See Also Deception (31 page)

If I could have lain in the crook of Hank's arm forever that day, I would have been the happiest woman in the world. Forever seemed like a possibility then. Everything did. We had so much hope, so much optimism that we could almost taste it. A happy life, a happy future had been so real. But sadly, those moments disappeared all too quickly and the realization that nothing lasted forever was the hardest lesson.

After making love, Hank dozed briefly, woke up, and smiled when he saw me staring at him, watching every little muscle in his face twitch to life. His cornflower blue eyes looked like jewels dug from heaven's soil as he returned my gaze with satisfaction and the kind of love I had never felt in my life before him. I knew he had been the man for me when I'd first seen him in grade school, and that smile of his had proven me right time and time again.

“You make a fine snack, Mrs. Trumaine,” he said, sitting up, still naked as the day he was born. We were comfortable with each other that way. Always had been. There was no shame or worry about our bodies between us.

“Why thank you.” I sat up so that our legs touched, so we remained as one for as long as possible. I wasn't ready to give him up.

“And the ham salad wasn't half bad, either.” He laughed as I swatted at him. He pulled away just in time.

“I don't know what I'm going to do with you,” I said.

He laughed again, but this time his joyfulness was shorter, and he stared out over the empty plain toward our house. “Jaeger's turnin' out to have a head about him. Ran the outer field on his own today,” Hank said with certain pride in his voice.

“The boy's only twelve,” I said.

“Not gonna be a boy much longer, not that Jaeger. Erik has a tougher time with Peter. I don't know if that one has any interest in the land.”

“You can tell, can you?”

“I can. He's not interested in the work. Peter would rather be throwin' rocks at the ducks in the pond than ridin' on a tractor and takin' a lesson in it.”

“He'll grow to love it, you wait and see.”

“Maybe.” Hank reached over to the edge of the blanket and picked a blade of grass and stuck it in his mouth. He didn't like to smoke—that was my sneaky habit—but I knew when he chewed on something that there was a problem brewing somewhere deep in his mind or heart.

“What's the matter?” I said, scooting even closer to him.

“Nothin', really. I just worry about us, sometimes, that's all. The Knudsens are good people, the best neighbors a man could hope for . . .”

I knew what the problem was before he went any further. I put my finger to his lips and stopped him. “You worry too much.”

He shook his head. “What if the problem is me, Marjorie? What if I'm the one that's keepin' us from havin' a child?”

It was my turn to shake my head. “Doc says we're both fine. You know that. And you know it took my mother and father seven years to have me. Maybe we're just like them.”

“I just want us to be like Erik and Lida, to know that all of this isn't for nothin', that it'll go on, ya know?”

“I know.” I sighed, stared at him, drank in his earnestness and love for us, for our land, our life, then slid my hand across his leg. “Maybe we should try again.”

Hank stood up to get dressed. The sun reflected golden off his naked body, shimmering with the sweat of making love, of reaching into the future the only way he knew how. It was one of the best days of our lives. Sadly, the child never came, and what followed a few years later, when Hank stepped in the gopher hole, changed everything.

I started awake with that image of Hank in my mind, of him dressing, kissing me like he would never see me again, then walking away as the sun set behind him. He walked off toward more work, more of what made him the happiest, and I tried to hang onto that feeling too. Remember every second of it. But I couldn't. It was a dream, and the sight of a happy, healthy, walking, talking Hank faded away with the scream of seven machines bringing me back to the world in which I truly existed.

There was nothing I could do to save him, to stop him from leaving me. Somewhere deep in the recesses of my mind, I heard Nina Tutweiler's voice again as I stirred awake—
For in this sleep of death what dreams may come . . .

Hank never woke up again. But I was sure he knew I was there with him. I had to believe that. It was all I had left. He slipped away gently two hours later.

CHAPTER 50

Shep, of course, was beside himself with all of the cars parked in the yard. It wasn't the first time that it seemed like the whole town had gathered at our house, but I sure hoped it would be the last time.

Olga Olafson and her family were there, along with Pastor John Mark, always in my periphery, always keeping a close eye on me. I had kept a stiff upper lip in public, at the funeral, and I wasn't going to break down now, not in front of everyone.

Jaeger was as distraught as Shep, but for different reasons. I worried about him, but he'd assured me that he was fine, that the farm would keep him busy just like it had when he'd lost his parents. Time would tell if that were true. But I'd keep an eye on him, just like Pastor kept an eye on me. I guess that's what we all did. It was nice to know someone would be there if you fell.

The house was full of people and funeral food, more kinds of hamburger hot dishes and fried chicken than I could ever eat. Something told me that the winter pig was about to put on some quick weight, since I hated to think I was wasting the kindness of folks. One thing fed another, I supposed.

The only person missing from the house and the funeral was Herbert Frakes. I'd heard he was holed up in his room in the basement of the library, and I couldn't say that I blamed him for not wanting to come out in public just yet. To my surprise, Delia Finch had told him he could stay there as long as he wanted.

The house was too full for me, honestly, so I'd sneaked out to the back side of the garage to take a quick puff off a Salem. Luckily, it'd been a fine October day when we'd buried Hank, one day's worth of Indian summer. It had been the first moment I'd been able to steal for myself since I'd landed at the house.

“I thought I saw you head back here.” The voice startled me but didn't surprise me. I had seen the police car pull into the drive shortly after I'd arrived at home. “You mind if I join you?” Guy said.

“Not at all.” I exhaled smoke as I spoke.

Guy dug into his breast pocket, just opposite his badge, and pulled out a cigarette of his own. He lit it and stared at me for a long moment. “You all right?”

“As all right as I can be.”

“I suppose so.”

More silence. At least between us. Voices filled the air, rode the wind, and convinced me that I was alive and not in another nightmare, even though it felt like it. I kept looking at the house worrying after Hank, even though he wasn't there. I wondered how long I would do that.

“Well, I suppose you heard that I'm gonna run against Duke in the election.”

“I think that's a fine thing, Guy. I really do. People will make the right choice. I'm sure of it.”

“I hope so,” he said, taking a long draw off his cigarette. “Duke'll fire me first thing if
he
wins.”

“I suppose he will. Jaeger could probably use another good hand come spring.”

Guy smiled, then kicked the ground with his boot. “I probably shouldn't tell you this, Marjorie, but Betty Walsh claims she didn't do nothin' to Hank. Claims she's innocent of it all.”

I really hadn't wanted to hear that, but I was glad it had come from Guy. “Thanks. There'll be more of that to deal with in the coming days. I don't see how she can be innocent of killing Calla and Nina, but I hope she's telling the truth about Hank. I sure do hope that's true.”

“I wish it wasn't that way for ya, Marjorie.”

I shrugged, took the last puff off the Salem, and dropped it on the ground. “You see that weed over there?” I said, pointing to a tall, withering thistle growing at the corner of the garage.

“Yeah, sure.” He looked at me curiously.

“It's called musk thistle.
Carduus nutans
. It's not supposed to be here. Isn't native to this land, but it looks just like all of the other weeds. I wish there was a guide book for evil people, but there isn't. They blend in with the rest of us, just like that weed.”

“A book like that sure would make things easier, Marjorie.”

I tried to smile, but I couldn't find it in myself. “I better get back. People will be wondering where I am and come looking for me.”

Guy flashed a smile. “I suppose they will.”

I turned to walk away.

“Marjorie,” Guy said.

I stopped. “Yes?”

“You call me if you need anything, you hear. I'll come as soon as I can.”

“That's nice, Guy; I appreciate it. Jaeger's close. We'll be just fine. No need to worry about me,” I said, then walked away.

The day after a funeral was even lonelier than the day of one. I woke in the middle of the night and found my way to my desk. I had a lot of work to do, and the morning passed even quicker than I hoped it would.

It was just before noon, and I was putting the finishing touches on the
Common Plants
index, when the phone rang. I was tempted to let it ring, but it kept on going insistently, leaving me little choice.

“Trumaines,” I said, like I always did when I answered the phone.

“Ah, good, Miss Trumaine.”

My heart sank. It was Richard Rothstein.

“I know I was wrong the last time,” he went on, not bothering, of course, to say hello. “But there is no mistake this time. Your index
is
late.”

I knew that. In all of the turmoil and necessity of things after Hank had died, the last thing on my mind, that I had had time for, was working on the index. “I'm sorry,” I said. “But my husband passed away, and his funeral was just yesterday.”

“That's no . . .” And then he stopped. “Oh, I'm sorry.”

Silence between a thousand miles. The wires crackled, the wind whipped the lines, but business still churned on. Five seconds passed as a condolence.

“I'm finishing it now,” I said. “I will take it to the post office by the end of the day.”

“That is unacceptable. I need the index today.”

“I'm sorry. That's just not possible.”

“Well, then, I suppose I will have to adjust the schedule.”

“You will.”

“This does not bode well, Miss Trumaine.”

“Missus,” I said. “It's Mrs. Trumaine.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.” He paused. “I'll expect the index by the end of the week, then.”

“That should be enough time for it to get there. I'll start on the
Zhanzheng: Five Hundred Years of Chinese War Strategy
book right away. It won't be late; I promise you that.”

“I'm sorry for your loss, Mrs. Trumaine. Goodbye.” And he hung up. It was the first time Richard Rothstein had ever said goodbye to me.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Although the suicides portrayed in this book were staged, suicide is a topic that I take very seriously. If you find yourself in need of someone to talk to (24/7/365), please contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255.

Also, the town of Dickinson, North Dakota, portrayed in this book is real. Streets, names, history, and specific locations have been changed to serve the narrative of the story. Any mistakes are my own.

Information about indexing as a profession may be found on the American Society for Indexing (ASI) website (
asindexing.org).

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Indexing, like writing, is a job best done in isolation. The strict deadlines portrayed in this book are not an exaggeration and, in reality, most professional indexers juggle multiple projects at one time. That said, I've had to miss a lot of activities with friends and family, pleasurable and otherwise, since taking up indexing and writing as a profession. Apologies for my absences are probably past due.