money to be made from its presence by a farmer or a seed salesman. Just the opposite. The thistle, especially invasive—immigrant—thistle could take over a pasture or field and choke out the healthy, more desirable, grasses and wildflowers. I felt fairly comfortable that I could identify the thistle before me, and upon reaching it I determined fairly quickly that the plant was my illusive and troubling musk thistle.

The plant's spent head drooped, and the brown, crispy bracts looked like little pine cones. The stems were heavily branched, with spiny wings that fluttered outward without interruption. If they had been interrupted, this plant would have been plumeless or bull thistle. The leaves weren't pubescent, and most of the seedless flowers were gone, eaten by birds or other wildlife. There was no doubt in my mind that this was musk thistle.

I reached down and carefully touched
Carduus nutans.
My identification of it was a gift from Leonard Adler's incomplete and maddening description of the plant. Biennial or perennial wasn't obvious. All of the plant was dry and withered, but the spines remained capable of a piercing jab. The tip of my finger immediately itched with warning, and I pulled back in fear of being injured.

I trembled at the thought, at the vision that streamed behind my eyes. Peter and Jaeger had given me the amulet that had been at the heart of their tragedy. It was a souvenir of a time that I wished did not exist. The amulet, too, had been said to offer protection. I was in no mood to revisit Norse mythology, alter my belief system, or consider my past with that amulet any more than I had to, but it seemed to be the right thing to do to take a sprig of the musk thistle with me. I quickly made my way to the Studebaker and grabbed a pair of Hank's faded yellow leather work gloves and trusty pocket Western Auto knife out of the glove box—everything was just where he had left it—then I went back and cut the terminal, the top flower, off the thistle.

Satisfied, I stuck the sprig under the driver's seat and settled back into the truck to go home. I knew that I was being silly, but the musk thistle gave me a little bit of comfort and I needed that, especially after my visit to the Wild Pony with Herbert. Funny thing was, that weed had most likely been here all my life and I'd never noticed it, never had reason to, until now. I wondered if I needed to acknowledge its presence to ignite its magical powers, to call forth Thor's protection. Maybe that's why my life had taken a horrible turn. I hadn't employed the magic that was on my land. I lacked faith, which was no revelation—and the rest was just drivel. I was sure of it.

I put the truck in gear and drove on.

Shep was waiting for me at the mailbox, overseeing the land like he always had when there was no one home, no one else to worry about. My heart raced a bit as I brought the Studebaker to a hard stop and watched the border collie make his way to me in the rearview mirror. He was slow on the return, casting a glance to and fro, not barking happily—or with warning. My sense of alertness and dread heightened as soon as I realized that there was no sign of Jaeger Knudsen's red International Harvester truck anywhere.

I jumped out of the truck, ignoring Shep, who pushed at my hand for attention of one kind or another, and hurried to the house.

“Betty!” I called out. No answer came, so I called out again and was met with the same silence.

I pushed into the house and made a beeline for the bedroom, screaming for Hank the whole way. I nearly collapsed when I saw that the bed was empty and he was gone.

Gone. Hank was gone. How was that possible?

In his place on the ruffled bed was a note that I could barely read because my hands were shaking so violently:

Mrs. Trumaine, Hank is at the hospital. He was having a hard time breathing so I called Doc Huddleston and he said to get Hank to St. Joseph's as quick as possible. Jaeger put Hank in the truck and we're taking him instead of waiting for the ambulance. I will be there waiting for you. ~~Betty Walsh.

CHAPTER 15

I had spent enough time at St. Joseph's Hospital to suit me for three lifetimes. I was born there, instead of at home like most of the children of the time; I'd watched helplessly as my mother and father died there; and I'd worried over Hank as he hovered between life and death in the long, endless days that followed the accident. It was not a place of happy memories, but then I guess a hospital rarely is.

I could have driven to the hospital with my eyes closed, even in a panic. But not in a panic mixed with rage, fear, and fury. The speed limit wasn't a concern because I could only go as fast as the Studebaker would allow. A speeding ticket was the least of my worries.

I couldn't believe that Hank's breathing had failed enough since I'd left him with Betty Walsh that he needed to be hospitalized. I found myself annoyed with her, but I would have to control my temper, or at least swallow it. I feared telling Betty off, for no other reason than alienating and upsetting Jaeger. I knew him well enough to know that he wouldn't take too kindly to someone yelling at his girlfriend. Not even me. And I needed him more now than ever before. I would be lost without Jaeger Knudsen looking after our farm.

I wheeled the truck into the hospital parking lot, squealing the tires on the turn. I'm sure that wasn't uncommon at the Castle of Life and Death—that's what the six-story red brick building with the green slate-tile roof looked like to me, an old musty castle with a terrible dungeon inside. It was only missing the spires and cathedral roof.

I feared that Hank would be dead by the time I arrived, and I would be left with the guilt of him dying without me at his side. I'd promised him I would be there no matter what.
I'm sorry, I was at the Wild Pony, consoling Herbert Frakes instead of looking after you
. I didn't want to have to live with that.

Of all that could happen to hasten Hank's demise, I think I feared pneumonia the most. It was an invisible killer that always seemed to be lurking just outside our bedroom door, waiting like a snake in the grass for just the right time to strike. And it looked like it had waited until I left, until I wasn't there to shoo it away, cut its head off once and for all. Warding off pneumonia was out of my power.

I should have never left him with Betty Walsh
 . . .

It didn't matter to me that St. Joseph's was the tallest building in Dickinson. To me, at that moment, it was the
only
building in Dickinson.

I parked in the closest spot I could find and hurried inside the door marked EMERGENCY. I whizzed past two nuns in full black habits without acknowledging them. They looked at me in unison, with a glare that I didn't care to understand, and kept on walking.

A dainty older woman, with hair as silver as a brand new car bumper looked up from a crossword puzzle as I hurried to the information desk. I knew her. She was a cousin to Burlene Standish. Her name was Olga Olafson, and she had a similar reputation as Burlene when it came to being interested in all of the gossip that went on about town. I was in no mood for idle chitchat.

“I was a wonderin' where you were, Marjorie,” Olga said. She had on a white crocheted sweater that looked like it had just been bought at the church bazaar. It was buttoned all the way to the top, pinching the wrinkles that had come naturally with age on her throat. With her glasses and pursed lips, she looked like an old fish about to exhale or explode, I couldn't tell which. She smelled of prune juice and moth balls.