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  I click on the radio for background noise and begin typing.

  We All Live in a Lilydale Dream

  The radio drama that I flipped on is interrupted with another Vietnam story, this one about American troubles at Kham Duc. During an evacuation, there wasn’t enough room in the helicopters for Chinese soldiers battling alongside the American boys. I think about those miserable men left behind, fighting a strange war with no end. I’m ashamed at how easy it is to tune out their pain, halfway across the world and me in this sleepy little town, but that’s exactly what I do when I snap off the radio. A person can sit with only so much bad news.

  Then I pause, bite my lip, and type my very first byline, a happy flush warming my cheeks.

  By Joan Harken

  May 11, 1968

  Lilydale Elementary School’s Spring Musical program was a hit! The May 10 extravaganza featured music by The Beatles with each grade, kindergarten through fourth, presenting one song. Miss Colivan, fourth grade teacher, told the packed gym that “we wanted a modern presentation, something children and parents alike could enjoy.” The song list:

  Kindergarten: “Twist and Shout”

  First Grade: “I’m Only Sleeping”

  Second Grade: “I’m Happy Just to Dance with You”

  Third Grade: “She Loves You”

  Fourth Grade: “I Want to Hold Your Hand”

  Everyone certainly seemed to be having a wonderful time. A crowd of at least 400 people gathered to hear the sweet songs of youth. The grand finale featured all 243 children singing “Yellow Submarine,” while some of the older students wheeled out the submarine they’d created in their Arts & Crafts class. If the evening concert was any indication, the future of Lilydale is in bright hands.

  The relief is immediate. A story out rather than in.

  I review my writing. “Twist and Shout” isn’t technically a Beatles song, but I don’t think this article is the place to mention that. The rest holds up. Edward R. Murrow doesn’t need to stop the presses, but I’m satisfied. I zip the paper out of the typewriter, slide it into my portfolio, nuzzle Slow Henry, and pad to the bathroom. I brush my teeth, apply makeup, and scan the article one more time. I still like it. It’s more Women’s News than hard-hitting journalism, but it’s a start.

  And my name is on it.

  I pat my head. My hair is not quite set from this morning’s hot shower. I know what I could do while I wait for it to dry, but hell. I don’t want to. My feet drag as I walk to the phone, my lungs heavy. I pick up the handset and dial.

  Ursula answers on the third ring. “Hello?”

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  “Joan. What the hell? Why haven’t you called before? I’ve been worried sick about you. I nearly drove to Lilydale, knocking door to door, asking who’d taken my Joanie.”

  I laugh, a dry sound. “I’m sorry. I should’ve called sooner. I’ve been so busy setting up house.” I wait for her criticism. None comes, so I continue. “I got a job at the paper.”

  “That’s good news,” she says. I can hear the pouting, but she’s not committed to it. Ursula never stays angry for long. “So, are they all hillbillies?”

  I chuckle into the phone, but it morphs into a sob.

  “Joan, what’s wrong?”

  I’m not exactly sure what’s set me off—hearing a friendly voice?—but suddenly it’s all too much. “I’m sorry, Ursula. I let the town do a number on me. Lilydale is everything you predicted, and worse.”

  “Tell me everything.”

  The stories begin to disgorge themselves: all the men hugging me, Dorothy peeping into my bedroom the first night we moved in, Deck telling everyone we’re married and that I’m pregnant, not being allowed to apply for a job until Ronald gave me the green light, all those people staring at the dead dog by the railroad track, Miss Colivan knowing about the brooch I stole, the Fathers and Mothers running the town, that I can’t drink. Ursula doesn’t say a word, not even when I pause to catch my breath. “Ursula, I have to get out of Lilydale. I think they’re following me. Everyone. Tracking me.” I didn’t know I believed that until I’ve said it out loud. It feels good to finally get it out there.

  She’s still silent on the other end. A car putters past outside my home, well below the speed limit. Someone else watching me?

  She finally speaks. “Joan, you stole something from the Ben Franklin?”

  Her tone—like she’s talking a child off a tantrum—clangs my warning bell. I try to reel it back in. “Not exactly,” I say. “I just didn’t have enough money to pay for it. I’ll bring it back. And I was kidding about the last part. No one’s tracking me. You were the one who said small towns are so weird, that’s all.”

  My blood’s turned to sludge. She’s taking too long to respond.

  Finally: “Joanie, I’m worried about you. If you could hear yourself on this phone call, you’d be worried, too.” She’s silent for several more beats. When her voice returns, it’s barely a whisper. “You remember Halloween 1962?”

  I smile softly, immediately relaxing. I run over the rosary beads of my memory. The photograph, the one that sat on my desk at the Star and is now a centerpiece in my living room. Libby as Amelia Earhart. Ursula Eleanor Roosevelt. Me Natalie Wood. Three young women tumbled into each other, bright-eyed and open-mouthed, the world at our feet.

  “Yeah, of course. It was a marvelous evening. One of the best.” I’m so relieved she’s changing the subject, isn’t going to scold me about my wild imagination.

  “Tell me what you remember about it.”

  That’s easy. I was just thinking about it the other day. I remember it as clear as a movie.

  I’d been staring into my mirror, glum, realizing that dressing like Natalie Wood had been stupid. Probably no one at the party had seen Marjorie Morningstar.

  But then in swung Ursula, and she squealed when she took in my makeup and flipped hair. “Joan, you look marvelous!”

  I grinned. “No, you do. Eleanor Roosevelt has never been more spectacular.”

  Ursula strutted into my bedroom and twirled, her then boyfriend, Todd, a few steps behind. I’d long been jealous of their relationship, but I couldn’t find fault in his perfect depiction of FDR. This Halloween was going to blow everyone’s mind.

  “Before the polio,” Todd said, catching my glance at his legs. “And you’re Marjorie Morningstar, of course. The only question is: From the book or the movie?”

  I didn’t know there had been a book. I smiled and fluffed my hair flirtatiously to cover. “I’m just glad you know who I am.”

  “Libby,” Ursula said, bringing the conversation full circle. “Have you seen her today?”

  I noticed for the first time the worry lines creasing Ursula’s eyes and mouth, all but erased by her heavy makeup. “She’s not in her room?”

  Ursula turned to plant a long, wet kiss on Todd. “That oughta hold you over. Now be a good lad and skip to the party next door. We’ll meet you there in a minute.”

  Once he was out of earshot, Ursula grabbed my hand and marched me down the hall. Our three-bedroom Southeast Como walk-up had been a dream come true when we’d stumbled onto it between our freshman and sophomore years. The apartment was far enough from campus to feel grown-up, close enough that it wasn’t a hassle to grab a bus to classes. Plus, we each had our own bedroom.

  We’d made a vow to stay there until we graduated.

  Now in our senior year, we’d held to it.

  Ursula pounded on Libby’s door.

  “I don’t know why you need me for this,” I said, my stomach growing slippery. Libby had been distant lately. Her new boyfriend was a biology major, a nice enough guy, but he demanded all Libby’s time.

  “Because I think she’s in there but ignoring me,” Ursula said, raising her voice so that Libby could hear. “If you’re with me, I can tell her that her roommates are waiting for her and not be lying.”

  “Go away!” Libby hollered from inside.

  Ursula
turned the knob and stepped into the room, me following at her heels.

  Libby was a melted puddle atop her batik bedspread.

  “What is it?” I asked, dropping next to her.

  Ursula gently stroked Libby’s hair. “Yeah, baby, why aren’t you getting ready for the party?”

  Libby sat up. Her face was puffy from crying. I assumed her biology-major boyfriend must have dumped her. So positive was I that was the problem that when Libby said, “The rabbit died,” I initially glanced around the room, searching for a pet.

  Then I understood. Libby was pregnant.

  Ursula bundled her in a hug, and I piled on.

  “We’ll figure it out, darling, don’t you worry,” Ursula said.

  “Yes,” I agreed. “We’ll get this taken care of. Don’t you fret a bit.”

  It took another ten minutes to calm Libby down, twenty more to stuff her into her Amelia Earhart costume. By the time the photograph was snapped of us later that evening, we were three women tumbled into each other, bright-eyed and open-mouthed with laughter, and I’d all but forgotten about Libby’s crisis. Ursula knew a person who knew a person, and it would be taken care of. Just a bump in the road.

  “Like getting your tonsils out,” she’d said.

  Ursula’s real-time question pulls me back into the moment. “And then what?” she asks.

  Something sharp pierces the cottony fog of memory. When Slow Henry tries to rub against my ankles, I pull away, twisting the phone cord between my fingers. “What do you mean?”

  “Joanie,” she says softly. “You have to stop making up your stories. You spin everything better or worse than it is. You know what happened to Libby that night. After the party.”

  CHAPTER 15

  “I know,” I say, defiantly, tugging on the phone cord. Of course I remember, if I make myself. But where’s the point in that? That’s something my mom taught me.

  Remember the good, only the good. Don’t borrow trouble from the past.

  A headache is beginning to bear down on my temples, clamping my head and squeezing. I need to get off the phone.

  “I’m sorry, Ursula. I haven’t been the same since Mom died.” It’s unfair to use my mother like this, but I can’t bear to have Ursula doubt me. “I haven’t been the same since. Then the move, and the pregnancy. It’s a lot, is all.”

  “I know, Joan.” Her voice is so relieved. “That’d be a lot for anyone. I’m so glad you see that it’s temporary, that it’ll pass. Do you have a good doctor in Lilydale?”

  “The best,” I lie. It’s harmless, something I say to make her feel better. It’ll be true enough soon, in any case, if Deck is right about Dr. Krause.

  “All right, then.” She talks cheerily for a few more minutes, telling me about the Ansafone her boyfriend’s just bought for her so she’ll never miss another of his calls, the far-out party she attended last week, the new dress she’s going to buy. I’m so tired when we finally hang up.

  I lean my head against the window, but it’s too warm, absorbing the heat of the day. I need to get out of this house.

  Slow Henry follows me to the bathroom, mewing for my attention as I remove my hair rollers, watching the curls stretch and snap back. I apply my new raspberry lipstick, blot it on a tissue and then pop my lips to set it, throw on some mascara, grab the concert article I wrote for the Gazette, and then glide out into the day, feeling a weight lift the minute I step into the sunshine.

  The simple, happy sounds of small-town life buzz in my ear. A chorus of lawnmowers trimming yards, neighbors calling to each other across fences, the hum of cars traveling at a safe speed. I breathe deeply as I make my way downtown. Ursula was right. I completely overreacted about Lilydale. I was an unreasonable baby. I won’t let that happen again. The air smells fresh and green, like just-cut grass. The dress I chose hides my pregnancy, not that it matters. The whole town knows, and I still landed the job at the newspaper. For all the lack of privacy in Lilydale, I doubt I would have been able to say the same had I stayed at the Minneapolis Star.

  The Gazette’s offices are across from Schmidt Insurance. I didn’t bother to notice the building next door to the Gazette when I went for my interview yesterday. Or rather, I did, and wrote it off as empty. I overlooked the white insignia embedded in the granite keystone because it didn’t mean anything to me. Today I recognize it as the same symbol as on Deck’s lapel pin, a large capital V held in the divot of a small capital M.

  I press my face to the glass of the front door. A circle of folding chairs dominates the center of the room, and a dark chunk of wood, possibly an out-of-place wet bar, is shoved against the back wall. It reminds me of a lonely community center or church basement. Deck has clearly overestimated the Fathers and Mothers’ influence. Definitely nothing to get bent out of shape about.

  I walk next door. The Gazette’s offices are closed. I expected as much on a Saturday. I rest my purse and portfolio on the pavement, remove the concert article, fold it into thirds, and tuck it into an envelope I brought. I scribble “Dennis Roth, from JH” on the front and drop the envelope through the mail slot.

  The weather is beautiful. Blooming lilacs are sweet as honey in the air, and the light-purple color against the bright-green leaves is breathtaking. I remain charmed by the fact that I can walk everywhere I need to go. I decide on the spot to make a delicious dinner for Deck this evening. I’ll buy chicken, and rice, and canned carrots. I will even pick up the ingredients I need to bake a cake from scratch.

  I’m running through a mental list when I spot him out of the corner of my eye.

  The hook-nosed man who mugged me in Minneapolis.

  CHAPTER 16

  I scream, a short, involuntary sound.

  He turns quickly, for only a second, but it’s enough.

  It’s him.

  It’s not possible, but it’s true. He’s here. Here in Lilydale.

  My blood pumps hot, and it’s telling me to run home to safety.

  My brain is louder, however, and it’s trying to reason with me. It’s simply not possible that my mugger is somehow here in Lilydale. This is somebody who merely resembles him. And if I don’t face the look-alike now and verify it’s not my attacker, I will be forever glancing over my shoulder.

  I jog toward him.

  “Hey!” I say, my voice raised.

  He’s walking away, but at my yell, he turns again.

  He’s less than a block away, his porkpie hat shading his face, but I feel certain he’s the criminal who stole my wallet. Who hit me. Who knifed me. The main reason, even though I will never admit it to Deck, that I am now living in Lilydale.

  My mugger—for that’s who he must be—darts into the nearest alley.

  As I follow him, my heart shuddering against my rib cage, it occurs to me that our roles have switched: I am hunting him. But there’s no time for me to analyze what’s happening. I need to catch him, to see his face clearly. I reach the alley. It’s empty except for a large trash bin. There’s an opening on the other end, but it’s half a block away.

  He can’t have made it all the way through.

  Is he hiding behind the garbage bin?

  I’m about to dash in and see when the hand comes down on my shoulder.

  I scream, nearly jumping out of my clothes. I spin to see who it is.

  Dennis Roth, the willowy Lilydale Gazette editor, Dennis Daddy Longlegs dispatching the news, is standing there. He’s visibly trembling. For a surreal moment, I wonder if he knows about my mugging.

  “You shouldn’t be running when you’re pregnant.”

  I open my mouth. Before I can plead my case, he holds up a hand.

  “No time for that. I have the story of the century,” he says. He leans over, hands on knees, to catch his breath. He must have raced here. “Paulie Aandeg’s been found. After twenty-four years, the boy in the sailor suit has come home.”

  PART II

  CHAPTER 17

  Dennis fills me in on the urgent walk—he ref
uses to let me jog—to the Gazette offices. I have to agree it’s quite the story. A child disappears without a trace in 1944, wearing a sweet little sailor suit (Miss Colivan was correct about that), and shows up twenty-four years later. Only Amory Bauer has met with him so far, but he’s convinced the new arrival might be Paulie. The man, who goes by Kris Jefferson, refused to tell Chief Bauer what happened all those years ago, but he said he’ll talk to someone at the paper when he’s ready.

  The familiar thrumming of standing on the cusp of a big break crackles like fireworks across my skin. I don’t want to outright ask for the story for fear of being turned down, so I just keep asking questions.

  Dennis opens the office and leads me to the newspaper morgue—I was right that the second door led to it, wrong about how provincial it would be. He lets me pull up the stories on microfiche, reading over my shoulder as I search. His breath smells like onions.

  I discover only two articles. The first:

  Lad Disappears in Lilydale

  September 6, 1944

  The tiny desk in the Lilydale Elementary classroom still has the paper sack six-year-old Paulie Aandeg brought to the first day of classes sitting on it. He was excited to start kindergarten. He packed crayons, a tablet, a pencil and a bag of potato chips. He took the potato chips when he was excused for lunch at 11:30 and left the rest. He hasn’t been seen since.

  Wearing a hand-me-down sailor suit and new white shoes, Paulie attended his first day of school with considerable enthusiasm. He was walked there by his mother, Mrs. Virginia Aandeg, who sources say gave Paulie’s teacher instructions to keep Paulie until she picked him up. At 11:30, the teacher excused all the kindergartners for lunch. The distraught teacher, who asked that her name not be used, remembers Paulie stepping outside with a registration card in one pocket and the chips in another, but “he was a quiet child. I don’t recall him speaking all morning, and so when I didn’t see him return after lunchtime, I assumed he left with his mother.”