Now, I wonder if I’ll get out of this town alive.

CHAPTER 38

Deck lies heavily on his side of the mattress. There’s an ocean between us. I want to reach over and touch him. I want to return to the days when we would tease each other, and make love, and explore Minneapolis. I don’t know when precisely the world shifted so it’s him against me, but we’re no longer on the same team.

The Valium, or maybe the pregnancy, or possibly the pressure of everything makes me cry. I think I am so quiet that Deck doesn’t hear me. But then, he bundles me into his arms.

“You don’t like it here.”

It’s not a question, and so I don’t give an answer.

His voice is so low that I almost don’t hear it. “If I have to choose between your health and getting drafted, I’ll choose you every time,” he whispers. “We’re moving back to Minneapolis.”

“Deck!” I can’t believe it. I sob even harder but for a different reason. I get to leave this town where they know my secrets. Where they don’t accept me. Where everyone is watching me.

He starts kissing me, gently. The tenderness turns to passion, which morphs to naked, reckless need. Soon, I can’t get enough. I’m ripping off his pajamas, climbing on top of him. He’s never seen me like this. I’ve never seen myself like this. I ride him, pounding, until I climax. I fall onto his chest. He rolls me over and kisses me on the forehead. Then he turns away, his back to me.

I’m embarrassed by my sexual aggressiveness. I’ve never finished before him. My hunger to feel him against me isn’t sated, either, so I roll onto my side, curving my body against his. In this position, I run my finger over his vaccination scar.

I think of mine, just like it. How no matter what, we’re connected, me and Deck.

In this relaxed state, a new thought inserts itself into my brain.

“Maybe you’re Paulie,” I say drowsily.

He laughs. He sounds very much awake. Has he been pretending to fall asleep? “It’ll take me a few weeks to close up business here before we can move back. I need to see which accounts I can transfer. I’ll have to land us an apartment, too.”

It feels so good to be taken care of. I murmur something vague.

“It’ll be best if we go to church this Sunday. Are you okay with that? Put on a good face before we ride off into the sunset?”

I’m exhausted from weeks of paranoia all twisted up with moments of calm. I nod. He must feel the movement against his back, because he relaxes, then drifts off to sleep for real. I’m not far behind, floating in that warm forever between sleep and waking. So tranquilized am I that at first, I think the lullaby is coming from my dreams. I strain to hear it, trying to place it in my childhood.

But the song is insistent, not soothing like I thought at first.

In fact, it’s jarring, a hurdy-gurdy melody that finally yanks me awake. I sit up in bed. I look around. The moon is muffled behind clouds, too weak to pierce the deep ink of a small-town night. The bedroom window is open, the softest breeze tickling the curtain. I walk toward the shadowy opening.

The jumpy melody is coming from outside.

I see nothing out of place, but then a shadow moves in the alley.

The same place I saw the man last night.

The hurdy-gurdy lullaby is coming from him.

My body goes numb and heavy, my limbs great sacks of sand, as if I’m trapped in a nightmare. I will not go outside at night on my own ever again. There’s no need. We’re moving soon.

I return to bed and burrow again into Deck’s strong back.

The jangly, terrifying music continues. I jam a pillow over my head.

It takes a long time, but I fall asleep. When dreams come again, they’re horror-laced visions of my baby cut from my belly by leering, deformed carnival clowns.

CHAPTER 39

Deck and I do not talk about moving the next morning. We both simply return to living our Lilydale lives. I trust he’ll take care of what he promised. Very soon, once he’s gotten all the loose ends tied up, we’ll be back in Minneapolis. If Ronald and Barbara want to see their grandchild, they can visit us.

That we’ll be escaping soon gives me all that much more reason to nail down the Kris/Paulie story. Having a feature piece in my portfolio might help me get my reporting job back. With that in mind, after Deck leaves for work, I decide to stop by the Purple Saucer to check in on Kris.

The phone rings on my way out.

“Joan? It’s Benjamin.”

I’m so fully immersed in Lilydale that it takes a moment to place him. The Star photographer. “Benjamin! How are you doing?”

He groans. “Don’t tell me I did all this work for nothing. You remember calling me earlier this week?”

I’m glad he can’t see my face. “Yeah, of course. What’d you find out about Lilydale?”

“That it should be called Eden. The town’s perfect. Better than perfect. They have an outreach system, historically and currently, that makes sure every townie is taken care of. There’s fluff pieces about it, short and sweet bits here and there since the Great Depression. Speaking of, Lilydale is one of the only towns whose economy thrived during the ’20s. Some community fund that invested back into the town. The place is heaven on earth.”

“Except for Paulie Aandeg,” I say, trying to hold back the dread his words give me. Because if Lilydale is as perfect as it seems, then the problem is me.

“Except for Paulie Aandeg,” he agrees, “but that could’ve happened anywhere. And frankly, I’m relieved that the town isn’t flawless. I’d think it was a front for a cult.”

“Thanks, Benjamin,” I say.

“You okay, Joan? You don’t sound happy to discover you’re living in paradise.”

“No, I know. I’m sorry. I had a late night last night. Of course I’m thrilled Lilydale is as perfect as it seems.” On the surface.

He chuckles. “Yeah, you really sound like it. Do yourself a favor and don’t borrow trouble.”

His words echo my mom’s. “Got it. Stay cool, Benny.”

“See you on the flip side.”

I think about his research on the walk to the Purple Saucer. I decide both things can be true: Lilydale can be a haven for many and still be threatening to me.

Except hasn’t it treated me well, mostly?

I think of Ursula, telling me I must stop telling stories.

The tales need to go out, not in.

I reach the motel. The car with Florida plates is gone. I knock on the door of unit 6. No answer. When I go to the front desk, I’m relieved to see Mr. Scholl isn’t working. The young clerk tells me to check down by the Crow River. He points me in the general direction, suggests a route.

Reluctantly, I head out. I wanted to get this over with quickly.

But the day is pretty, the town buzzing (for Lilydale) with people doing their business—disappearing into the barbershop or grocery store, buying fabric, visiting the library. For a moment, I worry that I’ll miss this quaintness when Deck and I move, but then I walk down another street and find the sidewalks deserted. The sudden emptiness is unsettling. In a few more blocks, the town has dwindled, the only visible structure a large, squat building that resembles an abandoned factory. According to what the clerk told me, the Crow River is another two hundred feet behind that.