The Readers of Broken Wheel Recommend (2 page)

Would the town look the way she had imagined it? Now that she was finally about to see it with her own eyes, Sara had even forgotten her anxiety about Amy not answering the phone.

But when they eventually arrived, she might have missed it entirely if Hank hadn't pulled over. The main street was nothing more than a few buildings on either side of the road. Most of them seemed to be empty, grey and depressing. A few of the shops had boarded-up windows, but a diner still appeared to be open.

‘So what d'you want to do?' Hank asked. ‘You want a ride back?'

She glanced around. The diner was definitely open. The word
Diner
was glowing faintly in red neon letters, and a lone man was sitting at the table closest to the window. She shook her head.

‘Whatever you want,' he said in a tone that said ‘you'll only have yourself to blame'.

She climbed out of the car and pulled her luggage out from the back seat, her paperback shoved under her arm. Hank drove off the moment she closed the door. He made a sharp U-turn at the only traffic light in town.

It was hanging from a cable in the middle of the street, and it was shining red.

Sara stood in front of the diner with the suitcase at her feet, her rucksack slung over one shoulder, firmly clutching her book.

It's all going to be fine, she said to herself. Everything will work out. This is not a catastrophe . . . She backtracked: so long as she had books and money, nothing could be a catastrophe. She had enough money to check into a hostel if she needed to. Though she was fairly sure there wouldn't be a hostel in Broken Wheel.

She pushed open the doors – only to be confronted by a set of real saloon doors, how ridiculous – and went in. Other than the man by the window and a woman behind the counter, the diner was empty. The man was thin and wiry, his body practically begging forgiveness for his very existence. He didn't even look up when she came in, just continued turning his coffee cup in his hands, slowly round and round.

The woman, on the other hand, immediately directed all her attention towards the door. She weighed at least 150 kilos, and her huge arms were resting on the high counter in front of her. It was made from dark wood and wouldn't have looked out of place in a bar, but instead of beer mats, there were stainless-steel napkin holders and laminated menus with pictures of the various rubbery-looking types of food they served.

The woman lit a cigarette in one fluid movement.

‘You must be the tourist,' she said. The smoke from her cigarette hit Sara in the face. It had been years since Sara had seen anyone in Sweden smoking in a restaurant. Clearly they did things differently here.

‘I'm Sara.'

‘You picked one hell of a day to come here.'

‘Do you know where Amy Harris lives?'

The woman nodded. ‘One hell of a day.' A lump of ash dropped from her cigarette and landed on the counter. ‘I'm Grace,' she said. ‘Or truth be told, my name's Madeleine. But there's no point calling me that.'

Sara hadn't been planning on calling her anything at all.

‘And now you're here.'

Sara had a definite feeling that Grace-who-wasn't-really-called-Grace was enjoying the moment, drawing it out. Grace nodded three times to herself, took a deep drag of her cigarette and let the smoke curl slowly upwards from one corner of her mouth. She leaned over the counter.

‘Amy's dead,' she said.

In Sara's mind, Amy's death would forever be associated with the glow of fluorescent strip lighting, cigarette smoke and the smell of fried food. It was surreal. Here she was, standing in a diner in a small American town, being told that a woman she had never met had died. The whole situation was much too dreamlike to be scary, much too odd to be a nightmare.

‘Dead?' she repeated. An extraordinarily stupid question, even for her. She slumped onto a bar stool. She had no idea what to do now. Her thoughts drifted back to the woman in Hope and she wondered whether she should have gone back with Hank after all.

Amy can't be dead, Sara thought. She was my friend. She liked
books
, for God's sake.

It wasn't quite grief that Sara was feeling, but she was struck by how fleeting life was, and the odd feeling grew. She had come to Iowa from Sweden to take a break from life – to get away from it, even – but not to meet death.

How had Amy died? One part of her wanted to ask, another didn't want to know.

Grace continued before she had time to make up her mind: ‘The funeral's probably in full swing. Not particularly festive things nowadays, funerals. Too much religious crap if you ask me. It was different when my grandma died.' She glanced at the clock. ‘You should probably head over there now, though. I'm sure someone who knew her better'll know what to do with you. I try to avoid getting drawn into this town's problems, and you're definitely one of them.'

She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘George, will you give Sara here a ride to Amy's house?'

The man by the window looked up. For a moment, he looked as paralysed as Sara felt. Then he got to his feet and half carried, half dragged her bags to the car.

Grace grabbed Sara's elbow as she started off after him. ‘That's Poor George,' she said, nodding towards his back.

Amy Harris's house was a little way out of town. It was big enough that the kitchen and living room seemed fairly spacious, but small enough that the little group which had congregated there after the funeral made it seem full. The table and kitchen worktops were covered with baking dishes full of food, and someone had prepared bowls of salad and bread, laid out cutlery and arranged napkins in drinking glasses.

Sara was given a paper plate of food and then left more or less to herself. George was still by her side and she was touched by that unexpected display of loyalty. He didn't seem to be a particularly brave person at all, not even compared to her, but he had followed her in and now he was walking around just as hesitantly as she was.

In the dim hallway there was a dark chest of drawers on which someone had arranged a framed photograph of a woman she assumed must be Amy, and two worn-looking flags, the American and the Iowa state.
Our liberties we prize and our rights we will maintain
, the latter proclaimed in embroidered white letters, but the flag was faded and one of the edges was frayed.

The woman in the photograph was perhaps twenty years old, with her hair pulled into two thin plaits and a standard-issue, stiff camera smile. She was a complete stranger. There might have been something in her eyes, a glimmer of laughter which showed she knew it was all a joke, that Sara could recognise from her letters. But that was all.

She wanted to reach out and touch the photograph but doing that felt much too forward. Instead, she stayed where she was in the dark hallway, carefully balancing her paper plate, her book still under her arm. Her bags had disappeared somewhere, but she didn't have the energy to worry about it.

Three weeks earlier, she had felt so close to Amy that she had been prepared to stay with her for two months, but now it was as though every trace of their friendship had died along with her. She had never been someone who believed you needed to have met in person to be friends – many of her most rewarding relationships had been with people who didn't even exist – but suddenly it all felt so false, disrespectful even, to cling to the idea that they had, in some way, meant something to one another.

All around her, people were moving slowly and cautiously through the rooms, as though they were wondering what on earth they were doing there, which was almost exactly what Sara was thinking too. Still, they didn't seem shocked. They didn't seem surprised. No one was crying.

Most of them were looking at Sara with curiosity, but something, perhaps respect for the significance of the event, was stopping them from approaching her. They circled around her instead, smiling whenever she accidentally caught their eye.

Suddenly, a woman materialised out of the crowd and cornered Sara, halfway between the living room and the kitchen.

‘Caroline Rohde.'

Her posture and handshake were military but she was much more beautiful than Sara had imagined. She had deep, almond-shaped eyes, and features as pronounced as a statue's. In the glow of the ceiling lamp, her skin was an almost shimmering white across her high cheekbones. Her hair was thick and streaked with grey strands. Around her neck, she wore a black scarf made from thin, cool silk which would have looked out of place on anyone else, even at a funeral, but on her it looked timeless – almost glamorous.

Her age was hard to guess but she had the air of someone who had never really been young. Sara had a strong sense that Caroline Rohde didn't have much time for youth.

When Caroline started talking, everyone around her fell silent. Her voice matched her presence: determined, resolute, straight to the point. There was, perhaps, a hint of a welcoming smile in her voice, but it never made as far as her mouth.

‘Amy said you'd be coming,' she said. ‘I won't claim I thought it was a good idea, but it wasn't my place to say anything.' Then she added, almost as an afterthought: ‘You've got to agree that this isn't the most … practical situation.'

‘Practical,' Sara echoed. Though how Amy was meant to know she was going to die, she wasn't sure.

Others gathered around Caroline in a loose half-circle, facing Sara as though she were a travelling circus making a brief stop in town.

‘We didn't know how to contact you when Amy … passed away. And now you're here,' Caroline concluded. ‘Oh well, we'll just have to see what we can do with you.'

‘I'm going to need somewhere to stay,' said Sara. Everyone leaned forward to hear.

‘Stay?' said Caroline. ‘You'll stay here, of course! I mean, the house is empty, isn't it?'

‘But …'

A man in a minister's collar smiled warmly at Sara, adding: ‘Amy specifically told us to let you know that nothing would change in that regard.'

Nothing would change? She didn't know who was madder – the minister or Amy or the whole of Broken Wheel.

‘There's a guest room, of course,' said Caroline. ‘Sleep there tonight, and then we'll work out what we're going to do with you.'

The minister nodded and somehow it was decided: she would stay, alone, in dead Amy Harris's empty house.

She was bustled upstairs. Caroline went first, like a commander at war, followed closely by Sara and then George, a supportive, silent shadow. Behind them, most of the other guests followed. Someone was carrying her bags, she didn't know who, but when she reached the little guest room her rucksack and suitcase miraculously appeared.

‘We'll make sure you've got everything you need,' Caroline said from the doorway, not at all unkindly. Then she shooed the others away, giving Sara a brief wave before pulling the door closed behind her.

Sara sank onto the bed, suddenly alone again, the paper plate still in her hand and a lonely book lying abandoned on the bedspread next to her.

Oh hell, she thought.

 

 

 

 

Broken Wheel, Iowa

June 3, 2009

Sara Lindqvist

Kornvägen 7, 1 tr

136 38 Haninge

Sweden

Dear Sara,

Thank you so much for your kind gift! It's a book I probably wouldn't have bought myself, so it was all the more welcome. What an awful tale. I had no idea such things took place in Sweden, though I don't know why they shouldn't. If you ask me, there's much more violence, sex and scandal in small towns than in the big cities, and if that's true of towns then I suppose it might also be true of small countries? I presume it's because people get closer to one another there. We've certainly had our fair share of scandal here in Broken Wheel.

But a Lisbeth Salander? That we definitely do not have. A remarkable woman. As I understand it, there are two more books in the series. Would you do me the honor of sending the second and third books? I won't be able to sleep before I find out what happens to her. And that overwrought young man Mr Blomkvist as well, of course.

I'll pay you for them, naturally. Speaking of small towns, murder and sex, I'm sending you Harper Lee's
To Kill a Mockingbird
as a first installment.

With kind regards,

Amy Harris

YOU HAVE FOUR
new messages. Received today at zero five thirteen hours.

‘Darling! It's Mum … What? … Yes, yes, Dad too, of course. We're just back from Anders and Gunnel's. Remember them? Our old neighbours who moved to that lovely villa in Tyresö. How is everything? Have you arrived yet? What's it like out in the sticks? Is Amy a complete nutcase? Did you manage to find the right bus? I don't understand why you had to go to …'

Received today at zero five fifteen hours.
Her mother continued as though she had never been interrupted:

‘To the countryside … Wait, I'm not finished … Fine, here's your dad, who absolutely has to say a few words, even though I'm not done.'

Short pause, serious throat clearing.

‘Sara! I hope you're not just staying inside and reading. You've got to get out and talk to people. It's a fantastic opportunity, travelling. I remember when your mother and I …'

Received today at zero five eighteen hours
.

‘What is it with these answerphones? Why don't they let me finish? Well, bye for now then … Wait. Your mother wants to say something again.'

‘You know if you change your mind, you can always go to New York instead. Or Los Angeles.'

The message was cut off again, and the next hadn't been recorded until three hours later. It was her mother again:

‘Sara! Why aren't you picking up? Is Amy a serial killer? I know what America's like. If you're lying in pieces somewhere, I'll never forgive you. Unless you call us back right now, I'm ringing the CIA …' Her father mumbled something in the background. ‘FBI.
Whatever
.'