Louise Erdrich - The Master Butcher's Singing Club

“Of course, upon reflection,” Roy said, “when we say ‘of all people,’ so often the person is the logical person to become a victim after all. He was the sheriff. He was in love with Clarisse Strub. He was found with his pants down around his ankles, obviously planning to violate more than the privacy of her bedroom.”

Delphine waved the peeler in distress, still unable to speak.

“Hock.” Roy returned to his shocked attempt at self-persuasion. “Hock. Yes, Hock . Died in the Strub girl’s boudoir. They’re saying that the necessities of her profession drove her around the bend.” Roy’s face turned grim. “I concur, poor duck. Her uncle shouldn’t ever have let her take on clients. Sawing up the dead. Replacing their blood with vinegar! And she’s just a sweet young thing. You ever hear of a girl undertaker?” Roy’s hands twisted together, clasped as though in prayer. He bit his knuckle, and softly marveled. “A slip of a thing, yet she gutted him neat as a pig.”

“She didn’t use vinegar, and she was tough as an old rooster,” Delphine muttered, turning from her father, wildly revising the narrative she’d concocted after leaving Clarisse’s house on Christmas morning.

Roy glanced up at his daughter, then shook his head as if she had it all wrong. “She was a little duck,” he insisted, “and Hock entered the sanctity of her nest. I never saw it coming, never took it all that serious. Oh, Hock wrote songs for her that he’d even try on the rest of us, but it was all a romantic fairy tale. And then, under the pretext of an investigation he conducted ‘a search,’ had a warrant, everything. Now they think she”—Roy nicked his head in the direction of the pantry, the boarded-over cellar door—“killed them, too.”

There was something unsettling in the way her father gestured, Delphine thought, an awkwardness. As though he was suddenly struck with inspiration and acting a part, and poorly. But she attributed his clumsy insincerity to the strangeness of things in general, for the compound mystery was linked — the three who’d died in Roy’s cellar, Hock who was investigating their deaths, and then Clarisse.

“She didn’t hide, why should she,” said Roy, stoutly slapping his hands on his knees. “She had to protect her innocence, after all. The world is hard. Men are capable of the unthinkable. People saw her. She boarded the morning train with her big brown valise and a little round hatbox. Red. Ticket to Minneapolis.”

“I expect they’ll catch up with her there,” said Delphine, sitting down now across from her father, feeling tranced and dizzy. “They’ll arrest her. What then?”

“Don’t count on them finding her,” said Roy with a keen and prophetic glare over the top of his bulb nose. “I knew her grandfather and two great uncles. Slippery buggers. Once in the city, she is likely to go to ground, change her identity. She’s an agile survivor.”

“I thought you said she was a little duck,” said Delphine, but with small appetite for arguing.

“A tender female of a venomous species then,” said Roy. “How delicate, how winsome, the eight slender legs of the black widow spider. How fragile the lady scorpion’s barbed tail! And the mosquito, who stands on her head to bite. She’s hardly a wisp of air, barely a living thing at all, weighing zero, yet she can kill you with malaria.”

Roy continued in his meditation on the contradictions of the female sex, but Delphine had already stopped listening and gone to her room, where she piled all the quilts upon her bed and slipped underneath, to get away from Roy and yet stay warm enough to think.

AFTER A FEW DAYS of shock and strangeness, days in which people in Argus could talk of nothing else and strained after each detail, explanations stalled. Just as Roy predicted, Clarisse had disappeared. Sheriff Hock’s body was removed from the house, wrapped in a tarp, sealed, and driven to the coroner in Fargo. The house was locked tight. A deputy was appointed and the town’s life began to flow around the jagged events like water. The horror of what happened would be worn down by daily ordinariness. By talk. More talk. Years of talk and speculation. Eventually, the bloody mess in Clarisse’s closet would become a colorful piece of town history. She vanished, but with flair, she and her red hatbox and brown suitcase. She vanished right out in the open, just rode away on the train, apparently got off in Minneapolis, changed trains, changed names, changed her whole self perhaps. Because there was no sighting of her. No capture.

As for Cyprian, no one had seen him leave town. When questioned about her friend, Delphine did not volunteer the details of her Christmas morning visit, and no one asked. The presence of Cyprian’s car near Clarisse’s house had gone unremarked. That morning’s new snowfall had hidden Delphine’s tracks. No one had seen Delphine drive the car to her house. As she kept it parked where the corner of it could be seen from the road, no one even realized for months that Cyprian was not living in the house with her. Even Roy thought that Cyprian was consumed by some clandestine smuggling activity, and he noticed only how the winter dragged without the younger man’s presence. Once, Fidelis asked Delphine, with studied casualness, whether Cyprian had quit the singing club. When Delphine shrugged and told him, “Not as far as I know,” he shut up. Only Delphine was aware of the connection between Cyprian and Clarisse. For a while it ached in her thoughts, a sore place, a strange place right beside the black sinkhole of the murder of the sheriff. She examined and revised, reexamined and analyzed, submerged herself in all that she knew of her friend Clarisse, and still came up gasping for air. She missed Clarisse the way she would miss a leg or an arm — always and in all she did. Work was harder. Loneliness distracted her. She visited Aurelius and Benta. They sat and drank coffee together, but it was no good.

Delphine began to read with a mad attention when she wanted to talk to Clarisse. She saw that in her life there was a woman-shaped hole, a cutout that led to a mysterious place. Through it, her mother, then Eva, and now Clarisse had walked. If only she could plunge her arms through and drag them back.

T HERE WAS IN the butcher’s kitchen a large crockery preserving jar into which Delphine cut up the last bits of fruit as they went in and out of season — cherries, tough peaches, raspberries, raisins, bananas, apples, and grapes. Over each addition she dumped sugar and a measure of brandy. The stuff, spooned over pound cake or ice cream if they ever had it, was a dessert reserved for weekends, when it didn’t matter if the boys went to bed slightly tipsy and woke up late. Perhaps that was the origin of its name, Traumfeuer , dreamfire, and the reason they loved to eat it just before they went to sleep. Delphine, who never stayed that late, didn’t know where the stuff went and had no idea that Fidelis let the boys get into it. On the day before they were to leave for Chicago, she was eating a large bowl of it in the middle of the afternoon. She’d poured Traumfeuer on a hard piece of sweet bread and added a bit of cream, treating herself because she’d packed the boys’ clothing into a suitcase that would be roped on the top of the car. It was more, she knew, as she spooned herself another powerful helping, a way of blotting out the next day’s plan.

Tante had finally persuaded Fidelis to let her take the boys, excepting Franz, since he was nearly finished with school, back to Germany. Tante would raise them with the help of the grandmother, who was lonely. With the sewing machine, which she had purchased instead of acquiring a husband, Tante felt confident of returning. And now she was bringing the boys along, although, she pointed out, it would not be forever! It would be a year, at most two, before Fidelis came over and brought them back himself. Without the exhaustion of taking care of them, the store would flourish. They would be more responsible by then. Old enough to help.