Page 23 of The Girl from Devil's Lake
Jenny’s figure wasn’t all that different from what Joanna’s had been when she and Butch married and before she’d had two more kids, but Jenny was a good four inches taller.
“Of course,” Joanna replied. “I’d be thrilled, but won’t it be too short?”
“Mom,” Jenny replied with a laugh. “We’re living in the twenty-first century. No one gives a damn about women’s hemlines anymore. So thanks, that takes a huge load off my mind.”
“Maybe so,” Joanna said, “but you might want to try it on the next time you’re in town, just to be sure.”
“Will do,” Jenny said. “I’m hanging up and calling Dad. Love you.”
With that the call ended, but instead of going ahead with her call to the contractor, Joanna simply sat and waited for Butch to get back to her. Five minutes later he did.
“Have you talked to Jenny?” he asked.
“I’m afraid so.”
“So you know she and Nick want to get married before Christmas?”
“Yes, I do. What did you tell her?”
“What do you think?” Butch replied. “I said it’s a-okay with me. Now the ball’s in Marianne’s court.”
“I’ll probably hear from her next,” Joanna said, and she wasn’t wrong. Bare minutes after the call with Butch ended, Marianne’s came through.
“Am I speaking to the mother of the bride?” she asked.
Joanna couldn’t help but laugh. “Apparently,” she answered.
“And the bride isn’t exactly following in her mother’s footsteps, either,” Marianne added. “Wanting Nick to have health insurance isn’t exactly the same as having a bun in the oven.”
On that score, Marianne Maculyea knew whereof she spoke. During the early months of Joanna’s unexpected pregnancy, aside from Andy, Marianne, her best friend, had been her only confidante.
“In other words, shut my mouth and get with the program?”
“Pretty much,” Marianne agreed. “How’s that for your comforting pastoral counsel for the day?”
“Just the kick in the butt I needed,” Joanna replied. “Did the two of you pick a date?”
“Yup. Two p.m. on Saturday, December twenty-third. I told her we’ll need to set up dates in advance of that for some premarital counseling sessions, but I can drive up to Tucson for those instead of having them come here.”
“Good enough,” Joanna said. “Thanks, Marianne. I’m not at all sure how we’ll manage this in less than a month, but one way or another we’ll get it done.”
Chapter 10
St. Paul, Minnesota
1963–1967
Steve Roper was smart but lazy. He had been a goodstudent at Fertile-Beltrami High but he had skated through. Had he applied himself, he could have been valedictorian, but dedicating himself to schoolwork wasn’t Steve’s thing. He was number seven in his class, and that was fine with him. He wasn’t interested in all the unrealistic expectations and stress that came with beingnumero uno.
The guy who came in first, Bill Felton, won a National Merit Scholarship to MIT and headed there determined to become one of the country’s top scientists. Steve understood that kind of future would require multiple degrees and years of grueling study followed by more years of laboring forty hours a week to make it to the top of the next heap. Steve Roper had no such ambitions.
His favorite high school teacher, and ironically Bill Felton’s, too, was Malcolm Nielson, the guy who taught chemistry and who also happened to be Steve’s varsity baseball coach. What Steve noticed most about Coach Nielson was that he was happy. When it came time for school to get out every spring, the coach was almost as giddy about it as his students, and for good reason. During the summers he divided his time between his two favorite pastimes—fishing and golfing. In fact, on the last day of school in 1963—theday before Steve’s graduation ceremony—a jubilant Coach Nielson had ridden his brand-new golf cart to school. His house was only two blocks from campus, and local law enforcement had turned a blind eye to his having driven an unlicensed vehicle for two blocks on a city street.
It had been Coach Nielson who, during Steve’s junior year, had sat him down and told Steve he had what it took to be the first member of his family to go on to college. Surprisingly enough, Coach Nielson’s confidence in Steve helped him have confidence in himself. And so, when it came time to head off to the University of Minnesota, he did so with the plan in mind of becoming a high school teacher. He enrolled with a stated major in English—because English had always been his best subject—and a minor in chemistry—because of Coach Nielson.
He knew in advance that being a teacher wasn’t a path to fame or fortune, but he wasn’t interested in either one. What he was looking forward to was having three months off every summer to do whatever the hell he wanted. In that regard, golfing and fishing were very low on his list of priorities.
Once in college, in the fall of 1963, he still skated along, getting good grades without really trying. In order to simplify things, for the first time in his life Steve told the voices that he needed them to shut up and go away. Once they were gone, he missed them, but not having to listen to their constant yammering made it easier for him to concentrate. He enjoyed being on campus. He made friends easily in a way that hadn’t been possible back home. But part of the reason Steve shut the voices down was out of concern for his own safety. If he targeted one of the coeds on campus, someone who had encountered him at school might recognize him. After all, according to Sherlock, that was the real secret of getting away with it—don’t go hunting in your own backyard.
