William Krueger - The Devil's bed

He went back to his car and took out the book he’d brought with him, the one Kate had given him, then he went to the barn and climbed into the loft that was filled with hay bales. From there he could see a good part of the farm and beyond. In the pasture to the northwest, cattle grazed. Three miles south rose the water tower in Blue Earth. All around were other farms nestled among their own fields, neighbors all deeply connected by more than just those distant property lines, connected by the land itself and the life it dictated. When he’d lived with Harold and Nell, he often sat in the loft after his work was done. Sometimes he had a book and he read. Sometimes he just sat and drank in the beauty of the place. Sometimes Harold joined him and they talked. He’d been a gorilla of a man, a blond gorilla, with a chest that had seemed to young Bo big as the grille of a Cadillac. Mostly he was quiet, but when he laughed it was a huge sound, like the earth rumbling, and it always filled Bo with happiness. He’d never known his own father. The fathers of the other kids he’d run with in St. Paul were men careless in their parenting. Or worse, brutal. If it hadn’t been for Harold Thorsen, Bo would have grown up believing that being a man was a harsh and selfish thing.

“You up there?” Nell called from the bottom of the ladder.

“Yes.”

“Figured. I’ve got some coffee made if you’d like some.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Bo picked up his book and headed down.

Nell served the coffee on the porch where there was a small wicker table and two wicker chairs. It was a warm evening, early yet for mosquitoes.

“Were you reading in the loft?” she asked.

“Remembering mostly.”

“Good memories?”

“I was thinking about the time I stormed up there and threatened to run.”

“I remember that.”

“Harold followed me up. I figured he was going to-I don’t know-hit me or handcuff me or something. I told him he couldn’t keep me here, working me like a slave.”

“You weren’t the first he’d heard that from.”

“He sat down beside me. The sun was low in the sky, like it is now. I remember everything seemed very precise, either shadow or light. The fields were orange. The trees were black. But all I saw was red. Man, I was pissed.

“He didn’t say anything at first. We sat for a while. Then he said, ‘Give it a week. If you want to run after that, tell me where you want to go and I’ll take you there myself.’” Bo held his coffee mug in both hands and laughed softly. “Bet he said that to everybody.”

“Only the ones he was sure wouldn’t take him up on it.”

“I miss him.”

“We all do.” Nell lifted the book Bo had set on the table.

“A gift from a friend,” Bo said.

“Good?”

“I don’t know. She confuses me.”

“I meant the book.”

“Oh.”

“But tell me about the friend.”

“Nothing to tell.” Bo looked away. The sun lay on top of the cornfield, a red ball bleeding onto the green stalks. “She’s married.”

Nell put cream in her coffee and stirred. In the still air of evening, the spoon made little clinking sounds against the cup. “A blossoming bedside romance?”

Bo gave her a dark look.

“I live in the country, not outer space. We have tabloids at the checkout counters in Blue Earth, too. You wouldn’t believe the number of calls I’ve had from folks wondering if it’s true.”

“It’s not.”

Nell opened the book and read the inscription. “That’s a lovely thing for her to say, Bo. I’ve always liked her.”

She handed the book back, still opened to the page with the inscription. Bo looked down at the words, written in Kate’s beautiful, florid script.

Nell said, “Harold and I always hoped you’d find a nice girl someday. We just imagined it might be someone not married to the president.” She smiled.

In the elms around the house and in the cottonwoods along the creek, the cicadas began to sing. It was a one-note song, long and hypnotic. Just when it seemed the sound would go on forever, it suddenly died. Bo had been staring at the words written in the book, something almost coming to him for a long time. The moment the cicadas stopped singing, he had it.

“My God,” he said in the quiet.

“What is it?”

“Nell, I’m sorry, I have to go.” He stood up and wedged the book under his arm against his side. “Forgive me?”

“I could forgive you anything, Bo.” She gave him a parting kiss and stood on the porch, waving as he turned his car in the yard and headed back down the lane.

It was well after dark by the time he reached Wildwood. He’d called ahead on his cell phone, so he was expected. After he passed through security at the gate and parked his car, he hurried to the main house and knocked on the door. Annie answered.

“She’s upstairs with Nicole Green, working on First Lady business. She’ll be with you in a minute. It must be important if it couldn’t wait until tomorrow.”

“How’s Tom?” Bo asked.

“Tough. Alive. Thank God it was a mild stroke. It could have been worse.”

Bo thought how Minnesotan that was. It could have been worse. How often had he seen tragedy dealt with in that way, a stoic comparison to a greater possible harm. He’d watched a news report earlier that summer after a tornado had ripped through central Minnesota. They’d interviewed an old Finn standing in front of the rubble that had once been his home. “I’m lucky,” he’d said. “I got insurance.” Then he’d glanced behind him toward the lake shore where a small structure still stood. “Heck, coulda been worse. Coulda lost the sauna, too.”

Annie went to a bookcase near the fireplace. From where it had been folded and shoved into a dark nook, she took a newsprint publication, and held it up.

“Bo?”

It was a copy of theNational Enquirer.

“That’s garbage, Annie.”

“I know. I’d just like you to be careful. There’s so much at stake.”

“Am I still invited to Sunday dinner?”

“You’re always welcome here.” At the sound of feet on the stairs, Annie folded the tabloid and put it back into the dark place from which it had come.

The First Lady appeared, looking a little tired. She smiled when she saw Bo.

“I wondered if you’d like to take a walk with me,” Bo said.

“Now?”

“We need to talk.”

Kate glanced at Annie, who offered her only a brief shrug. “Of course,” she said.

They walked out onto the dark porch and down the stairs. The moon was almost directly overhead, a quarter moon dimmed by a high haze. However, the yard light mounted on the barn was bright, and in its glare, the asphalt of the drive shone like black opal and the grass blazed with a false flame. Bo headed toward the dark nearer the orchard.

“To the bluff?” Kate asked.

“No,” Bo said. “Secret Service will follow us there. I’d rather we talked alone.”

He paused at the rail fence that separated the compound from the apple trees. The door of the guesthouse opened and an agent appeared against the light inside.

“It’s okay,” Bo called. “We’re not going any farther.”

The First Lady waved. “Thank you.”

The figure held a moment longer, then closed the door.

In front of the guesthouse, the sculpture by Roland Jorgenson, the curled sheets of polished metal calledGoddess, caught the harsh glare of the yard lamp and glowed as if white-hot. A long flow of reflected light spilled from it across the ground toward the place where Bo and the First Lady stood.

“All this sounds so serious, Bo. What is it?” Her face was a blur of pale skin and shadow.

“Forgive us our trespasses,” Bo said.