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  Around ten o’clock, I got a call from Dr. Butch Novak from the Beltrami County Medical Examiner’s Office in Bemidji. He was beginning the Donovan autopsy at one o’clock, and my name was indicated as a witness. I hadn’t attended many of them, and it wasn’t my favorite pastime.

  I spent the rest of the day with Dr. Butch, as he called himself, and his assistant, Beth, as they dissected Sonya Donovan. I tried not to focus on the smells and sounds and concentrated on the jazz music Dr. Butch had playing. He said Charles Mingus and John Coletrane were his favorites.

  After he weighed the lungs, he brought one back down to the table, where he slowly sliced it open. “Thought so. Fluid in her lungs.”

  “What does that mean? Pneumonia?”

  “We’ll do some testing.”

  After the procedure wrapped up, I called my girlfriend, Dallas, and asked her to meet me at my house, where we’d order a pizza.

  “How was the autopsy?” she asked.

  “Lovely,” I said. “The last thing I want to eat is meat, so how about I order a vegetable pizza?”

  She laughed.

  “Not funny. It’s brutal.”

  “I’m a veterinarian. I get it.”

  Sunday, December 14

  NOON ON SUNDAYS WAS our trade-the-twins time. Dallas and I had spent a leisurely morning reading the Sunday paper and eating bacon, scrambled eggs, and cinnamon rolls from the Sportsman. She made sure she was gone before the twins were dropped off because she didn’t want to interact with Shannon, my ex-wife. Just as well.

  During the transfer of the babies, Shannon was exceptionally quiet.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “What makes you think something’s wrong?”

  “Because you look pissed off. Did I do something?”

  “Probably, although I haven’t heard about it yet.”

  I laughed. “Well, if you don’t know about it, I ain’t confessing.” That got the tiny smile I was going for. “How’s Luke?”

  She took a deep breath and said, “His grades are improving. I cut back on his electronics time like his teacher suggested.”

  I’d suggested it when he and Shannon still lived with me, but in those days, both she and Luke resented my parenting attempts.

  “Good idea,” I said.

  She cocked her head and paused. Perhaps she heard the intended sarcasm in my voice. I uncurled my lip. Not helpful.

  Shannon took two deep breaths and said, “Lucy’s had an ear infection for five days. Her medicine’s in the bag. She’s better, but just make sure you remember to give her the medication this time.”

  This time. “Why didn’t you let me know she was sick?”

  “I didn’t see you.”

  Shannon was the artful dodger at work. I wasn’t sure why she was avoiding me lately, other than I’m her ex, and she was usually mad at me for something I did or didn’t do.

  “That’s something I should know. What if I had kept that kind of information from you?”

  She twisted her lips while choosing her words. “From now on, I’ll let you know every time one of the twins is sick.”

  She then turned her back and headed toward the door. I followed. Just before she placed her hand on the knob, she hesitated and looked back at me. On impulse, I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. Her mouth dropped, and her eyes got big and teary.

  “Bye,” she said, and promptly left without another word. I shouldn’t have kissed her, but I’d done it to shock her—and apparently, it worked.

  The receiving parent was to feed the twins lunch, so I had prepared macaroni and cheese chiefly because it was their favorite, and I wanted them to like being at my place as much as their mom’s. After lunch and before their naps, we had playtime. I lay on the floor making stupid noises to make them giggle, and they treated me like a jungle gym. Then, in an attempt to calm them down, I read them ten baby books before I got a yawn. They went down surprisingly well. I crawled on my own bed to catch a few winks when my phone rang. Shannon. These days, the first thing that came to my mind with an unexpected phone call was, What did I do now?

  I had a sneaking suspicion it was the kiss, so I apologized.

  “What? No, that’s not what I want to talk to you about.”

  “Oh.” Other possibilities fired through my brain. She wanted full custody. She needed money. She’d found someone new.

  But it was nothing like that. What she told me tore a hole in my heart.

  “Are you there?” she asked.

  “Did you just say you have a malignant breast tumor?”

  “It’s two-point-eight centimeters.”

  I used my thumb and index finger to approximate its size. To me that seemed large—over an inch. My throat constricted, my heart pounded.

  “And it’s cancerous?”

  “Yes, but they still have to do more tests.”

  “When did you find this out?”

  “Last Monday. I found a lump, and I’d just read an article about younger women like me getting cancer even though the recommended age for the first mammogram is forty. Anyway, Dr. Locher ordered a mammogram, and I was called back in because the radiologist in St. Cloud wanted additional pictures and an ultrasound. Then last Friday, Dr. Locher called me back, telling me the ultrasound showed it was likely cancer. So I have more tests tomorrow.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner, Shannon?”

  “Because I wanted to wait until I knew for sure.”

  “Okay . . . so after the tests, what happens?”

  “I’ll know more when the results are in.”

  “Who all knows?” I asked.

  “My family . . . Clara.”

  “We need to make sure you have the best medical care. Do you want to go to the Mayo Clinic for a second opinion or treatment?”

  “No, Rochester’s too inconvenient.”

  I heard her sniffing. “You’re gonna be okay, Shannon.”

  “I know,” she said through tears. “It’s just when I heard the word cancer, I started planning my funeral.”

  “Shannon, cancer’s not a death sentence anymore. We know tons of people who’ve survived cancer.”

  “Well, I’m scared despite everyone’s rosy predictions.”

  “We’ll handle this together.”

  “I have to go.” She hung up.

  I GOT UP, WENT DOWNSTAIRS, paced the family room, cleaned the counters, emptied the dishwasher, then cleaned and straightened the silverware drawer. By the time Clara arrived fifteen minutes early, I had settled down, cracked a beer and had the Vikings game on.

  “Who won?” she asked.

  “Is it over?”

  She gave me a curious look and stood in front of the television to read the screen. “The Vikings beat the Jets in overtime.”

  “Okay, good.”

  I took the grocery bag from her, set it on the counter, then went out to her car to get the other two bags. As I helped her put the food away, she said, “Why didn’t you know the final score? You were sitting right in front of the television.”

  “I’ve been a bit distracted since Shannon told me she has breast cancer.”

  “Oh . . . I’m so relieved she finally told you. Personally, I think we should wait to see what tomorrow’s tests show. A friend of mine went through all the tests, and when she had the biopsy, it was negative.”

  “Thanks for telling me that.”

  “Well, it’s the truth.” She had her back to me when she announced, “Vince called Dallas this afternoon.”

  “Why?”

  “He wants her back.”

  “What did she tell him?”

  “She said no, of course. He’s been to treatment and sober for six months, as if that would make a difference.”

  “Are you sure it won’t?”

  “I told her if a man smacks a woman in the face once, he’ll do it again. People don’t change their basic personalities with treatment.”

  “I’m concerned.”

  “
Look, she seems so much happier since she’s been with you.” She pointed at me with a package of hamburger. “But maybe you better reassure her.”

  “What are you saying? She’s insecure about us?”

  “Seems like it.”

  “What do I do to make women insecure?”

  “I’m not sure, but she’s heard Shannon remark how women fall all over you.”

  “Well, that’s an exaggeration. I’m one of a few single men in town—”

  “And women today are way more aggressive than they were in my day. I’m making chicken noodle soup for dinner. It’ll be good for Lucy’s cold.”

  As if on cue, Lucy cried out. I loped up the stairs to find her standing in her crib. Her little cheeks were bright pink and streaked with tears, and her nose was running. She put up her arms, and I picked her up, then sat in the rocker. I put her on my lap so I could wipe her nose and face, and she repositioned herself to face me and snuggled in. I held her close and rocked her. My throat tightened as I thought about how much my little girl and boy needed their mother. I kissed her silky hair and rested my cheek lightly on the top of her head.

  She must have dozed off because she lay still against my chest for ten minutes before she stirred again. I changed her, then brought her downstairs. Henry walked into the room. He’d crawled out of his crib for the first time. Shit.

  BEFORE I WENT TO SLEEP, I called Dallas, as I usually did.

  “Hey, babe, did you get my flowers?”

  “Oh, thank God, you sent them. There was no card.”

  “It must have gotten misplaced. I bet you thought it was Vince.”

  A pause. “Mother told you.”

  “Yes, but why didn’t you?”

  “I was going to mention it tomorrow night when we went out for dinner.”

  “You can tell me that kind of thing by phone.”

  “I suppose. Anyway, I love the flowers now that I know you sent them.”

  “You know how I feel about you. Right?”

  “Do I?”

  We’d not used the “love” word yet, and I believe it was expected about now.

  “I love you, Dallas Grace Bradley.” There, I said it.

  “Did you feel coerced into saying it?”

  “Not at all.”

  I expected her to say it back, but she didn’t. We talked for an additional twenty minutes, then said goodnight. She could have said it then, but she didn’t. What the hell?

  LUCY WOKE UP CRYING TWICE during the night. The first time I went in to tend to her, Bullet followed me. When I picked her up, she reached down for him. I squatted, put her on my knee, and she put her hand on his head and said, “Bowee.” That’s what she called Bullet. He turned to give her a big lick across the mouth. She giggled. I stood and kissed the top of her head. When she brought up her chubby fingers to touch my bottom lip, I kissed them and buzzed them with my lips. She giggled again. I repeated the motion several times just to fill my soul with the sound of her laughter. She yawned. I sat in the rocker and within minutes she was sleeping, and I was able to put her back into her crib.

  The second time she woke, I gave her drops to make her more comfortable and then rocked her. I must have fallen asleep because when I woke, I was still sitting in the chair with her up sleeping on my chest. Dang. That was not good. I gingerly put her in the crib. When I was nearly to my bed, Henry cried out. Clara met me in his room.

  “It’s my turn. You’ve been up enough tonight. It’s four thirty. Go get some sleep.”

  I nodded in appreciation and shuffled to my bedroom. What a day. What a night.

  4

  Monday, December 15

  THE ALARM ON MY RADIO went off at 7:00 a.m. I rarely need it, but it’s always set as a precaution. I lay there listening to the weather report: heavy snow expected for the region today into tomorrow. I showered, dressed, and went downstairs.

  “Thanks for letting me sleep, Clara.”

  “I always let Shannon sleep in when she can. There’s no reason I shouldn’t let you.”

  I WAS ONLY AT MY DESK a few minutes when Tamika Frank called. She was the only African American in the department and one of a handful in the conservative central Minnesota county. Tamika was six-foot, big boned, and tougher than most deputies in the department. She was on medical leave after a hysterectomy.

  “Miss me?” she asked.

  “Of course. How are you feeling?”

  “Great. My doctor should sign the return-to-work order this afternoon. Then I’ll be back.”

  “Terrific.”

  “So what’s been happening?”

  “A friend of Patrice’s died Friday—looks like natural causes.”

  “Who?”

  “Sonya Donovan.”

  “Oh, my God. I listen to her radio show all the time. She’s real famous.”

  “She was at our Christmas party.”

  “No way.”

  “Well, using the party to kick off Patrice’s campaign didn’t go over with all the deputies. The staunch Matt Hauser supporters wanted to send her a bill for their dinners.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this juicy gossip?”

  “I am now. Anyway, we’re trying to keep her death quiet as long as we can. Hopefully, we can send the body down to the Cities before the media storm descends upon us.”

  “My God, I missed my only chance to meet her. Oh, my call waiting is beeping. I should go. It’s probably Anton.”

  “Later, gator.”

  I phoned Louie Magliano, the chief of police for the city of Dexter Lake, as a courtesy. His jurisdiction ended at the city limits.

  “Well, Cal, what a coincidence. I’m having breakfast with the man who’s practically your step-father.”

  “Say what?”

  “Bobby Lopez.”

  “You’re having breakfast with Bobby?”

  “Yeah, sure. We do so frequently since he moved into the area.”

  “Why?”

  He laughed. I wasn’t trying to be funny.

  “He’s been telling me his neighbor passed away,” Louie said.

  “That’s what I was calling you about.”

  “I suspect it was an aneurism, maybe a stroke or heart attack.”

  “It’ll be a few days before the autopsy reports come back.”

  “Yeah, takes time.”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  I then dialed my mother.

  “Oh, Cal, I’m so glad you called. I’m so sorry I missed you last night. I have something to ask you.”

  “Why’s Bobby chummy with Louie Magliano, having breakfast with him?” I asked before she could get a word in.

  “Louie asked him.”

  “How did he meet him?”

  “Bobby met with the mayor to ask the city what they needed. It just so happened the chief of police was with him.”

  “I thought he was trying to stay on the down-low.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Oh, come on. He’s supposed to be hiding from his papa and the big bad cartel he’s involved with. That’s the story he gave me.”

  “How would the cartel know Bobby gave a city in Minnesota a donation for the community center?”

  “My question is why he’s ingratiating himself with the local cops.”

  “Do you think everything a person does has a sinister motive?”

  “Pretty much, yeah—at least a selfish one. Think. Why does Bobby want the local police to like him?”

  “You tell me, Mr. Detective.”

  “So they’ll overlook what he’s up to.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake. Now, I’m changing the subject. What do you say we have Christmas dinner here? You, the kids, the grandmas. Bobby and Rosarita will make a genuine Mexican tamale dinner. It’ll be great.”

  We always had prime rib for Christmas dinner, not tamales. My first impulse was to refuse outright, but instead, I said, “I’ll have to check with Shannon. We haven’t discussed who has the twins.”

 
; “Shannon had them for Thanksgiving. You need to stand up for your rights.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Are you okay out there in the boonies without family and friends close by?”

  “It’s nice and quiet. I can write my book without interruption.”

  I smiled. “Book?”

  “I’m writing my memoir.”

  “You mean like a journal?”

  “No, like my life story, and I think I have an interesting one. I hope to get it published.”

  “Well, no shit, you have an interesting life story, but no.” I was incredulous she’d even consider putting our lives out there for the world to read.

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “No, I don’t want you to publish your memoir because our sordid family business is private.”

  “I wasn’t asking your permission, Cal. I have a right to write about my life.”

  “Well, delete everything about me and my children.”

  “How can I do that?”

  “There’s a key just for deleting. Are you putting Bobby in your book?”

  “Sure, but I’m changing his name.”

  “Change mine, too. And set it in a different location. How about Iowa or Wisconsin? I better go.”

  “See you on Christmas.”

  ACCORDING TO MY MOTHER, she had a wild and crazy young-adult life, which I was absolutely positive was factual and would be in her book. After graduating with a degree in social work, she worked as a Hennepin County social worker for six months. She gave up her idea to save the world when one of her clients threw an ice cream bucket of human feces at her. He’d been saving it to prove he was being poisoned by the drug companies. She moved back home and started working at Grandma Dee’s gift shop in Nisswa. Chances of getting shit bombed selling souvenirs to tourists was pretty low.

  Then she married my father, Patrick, and he shit bombed her by getting her sister, Grace, pregnant. She didn’t know Patrick had been having an affair with Grace, and when Grace decided a baby was too much for her, Hope—who I call Mom—wanted to adopt me, and Grace agreed. But Grace and Patrick continued their secret affair for four more years, and when they were exposed, they took off for California in disgrace. I wasn’t told the complete truth until four years ago.