Bone Harvest by Mary Logue Page A

jeans. “The corn looks good. The soybeans are doing fine. Think it’s going to be a good year, except it’s going to be a good year for everyone, so nothing’ll fetch much.”
    Harold decided to not beat around the bush with Andy. “How’s your father doing? I haven’t heard from him in a while.”
    Andy turned and looked toward the lake as if he were hoping there might be fireworks starting and he wouldn’t have to answer the question. When he turned back to Harold, he said, “Dad’s fine, I guess. He called today and talked to Marie.”
    “Still in Tucson?”
    “I guess.”
    “You still aren’t talking to him?”
    Andy shrugged. “Not so’s you’d notice.”
    “I should send him the paper. I think he’d be interested in that letter I printed today. Had to do with the Schuler murders. Did you see it?”
    “Yes, Marie pointed it out to me. In fact, I was thinking I’d talk to you about that. About what actually happened. Dad would never say much about it, but I think he knew more than he’d let on.” Andy took a swallow of his lemonade.
    “Well, he was the first one on the scene,” Harold started to say, when he was stopped by an odd look on Andy’s face.
    First, Andy looked like he had bitten into a lemon, which made sense, since he was drinking lemonade. Then he looked like he had had a lemon forced down his throat. Then he looked like the lemon was choking him. Andy’s arms went up to his neck and he tried to speak, but no sound came out except a gasp for air. Harold stepped forward as Andy fell into his arms.
     
    As they walked down to the park, Rich was reminded of this same walk only a few days ago and how that had ended—Claire running off to work. He hoped that the only excitement tonight would be the fireworks.
    Meg tugged at his arm. “Can I have a piggyback ride?”
    Claire, who had seemed a bit snappish all evening, said, “Leave Rich alone, Meg. You’re too big. You can walk.”
    He thought of stepping in and contradicting Claire, but quickly reconsidered. Let her calm down, he told himself. In the meantime he simply tugged on Meg’s arm, and when she looked up at him, he gave her a wink. They had started this communication between the two of them; it meant: Wait a while; she’ll get better. Then we’ll get what we want. Meg burst out into a big smile and started to skip next to him.
    “I love fireworks,” she announced to the night air.
    “Noise and fire—what’s not to like,” Claire said, but with a tug of a smile.
    “But Mom, they’re beautiful. Sparkles and flashes of color and pictures sometimes even.”
    “Yes, I know, honey. They are beautiful.”
    Rich chimed in. “Almost as good as northern lights.”
    “Oh, Rich, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen them,” Claire said. “Probably ten years or so. I was driving to Fargo, on a case. I was alone in the car, heading north. It was late at night.”
    “How old was I, Mom?”
    “You were a baby.”
    “Where was I?”
    “You stayed home with Daddy.” Claire rubbed the top of Meg’s head and then continued, “I noticed something off to my right, which was north, and when I took my eyes off the road and looked into the sky, I almost drove off the road.”
    Meg giggled. “Mom.”
    “Meg, you have to see them. We should go up north this summer, Rich. Up to the Boundary Waters. Stretch out on our backs on a dock by a lake and stare up into the heavens. I’ve seen them where they look like white water swirling down a drain in the middle of the black sky. But that night, driving to Fargo, they were like green curtains undulating.”
    Meg repeated the word. “Undulating, undulating.” Each time she spoke it, she did a small belly dance to illustrate what the word meant. Rich was choking back laughter. What a kid she was.
    They came to the park and saw the throngs of people lined up by the lake. Rich had a sleeping bag tucked under his arm for them to sit on. Meg was dancing and jumping at the end of his