Our choices are pretty limited when we’re low on money, and Noelle is the only family we know with a farm and plenty of space for us to bring along Rosie and Stern.
Too bad Miles City is hundreds of miles from Wisconsin. I swear, we’d be there by now if it wasn’t for that stupid flat and this intensifying storm we hit past Bismarck.
She and her husband have a hobby farm a lot like ours, only instead of pumpkins, they sell eggs, homemade cheeses, and other goods. She’s always wanted us to see it, and a small part of me was looking forward to being part of something like that again.
That pit in my gut deepens, scrolling through the missed calls.
She’s been texting for hours.
With the snow demanding every bit of my focus, I hadn’t taken a hand off the steering wheel to do anything except hit the blinker switch to pull in here.
Crap. Whatever it is, I don’t think she’s just checking up on our progress.
The coffee arrives, steaming and black. I reach for a sugar packet and tear it right open, hoping nobody notices how my hands shake.
I thank the bartender before telling Dad, “Be right back. I need to use the ladies’ room.”
Tucking my phone in my pocket, I spot the restroom sign above a hallway near the end of the bar. Purple, what else?
Of course, I carefully avoid another awkward stare-down with Tiger Sex Eyes. He must be quite the comedian—the bartender and the oil guys are still roaring at whatever he’s saying.
Probably some crude joke that’d be too fitting for a place like this.
The hallway is short. I shove open the women’s door and enter the small, two-stalled room, pull out my phone, and hit Noelle’s contact.
She answers after one ring. “Grace? Oh my God, finally.”
“Yep, it’s me.” Turning around, I lean my backside against the top of the sink. “What’s wrong?”
She goes deathly quiet. “Well, um...have you guys left Milwaukee yet?”
“We left early this morning just like we planned. Had to change a tire on the truck halfway through Minnesota, then this snowstorm we ran into...we had to pull over. But we’re coming tonight, just a few more hours and—”
“Oh,” she whispers.
Another heavy silence.
That one, innocent word kills me.
Don’t do this, Noelle, I think to myself, trying not to fall over with my heart frozen.
“I...I really hoped I’d catch you while you were still at home.”
My nerves are a jumbled mess, a little more frayed with every word she speaks. Noelle doesn’t sound like her usual bubbly self, and I’m scared of what’s coming.
“What’s up?” I force the question through clenched teeth. “Noelle...what happened?”
“Well, uh...God, I hate to say this, but...something’s come up. You and Uncle Nelson aren’t going to be able to stay with us after all.”
No.
My heart hits my stomach and shatters like a snow globe on cement.
“I’m so sorry, Grace,” Noelle says, sniffing like she’s on the verge of tears. “I hope you have somewhere else.”
Sure.
If we had somewhere else, I’d have never called her and wept with gratitude when she said we could come. It’s not like we were asking to move in.
We only needed a month or so, a few weeks, just enough time to check on Dad’s health and figure out our next move.
“What changed, Noelle?” I ask. Then, because she’s known to sugarcoat things, I add, “Tell me the truth.”
Her sad, heavy sigh echoes in the phone.
“I didn’t hear the message. James did. It was on the voicemail at the gift shop. It mentioned you and Uncle Nelson...something about not making everyone in the family sing the 'Old Milwaukee Blues.' It was menacing and it came from an untraceable number. James wouldn’t let me or the kids hear it. I’m...I’m so sorry, Grace. I hate this, but we have children. We can’t get involved in—”
“I get it,” I snap, rubbing at the awful pain in my temple. “No, you can’t risk it. You...you did the right thing.”
The words feel so numb, I have to keep repeating it over and over in my head.
But there’s a deeper question nagging me.
How did they know?
Dad hasn’t talked to anyone, and I sure as hell haven’t.
We’ve given that maniac everything. More than everything, but it’ll never be enough.
Not for Clay Grendal. He’s a flipping two-bit gangster, but in his mind, he’s Al Capone and El Chapo spliced together.
“Gracie, I’m scared for you and Uncle Nelson,” Noelle whimpers, her voice so low. “You need to call the police, the FBI, somebody. Get help!” she hisses. “Go to the law before it’s too late.”
My stomach churns, pushing angry bile up my throat. My head is pounding; I still haven’t had anything to eat, and now with this bomb I’ve had dropped on my head?
Appetite, gone.
The police can’t do anything for us. No one can. The time to risk something like that was years ago, not while my father might be down to his last precious days on earth.
Dad doesn’t need even more stress, his hourglass running out under the gun. Literally and figuratively with constant interrogations. Maybe they’d even lock him up.
Years ago, while working at the railroad yards in Milwaukee, my father took on a side gig helping transport goods that weren’t quite legal.
Actually, it was as illegal as it gets. Both the transporting and the goods.
“I just...I thought Uncle Nelson was done with all that mob stuff,” Noelle says quietly. “I thought he got out when he bought your farm years ago? When you moved out of the city?”
My teeth pinch together so hard it hurts.
He had gotten out, or so we thought.
For a little while, life was good, until my mom got sick and the medical bills started coming fast and furious. Dad reached out to his old associates for a loan.
At the time, Grendal said it wasn’t a loan, but a gift, for Dad’s past services. Then the bad luck started, and Dad found out fast what kind of strings came with accepting that gift—vandalism, a fire in the barn, and a string of other events that truly had nothing to do with random chance.
It left us destitute, barely scraping by on miscellaneous pumpkin sales plus Dad’s railroad pension. Clay doled out more money, and this time he expected repayment—with interest.
We gave him everything we had, even offered the farm, but it wasn’t enough. He insisted on his pound of flesh. I think even if we’d won the lottery, it still wouldn’t have been enough.
He knew what he wanted out of this all along, and it has nothing to do with money.
“Grace? Are you still there?” Noelle asks. “I’m sorry. I know it isn’t your fault. I didn’t mean to bring back bad memories.”
My stomach revolts. The bitter taste of bile burns my throat, coats my tongue, and I swallow hard not to gag.
“Still here,” I tell her. Still hopelessly cursed. “Dad’s out, just like I’ve told you for years. Don’t worry, you aren’t in any danger.” I’m certain of that. Clay Grendal only wants one thing.
I know because I had to face the devil himself, and I’ll never, ever do it again.