The Kingdom Where Nobody Dies (5 page)

“Who's that?” Jacob had come up behind him and was looking across the pasture and barnyard toward the dark blue car chugging up the driveway.

It stopped close to the house. A man in a white shirt and brown pants that looked rumpled even from this distance got out and stood facing the porch.

“That,” said McIntire, “is who the sheriff doesn't want you talking to.”

A reporter. He could try to send the guy on his way, but he'd be back, and there'd be plenty more of them. And once they got a look at the widow…. He abandoned the young men to their potatoes and headed for the house.

It wasn't a reporter. By the time McIntire reached the yard, the man was on his way back to his car. No news-hunter would give up that easily. He wasn't a reporter, and he wasn't a spiffy enough dresser to be selling anything.

His gaze rested on McIntire's official tan shirt. “Doesn't seem to be anyone home.”

“There might be.” McIntire hesitated. “What is it you want to see them about?”

“I heard on the radio what happened to Reuben. I didn't realize he lived around here. I just came to see if there is anything I can—”

“You knew Reuben Hofer?”

“I haven't seen him for a few years, but I knew him during the war.”

“Where were you stationed?”

“Stationed? I was right here.”

“Here?” What the hell was the guy talking about?

“In Michigan, I mean. I was a work supervisor at the camp in Gibb's Bay.”

There had been several POW camps in the area. Populated by German prisoners commandeered to do the work that the local boys would have been taking care of if they hadn't been so ruthlessly wrested away from their shovels, saws, and axes. Most of the prisoners were put to work logging or building roads. So Hofer had gotten in some practical experience before he'd turned to cracking the whip over his sons' backs.

“I see,” McIntire said. “From what I've been told, Reuben Hofer would have been a born overseer.”

“Overseer? Oh, Reuben wasn't a guard. He was one of our ‘guests.'”

“Hofer was a POW?” It was confusing. The man was definitely of German persuasion, but he had to have married and fathered those children before the war, and the home his sister was taking him back to was in one of the Dakotas. South Dakota.

The man's look was wary. “You new around here?”

“Sort of.”

“The camp at Gibb's Bay wasn't POWs. It was a CO camp. Conscientious Objectors.”

So the “community” did have a religious bent. And Mr. Hofer was not such a recent arrival to this particular community as they'd assumed. McIntire put out his hand. “John McIntire. Can I buy you something to wet your whistle?”

Chapter Seven

Both of the men got in their cars and drove away. The skinny one with the glasses and funny hat and the new one. The skinny man had hung around the boys for ages, and he had on a brown shirt like the sheriff's, so he must be one of them and not the man who shot her father. Claire backed away from the window and put Spike on the floor. “Now behave!”

When she turned around in the dark barn, she could still see, purplish in front of her eyes, the back of the house with the porch sticking out, and the shape of Joey where he played in the sand.

It wasn't so hot inside the barn as it was out in the sun. It was a good place to hide out. They didn't keep any animals in the barn because it was summertime, only brought Opal in to milk her and give her some grain, so it didn't smell bad.

Claire kicked at the old straw in one of the horse stalls. Maybe now they could have a horse. Pa said horses were a waste of money. You only had to feed a tractor when you wanted to use it. But now…. Claire wouldn't want a fiery stallion like Tamburlain or the Red Stallion. A nice gentle pony would do. Gentle with her, but one that wouldn't let anyone else ride him. If Jake or Sam came near him, he'd kick them to kingdom come. A pinto would be nice, like an Indian pony, or maybe a golden palomino. There was a lady in the neighborhood that had a horse. Claire had seen her ride by a few times. She was sort of chubby and looked way too old for it, but the horse was pretty. Claire would have died to go riding down the road like that, sitting in the saddle on her very own horse.

Spike barked again, outside, and Claire made a dash for the door.

A lady in a blue dress stood by the porch, holding a cake pan with a lid on it. Spike was running in circles around her, jumping and yipping. She came once before, when they first moved in, but Claire had been in the garden planting corn and didn't get a good look at her. She brought a cake that time, too, and they still had the pan. Claire couldn't remember her name. Ma said her husband used to be the mailman, but now he was sick. Claire ran across the yard to grab up the dog.

The lady smiled a little bit. “He sounds pretty vicious. I hope his bark is worse than his bite.”

She was the tallest woman Claire had ever seen, and she was skinnier than that man, even. Maybe she was his sister. Her hair was braided. It was pure white, so she had to be old, way too old for a pigtail, and her face was almost as white as her hair. She had light blue eyes and eyelashes so pale you could hardly see them. She looked like she wasn't finished yet. Like you had to get out some Crayolas and color her in.

“He doesn't bite.” Claire said it, but she wasn't sure it was true. She hoped he wouldn't. There would be big trouble if Spike ever bit anybody.

“I bet he'd like to, though.” The lady smiled more. Maybe she was making a joke. Then she asked, “Is your mother at home?”

It would probably be okay; Ma had her shoes on. Besides, they could use the cake. Claire nodded and went ahead of her up the steps to hold the door open. She went inside, too. Ma would want her to make the coffee.

Ma was writing a letter. She started to ask Claire something, then she looked up and noticed that they had company. She put her pen down and turned off the radio. “Hello, Mrs. Thorsen, how nice of you to come.”

Mrs. Thorsen handed the cake to Claire. “I won't bother you for long. I just wanted to let you know how terrible my husband and I feel about what's happened. If there's anything we can do, you know you only have to ask.”

“Thank you. It's difficult being so far from family at a time like this. Please sit down. Would you care for something to drink? It might be too warm for coffee. I believe my sister-in-law made some nectar.” Ma was using her polite, company voice. It made Claire feel sort of embarrassed, and stupid, too. Like one of those grown-up things she was left out of, but would have to learn to do herself someday. She didn't want to ever have to talk like that. Sometimes she hummed to herself, to drown out Ma talking that way.

Mrs. Thorsen didn't look like she really wanted nectar very much, but she said, “That would be nice,” anyway.

Claire wanted nectar. Sister put a cut-up orange in it to give it some extra zip. Claire brought the pitcher from the cellar and poured three glasses.

“How are you all doing, Mrs. Hofer? Is there anything I can help you with right now?”

“It's very kind of you to offer,” Ma told her. Then she said, “Claire you can take the rest of the nectar out to the boys.”

If the boys got thirsty they could darn well get a drink for themselves. Ma only wanted to get rid of her. Claire took her time pouring what was left of the nectar into a jar and hunting for a lid. She left the door open a crack and hung around in the porch until Ma called, “Did you forget something?”and she had to leave. She went around and stood by the window, but the fan was going and it made too much noise to hear anything.

It was still hot as Hades. But no where near as hot as Iowa. Claire laughed to herself when she thought of Iowa being hotter than Hell. She planned to dig round in Sam's old clothes for some bluejeans, so she could get rid of the stupid dresses Pa made her wear. But when it was this hot, a dress didn't feel so bad. Maybe it would work to cut the legs off the jeans and make shorts.

She yelled to Jake and Sam and left the jar balanced on a fence post, but first she fished out the orange quarters. They were bright red from being in the nectar and had most of the juice squeezed out, but they were still good. She scraped the insides out with her bottom teeth, and licked the sticky nectar from her fingers. Spike ran after the peels when she threw them in the grass. He even picked one up in his mouth, but spit it back out.

A car was making a cloud of dust, far down the road, so she headed back to the house. It might be the sheriff bringing Sister back. When he came to get her that morning, he'd smiled at Claire and pinched her nose. He smelled like cigarettes, same as Father Doucet.

Father Doucet was nice; more friendly than Father Ryan in Iowa. Sometimes he hardly seemed like a priest at all. He was going to teach Joey to play the fiddle when he was big enough. Claire would like to play the fiddle, and she was big enough now. Maybe she'd rather play the guitar. Then she could sing and play at the same time. Someday maybe she'd be a famous singer, like Peggy Lee. Peggy Lee didn't play a guitar, though.

It turned out it wasn't the sheriff's car. It was a whole lot smaller and it was pink, of all things. Claire had never seen a pink car before. The person that got out of the car was another lady. Pink must have been her favorite color; her blouse was pale pink, and she had a bright pink silk neckerchief. She walked around to the other side of her car and took out a big casserole dish, then she looked at the house for a while like she was thinking things over. Maybe she was trying to figure how she could get up the steps in her high heels and her tight skirt. She had to wiggle herself around and go up sideways, like Ma did, but she made it. She carried the dish in both hands and bumped it against the door instead of knocking. Her fingernails were long and red. Mrs. Thorsen came out.

Claire hung on to the squirmy dog and went closer.

“Mrs. Hofer isn't up to having company right now,” Mrs. Thorsen took the lady's hotdish. “If you give me your name, I can let her know you were here. I'm sure she'll appreciate it.”

The lady said her name was Wanda Something or Other. “But Mrs. Hofer doesn't know me. I knew Reuben when he was here during the war. I'd like to see her, to tell her how sorry I am about what happened.”

Claire had never heard that Pa was here when he was in the war. He never said anything about where he was, and Ma didn't tell them.

Mrs. Thorsen kept the door shut. “She's not well right now. I'm sure she'll appreciate your coming.” She didn't sound like she was lying. Maybe Ma really was sick. Or maybe she was feeling sad about Pa being dead, after all.

Wanda had red hair that made a wave over one eye and pink spots on her cheeks the same color as her lipstick and her scarf. She looked kind of mad. “Maybe you could let her know right now, and—” Joey came from behind the house and she quit talking and stared at him. Then her mouth went all prissy, and she stuck the dish in Mrs. Thorsen's hands, “Please give the family my sympathy. I'll come back another time.”

She went back to her car. She had to sit on edge of the seat and twist around to get in.

Mrs. Thorsen sat down on the steps. She pulled her long braid over her shoulder and stared at Claire until she felt like a fool. It was probably the stupid dress.

But a grown up lady with a braid looked silly too, especially the way she twisted the end of it like she was going to yank it right off. She said, “Claire is a very pretty name.”

Claire thought it was an awful name. Like Clara—or Clarabelle. She wrinkled her nose.

“I guess lots of people don't like their own name,” Mrs. Thorsen said. “Too bad we don't get to choose our own.”

That would be good, but, “We'd be too little,” Claire told her. “We'd be just born.”

“Not always,” Mrs. Thorsen said. “I was five.”

“You got to pick your own name?”

“No, my mother did it. But I was five.”

Claire thought she might be making it up, just kidding her along. “How could you go without a name for all that time? They couldn't just call you Little Girl.”

“Why not? I was little once.” She looked serious, and Claire didn't know what to say. Then she smiled. “I'm sorry, I'm teasing you. They called me Ramona. But when I was five, I got a new name.”

“What is it?” Ramona sounded like a nice name.

She smiled more. “Are you ready?”

Claire nodded.

“It's….” She said a long funny word that sounded like she was coughing.

“What?”

“Me-o-go-kwa,” Mrs. Thorsen said. She spelled it, “M-E-O-G-O-K-W-E. It's an Indian name. It was my grandmother's. When I was five years old, she died, and I got her name.”

Was Mrs. Thorsen a real Indian? Claire couldn't ask. It wouldn't be polite. She had the pigtail, all right, but she was way too white. Claire looked more like an Indian than Mrs. Thorsen did. Maybe Claire
was
an Indian, wandered away from her tribe and adopted, or maybe kidnapped by the Hofers to do the cooking. The boys all had blond hair, like Pa.

“Do you know where your younger brother is?” Mrs. Thorsen stood up. It was hard to believe a woman could be so tall, or that she'd ever been very little.

Claire shook her head. Joey was probably still hiding in back of the house. The other time Mrs. Thorsen came over, to pay a visit when they first moved in, he thought she might be a witch. She did look something like a witch. She had a pointy nose—no wart—but she looked more like a ghost. Joey might be even more scared if he knew she was an Indian.

Mrs. Thorsen went indoors with the hotdish, but she came right back out. She had her cake pan. The one she left before. “I'm going home now. Your aunt will probably be back soon. Do you know where I live?”

Claire didn't.

“It's not far, that way, and you can take a short cut through the woods.” She pointed past the barn to the trees. “It's the way I used to come when I went to school here. When I was a not-so-very-little girl.” She was teasing again. “I'll come back in a day or two and show you the way. Then if you ever need help, or want to use the telephone, you'll know where to go.”

She patted Spike's head. Claire felt queasy in her stomach. One of Mrs. Thorsen's fingers was chopped right off.