Dakota Blues (8 page)

“I think it’s depressing. I never come out here.”

“I would,” said Karen. “It’s peaceful.”

“We’ve got peaceful right in town. You don’t have to go anywhere to get it.” Lorraine followed the cars ahead as they turned off the highway and rumbled up a dirt road, dust coating the fence posts as they passed. The yards were overgrown and the homes looked tired. Lefor was a museum piece, a colonial village that seemed almost to exist solely to demonstrate how life worked in the olden days. The disparity between her perspective and that of Lorraine’s made Karen feel like an outsider. She felt the pull of homesickness for California, while at the same time knowing she’d feel as disoriented if she were back home. With her parents gone and her marriage kaput, nothing felt like home anymore. She and Lorraine fell silent.

“There’s the old bank,” said Lorraine. “Somebody burned it down in the twenties, but by that time, Lefor was deteriorating, so they never rebuilt.” She drove slowly past the rock-walled structure, no bigger than a one-room jail.

Karen studied the old building. About the time Butch and Sundance committed their first robbery, the first Model-T chugged out of Henry Ford’s factory, and San Francisco shook and burned to the ground, forty-two German families fled Europe for the Great Plains. They arrived here, sometimes living in dugouts scooped from the earth until their fortunes improved sufficiently to allow the building of sod houses. Later, if they were especially prosperous, they built homes from the abundant rocks dredged from the farm fields.

The caravan stopped in front of St. Elizabeth’s, and the women piled out and climbed the two flights of cement steps to the unlocked entrance. Inside, the aroma of old incense and candle wax reawakened Karen’s memory of daily Mass, and she felt lightheaded. The wooden pews were cool and smooth to the touch, and the hardwood floor was so old it dipped in places. Along the wall and under the stained glass windows, the Stations of the Cross were inscribed in German, barely understandable and yet deeply familiar. Denise snapped discrete photos as the rest of the women moved quietly to the door, where Karen touched her fingertips to the bowl of Holy Water, made the Sign of the Cross and went back outside.

Following her friends up the path towards the cemetery, she wondered how often the early settlers walked over this specific stretch of packed earth? How many of her relatives had preceded her toward the burial grounds, their eyes focused resolutely above the graves, their grief assuaged by a firm belief in a glorious future?

In order to feel more at home after leaving Europe, the immigrants chose homestead parcels in the same configuration as in the old country, so one’s neighbor to the south in the Banat occupied the same placement in the new town. They built a church and named it after the one they’d left behind. They fenced off a cemetery, and unlike the original church, the burial ground endured, welcoming generations of settlers and their children and grandchildren.

At first Lefor had thrived, with a post office, a mercantile exchange, and even a primitive bowling alley. There was talk of a railroad, and funds were raised, but World War I interfered, and the town began to decline. Over the years the younger generation, continuing the original migration, moved away from the farms to cities, and to other states. Now the spire of St. Elizabeth’s rose above a cemetery whose occupants far outnumbered the residents of the town.

Drying vegetation crunched under her feet as she made her way across the slope, reading the names on the primitive stones. The rest of the women stopped here and there to visit the graves of relatives while Denise took pictures of the oldest headstones, some imported from Germany and others, more simple ones, made of local stone. Some of the graves held the remains of immigrants who were buried eighty, ninety years ago. Karen stood before one that bore a familiar surname, her mother’s. Katerina and Johann,
geboren
and
gestorben
. Born and died. Karen felt guilty, alive under the bright sunshine, thriving in the twenty-first century, comforted by all manner of modern invention. What debt did she owe them, those plain-faced great-aunts and grannies? Done with their short, hard enlistments, their bodies worn out from bearing children and tilling the soil, they lay waiting for her to make their efforts worthwhile.

Stopping at her parents’ graves, Karen crouched down and touched the letters of her mother’s name, carved into the headstone and adorned with twin sheaves of wheat. Lena and Frank had ordered them years ago when they bought the plots of land for their final resting place. Gruesome, Karen had thought at the time, but now she understood her mother would be reassured to know where she would lie at the end.

“How are you doing?” Lorraine grasped Karen’s shoulder.

Karen, wiping her eyes, backed away from the newly-turned earth. “Sometimes it’s too much.”

“Let’s rest.” They meandered toward a shaded bench and sat. Already the grass was yellowing at the tips, and soon the afternoons would turn steamy, brewing up thunderstorms and the occasional tornado. Southwestern North Dakota wasn’t an easy place. Unlike the dark, rich farmland in the eastern part of the state, here on the highlands the land was dry and windswept on its westward climb toward the Rocky Mountains.

Lorraine pulled off her big floppy sun hat and shook out her hair. “You’re processing a lot right now. Take it easy. Breathe.”

“So much is changing, I feel disoriented.”

“Then slow down and take it all in. You have a lot of years ahead of you.”

Karen chuckled. “You’re younger than me. How come you sound so smart?”

“I’m not so smart, but Mom always told me it’s my life and I should be the one to make the big decisions. So don’t let us or anybody else pressure you.”

“‘
Man plans, and God laughs
.’ Or something like that.” Karen picked up a rock and tried to scrape off the tiny cactus sticking to the side of her sneakers. Only a fool would wear sandals to this cemetery.

They watched Denise work, angling this way and that for the perfect shot of the old headstones.

“I can’t believe this is so close to your house,” Karen said. “You drive a half hour and you’re standing right on top of the original homesteads. You can see a tree still growing that was planted by the first relatives to set foot in America, and you can sit by their graves, if you want.”

“Not like we ever do,” said Lorraine. “I know they’re here and that comforts me, but I don’t come out here. We go to work, come home, eat dinner, do chores, go to bed, and on the weekends, we run errands.”

Karen gazed across the open landscape. “In California, everybody is from another place, and nobody stays put. They move in, they move out. The house next door to mine back home is only fifteen years old and it’s had three owners already. By contrast, this,”– she opened her arms to take in the whole of the countryside,– “seems so permanent.”

The two women fell silent as Denise folded up her tripod. Then they drove back across the highway and down another dirt road, this one heading east. The Jeep turned in at an abandoned homestead and parked beside a rusting tractor. “This farm is still in Glenda’s family,” Lorraine said. “We’re going to have lunch here.”

Glenda gathered the group around her. “There’s a creek down here behind the barn, and a nice shady place to eat. Follow me.” The women followed, carrying chairs, food, and picnic supplies. Their sneakers mashed down the overgrown grass as they trod, single file, through a grove of whispering cottonwoods to a lush clearing.

“Who wants wine?” Marlene opened a bottle of chilled Riesling and passed it around, followed by a plate of ham and cheese sandwiches. Someone brought potato chips; another, grapes; a third, brownies.

“So, what did you think about your mom’s old place?” asked Denise. “Was it how you remembered it?”

Karen shook her head. “There’s nothing left of what I remember.”

“It’s all going. We’re at that age,” said Glenda.

“Speak for yourself.” Denise finished her sandwich and began fitting a new lens to her camera. “Did you know most of the farmers lived in
soddies
all their lives? They whitewashed the walls and sealed the dirt floors with a mixture of water and cow manure, which hardened into a smooth surface. Tough people. Kind of an inspiration.”

“Mom never mentioned cow poop floors.”

“Denise is our historian,” said Glenda.

“You can’t do photo-documentaries without getting caught up in the research,” said Denise. “Who wants to look for shells?”

Marlene and Denise rolled up their pant legs and waded out into the creek while the others lolled around like overfed pups. Karen unbuttoned her waistband for the small relief it gave her. Usually she was much more careful about portions, but ever since she arrived, she’d eaten like a horse.

The sound of splashing and shrieking brought her back. Glenda laughed at the women in the creek. “They’re like a couple of kids.”

Karen reached upward, stretching and yawning, more relaxed than she’d been in months. Denise trudged up the bank and held out a handful of dripping shells. “Look what we found. They’re
Lampsilis radiata
shells. The Native Americans made them into tools. See? It’s the tip of a knife.”

Marlene trailed behind her. “Like fossils,” she said, wiping her hands on her shorts.

“Native Americans lived here for four thousand years before us,” said Denise. “These were their ancestral hunting grounds. When the government opened it up for homesteading, the native people were so pissed off they started murdering everybody.”

“That’s what I would have done.” Lorraine held out her glass and Karen emptied the rest of the wine into it. Overhead in the rustling cottonwoods, songbirds tried to drown out each other’s territorial claims. Dappled shade splashed patterns across the remains of their picnic. Eyes closed, Lorraine rested her head against the chair back. Denise had flopped down on a blanket, and Marlene’s head was dipping. The brook rippled across small stones, and cicadas began buzzing overhead. Karen tried to imagine up a similar space in Orange County where she could find the same respite. The Back Bay at Newport came to mind, but that was often busy with cyclists and other nature lovers. Here, though, in the farmlands around Dickinson, solitude was abundant.

I could live here
, she thought.

“Nothing stopping you,” said Glenda.

Karen opened one eye. “Did I say that?”

“You mumbled something about living here and so I say, move. Nothing stopping you now.”

Karen stared at Lorraine, who grinned. “There’s no such thing as a secret in Dickinson,” she said.

“Don’t let it throw you,” said Denise. “I’ve been single almost a year now. It gets easier. Good time for introspection. You can find your authentic self.”

“Authentic self, my butt. Just get the biggest settlement you can.” Marlene tossed the empty wine bottle in the trash bag.

Glenda folded up her chair and slung it over her shoulder. “Ladies, I’m out of here. I have to drop by the clinic and sign some checks. Karen, you’ve seen big-city health care. Want to see how the other half lives?”

.

Chapter Nine

G
lenda turned onto the two-lane highway away from town and headed deeper into farm country. Rows of evergreen trees ran from north to south, protecting the farm fields from wind and reminding Karen of the Christmas tree farms back in California. In the middle of a yellow canola field stood a herd of deer, antlers still covered in velvet.

Twenty miles south they drove into the remote community of Regent, which consisted of a sleepy main street and a few dozen houses. Glenda parked in front of an old feed store bearing the name Farmers Health Collective. Inside the clinic, crayon drawings by school children were taped up on the walls and soft music wafted from an iPod player at the receptionist’s window. Two women thumbed through magazines while a child played in the corner with alphabet blocks.

Glenda waved to the receptionist. “Is Annie around?”

“She’s giving a tetanus shot. Should be done any time.”

“Would you ask her to see me? I’ll be in my office.”

Karen followed Glenda down the hall and into a cramped room. On the desk, a multicolored array of case folders was stacked next to medical textbooks. A teddy bear, clad in surgical scrubs, grinned at them from the top of the books.

Karen spotted the nameplate on the door. “You’re the boss?”

Glenda reached in the drawer and pulled out a jar of candy. “Unofficially. There’s a chief physician in Grand Forks who’s technically responsible for the whole network, but I only see him a couple times a year. Otherwise, we do video conferencing, email, and phone calls. Want a peppermint?”

Karen unwrapped a candy and popped it in her mouth. “I’m guessing you’re the main health care in the area?”

“Yup.” Glenda leaned back in her chair, put her feet up, and rolled a peppermint around in her mouth. “The only. We serve the whole south end of the county. If they need more, they go to Bismarck or Dickinson.”

“You’re pretty far away from things. Is it hard to find staff?”

Glenda nodded. She gestured toward the door and lowered her voice. “I’m worried about my assistant, Annie. She’s burning out. She doesn’t complain, but I can tell. There isn’t much more I can do to make things easier. The work is what it is.”

“How’s the pay?”

“About two-thirds of what they can earn in Grand Forks or Bismarck, but the cost of living is proportionate, and it’s a lot quieter out here at night. Lots of stars.”

“Hard to hire people based on that.”

“Tell me about it.”

Karen rolled the candy wrapper between her fingers until it was shaped like a ball. Laughter resonated from down the hall, and a copier hummed outside the door. Hand-made mobiles of colored foil dangled in front of the windows, reflecting the late afternoon sun. The pen scratched across paper as Glenda signed checks. The clinic had that peaceful, Friday afternoon feeling she missed.

When a shriek knifed through the air, Glenda was out the door before Karen had managed to stand up. They reached the waiting room just as a young woman lost her hold on her husband. He slipped to the floor, leaving streaks of blood on his wife’s chest. Glenda knelt at his side while the receptionist tucked a jacket under his head. One of the other patients braced herself against the far wall, hands covering her mouth.