resisted on the way, tried to fight, and was somewhat beaten up before they got him to the lobby. He won’t come back here, even when he gets out of prison.”
“Hate it when they resist,” Virgil said.
“It’s a bad idea,” she agreed.
T HE NURSE SPOTTED Betsy Carlson in a chair facing a television that was showing a man chopping up onions and cabbage with the world’s sharpest knives, guaranteed not to get dull. “There she is,” the nurse said. She put a hand on Virgil’s sleeve and said, “She can be a little difficult, so it’s best to be sweet with her. If you push too hard, she gets stubborn.”
“Dr. Burke said her memory is messed up.”
“Yes, but the memories that go back…those generally tend to be better. She can’t remember what day it is, but she can tell you what she was doing in 1962. And she likes telling you. Another thing, though, is that she sometimes gets…she has…hallucinations. She sees bugs in her food.”
“And there aren’t any?”
“ Please . Not only bugs, she sees people. She sees people’s faces in the knots in wood. We’re scared to death that someday she’s going to see the Virgin Mary in a rust stain and we’ll wind up with ten thousand pilgrims on the lawn.” She paused, and then said, “She’ll be happy to see you—but she’ll forget your name all the time, and ask for it.”
B ETSY C ARLSON was tucked into her chair with an afghan. She was the ruin of a beautiful woman, with high cheekbones, an elegant, oval face, and what must have been fine, delicate skin, now furrowed with thousands of tiny wrinkles. Her hair was cut short, and her hazel eyes were glassy and placid. She smiled reflexively when Virgil pulled up next to her.
The nurse said, “Betsy, you have a visitor.”
She stared at Virgil for a moment, uncomprehending, then frowned, and asked, “Who are you?”
“Virgil Flowers. I’m a police officer from Minnesota.”
“I haven’t done anything,” she said. “I’ve been here.”
“We know,” Virgil said. The nurse nodded at him and drifted away with her garbage bag. “I need to talk to you about Bluestem and some things that have been going on there.”
“Bluestem. Founded in 1886 by the Chicago and Northwestern Railway. My great-grandfather was among the first settlers. Amos Carlson. His father fought the Indians in the Great Uprising. My father owned six hundred and forty acres in Stafford Township, the best land in Stark County. He was killed in an automobile accident on County 16 in a blizzard. His skull was crushed. I was born the very next day. My mama always said I was a special child, God’s gift. There was a death in the family, and then new life, all at the same time. What did you say your name was again?”
Virgil reintroduced himself, and then began pulling out memories of Bluestem, and Bill Judd and her sister, the days after her sister’s heart attack.
She remembered the day of the heart attack: “My sister drank too much, and then she’d fight with Bill; you could hear them screaming all over the house. Usually, about money—he had it, but he hated to spend it. The day she had the heart attack, she was drinking, but she wasn’t fighting. She started feeling sick in the morning, and thought maybe she’d drunk too much the night before. Anyway, she decided to move some furniture around in the living room, and we were dragging couches here and chairs over there, and pushing this old upright piano around, and we were just about done when she cries out, ‘Lord almighty,’ and she falls down. I ask her what’s wrong, and she says, ‘I hurt so bad, Betsy, I hurt so bad. Go get the doc, go get the doc.’ So I ran and got the doctor…”
“Dr. Gleason?”
Her eyes faded a bit, and she seemed confused, and then said, “I don’t think Dr. Gleason. I don’t think we went to Dr. Gleason then. We went to him later.”
“Do you remember the doctor?”
“I did. But then, you said Gleason, and
“Hate it when they resist,” Virgil said.
“It’s a bad idea,” she agreed.
T HE NURSE SPOTTED Betsy Carlson in a chair facing a television that was showing a man chopping up onions and cabbage with the world’s sharpest knives, guaranteed not to get dull. “There she is,” the nurse said. She put a hand on Virgil’s sleeve and said, “She can be a little difficult, so it’s best to be sweet with her. If you push too hard, she gets stubborn.”
“Dr. Burke said her memory is messed up.”
“Yes, but the memories that go back…those generally tend to be better. She can’t remember what day it is, but she can tell you what she was doing in 1962. And she likes telling you. Another thing, though, is that she sometimes gets…she has…hallucinations. She sees bugs in her food.”
“And there aren’t any?”
“ Please . Not only bugs, she sees people. She sees people’s faces in the knots in wood. We’re scared to death that someday she’s going to see the Virgin Mary in a rust stain and we’ll wind up with ten thousand pilgrims on the lawn.” She paused, and then said, “She’ll be happy to see you—but she’ll forget your name all the time, and ask for it.”
B ETSY C ARLSON was tucked into her chair with an afghan. She was the ruin of a beautiful woman, with high cheekbones, an elegant, oval face, and what must have been fine, delicate skin, now furrowed with thousands of tiny wrinkles. Her hair was cut short, and her hazel eyes were glassy and placid. She smiled reflexively when Virgil pulled up next to her.
The nurse said, “Betsy, you have a visitor.”
She stared at Virgil for a moment, uncomprehending, then frowned, and asked, “Who are you?”
“Virgil Flowers. I’m a police officer from Minnesota.”
“I haven’t done anything,” she said. “I’ve been here.”
“We know,” Virgil said. The nurse nodded at him and drifted away with her garbage bag. “I need to talk to you about Bluestem and some things that have been going on there.”
“Bluestem. Founded in 1886 by the Chicago and Northwestern Railway. My great-grandfather was among the first settlers. Amos Carlson. His father fought the Indians in the Great Uprising. My father owned six hundred and forty acres in Stafford Township, the best land in Stark County. He was killed in an automobile accident on County 16 in a blizzard. His skull was crushed. I was born the very next day. My mama always said I was a special child, God’s gift. There was a death in the family, and then new life, all at the same time. What did you say your name was again?”
Virgil reintroduced himself, and then began pulling out memories of Bluestem, and Bill Judd and her sister, the days after her sister’s heart attack.
She remembered the day of the heart attack: “My sister drank too much, and then she’d fight with Bill; you could hear them screaming all over the house. Usually, about money—he had it, but he hated to spend it. The day she had the heart attack, she was drinking, but she wasn’t fighting. She started feeling sick in the morning, and thought maybe she’d drunk too much the night before. Anyway, she decided to move some furniture around in the living room, and we were dragging couches here and chairs over there, and pushing this old upright piano around, and we were just about done when she cries out, ‘Lord almighty,’ and she falls down. I ask her what’s wrong, and she says, ‘I hurt so bad, Betsy, I hurt so bad. Go get the doc, go get the doc.’ So I ran and got the doctor…”
“Dr. Gleason?”
Her eyes faded a bit, and she seemed confused, and then said, “I don’t think Dr. Gleason. I don’t think we went to Dr. Gleason then. We went to him later.”
“Do you remember the doctor?”
“I did. But then, you said Gleason, and
Similar Books
