Free Bone Harvest by Mary Logue Page B

he stared down at his hands.
    He remembered driving to the Schulers’ farm to return the saw he had borrowed from Otto.
    He remembered what he had found there.
    This was another reason he didn’t want to go back to Pepin County.
    He remembered the fingers. He would never forget the pile of fingers.
     
    Arlene Rendquist had been born on the Fourth of July. Fifty years ago this day. Named after her little cousin, who had died a few days later: Arlette. Her mother had been brokenhearted, wanting the two cousins to grow up together. Bertha, her sister and Arlette’s mother, had been killed too. Terrible tragedy, her mother had always said. Every year her mother would be reminded of it on Arlene’s birthday.
    Arlene wondered what her husband, Larry, would get her for her birthday. She wondered if he had even remembered. He hadn’t mentioned a thing, and she decided she wasn’t going to bring it up.
    Larry worked for the railroad. It was a good, steady job, but dirty. He was sleeping in today, since it was his day off. He had gone out and tied one on with the boys last night. She didn’t mind so long as he didn’t come home all soused up and wake her up, hoping to party a little more. She was getting too old for that kind of behavior. He was too. He was more apt to sit quietly at home, nursing a six-pack these days, than go out with his buddies.
    Arlene finished folding the laundry and decided she had done enough work around the house to have earned the right to a little rest and another cup of coffee. She walked out to the mailbox to pick up the paper. Even though it was a holiday, the Durand Daily would be there.
    The day was perfect. Eighty degrees. Fluffy clouds in the sky. She wondered if her dad would stop by today. He lived a half mile down the road, and even though he was eighty, he was still farming. He had over five hundred acres of land. Larry said that when her father died, they could sell his land and retire to Florida. But Arlene knew that her dad might well live to be a hundred. She wouldn’t put it past him to outlive them all. Dad was made of tough stuff.
    She pulled the newspaper out of the box and walked up the driveway. Dad would probably show up about suppertime, wondering what they were eating for the Fourth. She thought she’d make hamburgers. No big deal. Taste as good as anything.
    When she got into the kitchen, she could smell the coffee—a burnt odor that she didn’t find altogether unpleasant. Last cup in the bottom of the coffeemaker. She poured it into her favorite mug, the one labeled, SHE WHO MUST BE OBEYED , that Larry had given her for Christmas a few years ago. She had gotten such a charge out of it.
    She went out and sat on the front steps. Such a day as this should be enjoyed. Reading the paper, she started with the first page and read it front to back. Even the ads. You never knew what you might find for sale. There was a letter to the editor that caught her eye because Harold Peabody had written a disclaimer above it, indicating that he didn’t usually print a letter without a signed name, but he was making an exception. She had to read the letter twice, but she could see why Harold had published it. It gave her the shivers. She wondered if her dad had seen it yet.
    It had to be about the Schuler murders. The date was right. They never did know the truth about what happened. Sometimes her mom would talk about the incident, saying that she missed her sister Bertha every day of her life. “She was a good wife and a good mother and a good sister and she could bake a peach pie like you wouldn’t believe.” High praise from her mother.
    One time, after her mother had died, and Arlene and her father had gone out to look at the old homestead, Arlene brought up the murders with her father. He wouldn’t talk about what had happened. All he’d say was that it was a sad story that didn’t bear repeating.
    Her parents had inherited the Schuler farm. Otto Schuler had had no family in the