Sully just shook his head. “Be nice to his wacky parents. And don’t tell them where we live.”
Cal took care of the tickets—Denver to Des Moines, one plane change. Maggie packed and as she did so, she was confident she could handle meeting Cal’s parents, even if they were in crisis. She’d been around plenty of mostly functional people with mental disabilities. It was standard fare in emergency rooms. She knew neurological disorders weren’t exactly easy on behavioral patterns. But, Cal was completely sane and nearly ideal. And she was of above-average intelligence and had a great deal of medical experience. She could help him and put his mind at ease.
We all have our issues, she reminded herself.
Pratt, Iowa, a tiny farming community between Des Moines and Iowa City, had a small population—just a couple hundred. The drive from Des Moines with all the crops in lush maturity was lovely. It was hot and humid and buggy and there were some dark clouds gathering in the west. Cal stopped at a motor inn in Newton and checked them in.
It was perfectly adequate and she decided not to even ask why they wouldn’t stay with his parents. It was early afternoon so they had a bite to eat and headed for Pratt. They drove another thirty minutes to a completely charming little village. The Jones farm was just on the outskirts of town. It was shaded by big leafy trees and the fields were full of wheat and corn. There was a big barn and a darling little farmhouse at the end of a drive through the fields. As they got closer Maggie noticed the details. The windows were covered with tinfoil. The weather vane on top of the house had tinfoil streamers on it.
“Oh boy,” she said.
“Yeah,” Cal said. “We’ll visit for a couple of hours and get the lay of the land, then head back to Newton.”
“Just a couple of hours?” she asked.
“I’m sure that’ll be enough,” he said.
Finally, she was starting to see why bringing her here was important to him and she grew nervous.
“Your dad farms all this?”
“No, he leases the land to local farmers. Sometimes he thinks he’s done a lot of farming, however. But, so far, there hasn’t been any problem with that and the lease income is helpful.”
Up close, the house seemed to be in poor repair—the steps up to the porch were slanting one way, the floorboards were rickety and creaked and it had been a long time without paint. But the inside was pleasant and clean. It was very old-fashioned—overstuffed furniture with doilies, mission-style dining chairs around the table, appliances that had seen better days. There was a TV tray in front of a chair that still bore the imprint of its frequent occupant. And on the tray, a pile of spiral notebooks.
Cal’s mother, Marissa, turned from the kitchen sink, saw them, and immediately looked worried.
“Cal. I didn’t know you were bringing anyone,” she said, her voice very soft.
Her gray hair was very long, tied in a band and trailing down her back. Her expression was pained but her complexion was the picture of health. She seemed to be in good physical shape, not too thin, not too heavy. She wore a long, flower-print skirt, brown leather lace-up boots and a shirt over a tank top. Her breasts were small, but she was braless and they swayed. When she smiled at Cal her eyes glittered sweetly.
But Marissa twisted her hands.
“Mom, this is Maggie, my girlfriend.”
“Oh, hello. I’m sorry my husband isn’t here.”
“Where is he, Mom?”
“He’s in the barn.” She looked at Maggie. “I’m sorry it’s such a bad time.”
Maggie murmured a greeting.
“Why is it a bad time, Mom?” Cal asked.
“I told you,” she whispered. “On the phone, I told you. It’s been fine till Sierra went to the hospital. I don’t know what she was thinking, bringing all that attention.”
“What attention?” Cal asked.
Marissa’s pretty face became pinched. She spoke so softly Maggie could barely hear her. “She sent people here. County people. To look at us, at your father. He’s been hiding in the barn since they were here.”
“For two weeks?” Cal asked, sounding appalled.
“He’s started come to the house after dark. He’s afraid of them.”
Cal looked at Maggie. “It was probably social services. He’s afraid of being taken to the hospital. He’s afraid of their drugs and tests and electric shock.” Then to his mother he said, “Make him something to eat. I’m going to go get him now.”
“He won’t come.”
“Make him something to eat,” Cal said. “Maggie? Will you be all right here?”
“Certainly,” she said. “I’ll help your mother in the kitchen.”
*