Win looked at me with a confused expression, probably wondering whether hot meant something different in olden times.
“Only because Mom made me wear thermal underwear,” I said, which seemed to relieve Win. Warm clothing was the only way his mind could accept the idea of a hot old lady.
Word spread that the judges were taking a break. As Andy and I leaned against the wall to wait, I noticed two forty-something women staring at us, whispering and yes, pointing. They had on matching unbuttoned leather jackets, blue jeans, and boots. From the back, they looked identical.
After several minutes they sidled our direction. “I just have to ask,” one said. “Aren’t you that artist?” Andy stiffened but admitted she was. The two women exchanged delighted smiles. “I knew it. Could we have your autograph?” Andy took the Iowa High School Speech Association programs they held out and, once she’d located a pen, signed her name.
“This is so exciting,” the second woman said. “No one famous ever comes to Cherry Glen.”
Woman One frowned. “Come on, Denise, she lives in the Stephenson house.”
“Sure, I know, but no one famous ever comes here.” She obviously thought what she said made sense. Turning to me, Denise said, “You’re not anyone, are you?”
I was about to say no when Andy spoke up. “She’s a noted child authority from San Jose, California.”
“Really? Can we have your autograph too?” While I scrawled my name, Denise asked, “Where ’bouts in California is San Jose?”
Woman One answered for me. “Near San Francisco, in Silicon Valley.”
“Oh, yeah, I’ve heard of that. Where the wine is.”
“No, that’s Napa Valley. Silicon Valley has the computers.”
“Oh, of course. Silly me.” Denise stared at a spot over my left shoulder. “Do you see much of Bill Gates?”
Before I could explain about Microsoft and Seattle, Andy said, “Yes, she does. They’re neighbors and she runs into him at the grocery store all the time, especially when they have a sale on ice cream.”
“Oooh. What kind does he buy?”
Andy didn’t miss a beat. “Chocolate rocky road.”
Both women appeared thrilled at this bit of inside information. Then Woman One checked her watch and frowned. “We have to get going. Our one-act starts in ten minutes.” She turned to Andy with a proud smile. “They’re doing Alice in Wonderland and my daughter is Alice.”
“She must be very talented,” I said, certain that Andy was trying to pinch me through my coat. “Is your child in the play too?” I asked Denise.
She shook her head. “That’s my girl over there at the door,” she said pointing to Girl Guard.
“Oh yes,” I said. “She certainly seems to take after you.”
Denise glowed with pride. As the two women left clutching their signed programs, Andy and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. “You’re terrible, Andy. Don’t you know Bill Gates is allergic to chocolate?”
“Is he?”
“How would I know? I’ll ask him next time I see him at the market.” We turned away so people couldn’t see our faces. “Wait until those women hear my Neighborhood Club talk,” I said. “They’ll give the autograph back.”
High school kids strolled by trying to look cool, isolated by iPhones while their eyes raked the crowd to see who was noticing them. Jeans hung precariously from their hips. More contestants and their entourages appeared. Each new arrival questioned the girl at the door, whose smile—and answer—never varied. Eventually a judge came to the door, made a brief stab at explaining end-of-session admittance to the girl, and motioned us inside the airless room. We never did locate 305.
Room 306 appeared to house agriculture classes. The walls contained posters of horses and sheep. One featured a picture of a large hypodermic needle, which I assumed had to do with vaccinating large animals since a nearby display claimed preventive medicine for cattle was as important as changing the oil in your tractor.
Andy pushed me toward two empty metal folding chairs in front of posted list of handwritten class expectations that included No Throwing (spitballs? knives?) and No Racial Remarks. Since I had yet to see any sign of diverse population in Cherry Glen, I thought working a racial remark into the conversation would take some imagination.
We sat down and squirmed out of our coats, trying to get comfortable. Hold the coat or sit on it? The array of down-filled parkas meant even people Andy’s size were crowded.
“What group is this?” I whispered to Andy after deciding sitting on the coat made me taller.
“Interpretive poetry reading.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Bob’s son reads poetry in public?”
Andy nodded. “Exactly.”
“Oh, well, maybe he’ll outgrow it. He’s tall enough for basketball as soon as he can stand up without falling down.”
The competition was like watching Goldilocks. The first contestant spoke in a monotone, the second over-emoted, and Win was just right. Once he began to speak, his awkwardness faded away. For the most part, his deep voice conveyed appropriate seriousness, but occasionally he chuckled in surprise at some point he’d apparently just noticed. I didn’t recognize his poem, although parts sounded a little like the Declaration of Independence. My mind wandered during the rest of the readings.
As the three of us walked out of the room, Andy and I told Win he’d been wonderful. I bubbled with praise and Andy nodded encouragingly. Win looked afraid we might kiss him.
“What’s next?” I asked. “This was State, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, but the best ones go to All State and then Nationals.”
“Well, plan on All State. You’ll definitely go, no doubt in my mind.”
Andy agreed and added, “You were the best one by far.” Win didn’t look as though he believed us—hadn’t we noticed he’d said “in the beginning” three times?—but seemed pleased.
“Need a ride home?” Andy asked.
“Nah, I’m going to hang around here for a while. Wait for the results.”
We left him pretending not to look at Girl Guard and headed toward the door, weaving our way through clumps of parents sharing contest results and local news. I spotted Andy’s fans and directed her attention toward them in time to hear one say, “I know personally that Bill Gates’s favorite ice cream is chocolate marshmallow.” She glanced around to make sure her audience appreciated her amazing knowledge. Andy and I kept walking.
Twenty-One
I left for Beemer around ten Saturday morning. Andy told me to take the Explorer and reminded me to watch for deer on the road. The weather was good for Iowa, eliminating my last excuse. Andy was right—I couldn’t avoid Beemer forever. But the deaths of Dusty and my parents overshadowed the good memories.
When Dusty died, my whole life changed. My friends didn’t know what to say to me, seemed to be afraid tragedy would rub off on them. Boys were reluctant to ask the dead guy’s girl if she wanted to see a movie or get a Coke. As the odd girl in a group of twosomes, I stopped going to ballgames and concerts to prevent people from asking “What about Jane?” as they piled into cars and booths. Even Gloria and Sue quit calling, and I spent most of my free time babysitting. Marvin saved me from loneliness, but dating someone not from Beemer, especially an older guy, made me more of an outsider than ever.
The lobby of the Beemer Motel was compact, to say the least. Two steps inside the door I ran smack up against the registration desk manned by a thirty-pound gray cat. We stared at each other and listened to Dr. Phil’s voice coming from the backroom.
At the station break, a woman as fat as the cat wobbled out. She wore a faded, shapeless dress, beige maybe—no, probably yellow. Her nose was balanced by a gray ponytail. “Captain, get off the desk.” All three of us knew the order was only for show. Shoving a registration card my direction, she sai
d, “You here with the missionaries?” Not a question I’d been asked before.
“The Fergusons, yes. A few of us from the old high school crowd are getting together while they’re home.”
She bobbed her head. “Aren’t they just the bravest things? Imagine living in Africa all those years with no TV or anything. I hear they haven’t been back in the States for ten years.”
Captain placed a paw on the registration card. “Do I really need the license plate number?” I asked.
The woman looked at the cat, who I swore shook his head. “No, just the make and color. I know who you are. Two of you?” I still wasn’t accustomed to the jolt that question brought.
“Just one.”
“Reservation says two.”
“Sorry. There’s just me.”
She thought about that. “Same price. Sixty-nine dollars a night but that includes towels and a copy of this week’s Beemer Bugle. Comes out every Tuesday.”
“Fine. Anyone else from the Ferguson group here yet?”
After rummaging through a drawer under the counter, she pulled out a handwritten list and read me the occupants of all sixteen rooms. “Mrs. Dunne is next to you, and the Eberles have been here several days—upstairs in the suite.” Her lips tightened. “That one’s something else. Nothing’s good enough for her. Not enough towels. Not enough hot water. She even said the hair dryer didn’t work but she just didn’t know how to turn it on.” She chuckled.
The cat pushed the key, an actual metal key on a leather tag showing the room number in black ink, across the desk, and the woman directed me around back to the lower level. “You can park in front of your door but don’t move your car at night or you’ll never get back in. People park here when there’s something going on next door at the church. Nothing I can do about it.”
The cat swished his tail and stared at the woman. “Oh, yeah, no smoking or cooking in the room. No men overnight.” We both looked at Captain but he was curled up for a nap, another registration completed.
I moved the Explorer down the steep, narrow driveway to the back ten units. My room was on the corner, placing Andy’s car in mortal danger of being hit by people negotiating the turn. The room wasn’t that bad considering the low price. It opened directly outdoors, but I didn’t think security would be a big issue in Beemer. All I needed was a bed and a bathroom, which it had. The shower would be okay if I washed one body part at a time, and the smell of bleach was a good sign. I could have stayed at the town’s other motel two blocks away—more expensive but with a pool. I chose this one mostly because it didn’t have a pool. Even in hot weather, no way was I displaying these thighs to people who knew me fifty pounds ago.
As promised, this week’s Beemer Bugle was propped on the desk next to a telephone from another era. A quick glance at the front page told me supermarket carts were being left in the wrong area of the parking lot. I leafed through all four pages and could tell nothing had changed since I lived here. As a rule, small town papers carry no real news, although an occasional local item creeps in. Usually they stick to church socials and spaghetti suppers, weddings and funerals, high school scores and who’d made the dean’s list. Experienced readers knew Public Notices was where to learn what was really going on—who was filing for divorce, whose house was being auctioned at a sheriff’s sale.
I set the paper aside and turned up the thermostat, hoping the room’s temperature would rise accordingly. After splashing warm water on my face, I went next door to rouse Mrs. Dunne. Hard for me to recognize her by that name. To me she’d always be Sue Jameson.
We hugged and said “fine” in answer to “how are you?” She claimed I hadn’t changed a bit; I assured her she looked just the same. In fact, Sue did look a lot like she had in high school—except for the circles under her eyes. Waving me to the sole chair, she said, “Quite frankly, my dear, I don’t know anything. Tell me what you’ve been up to.” But before I could open my mouth, she launched into a recap of the last forty years. With barely a pause for breath she brought me up to date on her job (secretary to a doctor in Council Bluffs) and family (two daughters, both married and busy providing grandchildren). One of her grandsons lived with her while he went to college. He was in his sixth year and considering a change in majors.
I accepted the Diet Coke she pulled from the red Igloo cooler on the floor beside her before saying, “I hear the Eberles are back, staying right here in this motel.”
“Yeah, I can’t believe Judy and Jerry are the only couple in our class that stuck together. I’d have laid odds on Judy wising up by the end of the first year.” Sue ran her tongue around the edge of her Coke can. “Did you get the demanding-bitch story too? You know who the manager is, don’t you? Bonnie Spurlock.”
“No! The Iowa State Fair Pork Princess?”
“The very same.”
“Wow. I’d never have recognized her. Wasn’t she was going to be a model or a movie star or something?”
“Yeah, didn’t work out. She went to LA, some kind of modeling school guaranteed to make her rich and famous, but . . .” Sue shrugged. “You know how it goes. I mean, she was pretty, but get real. Quite frankly, my dear, even back then you could tell plus sizes were in her future. So anyway, she came home and married Denny Wymore. Remember him? Two years ahead of us?”
“Sure, cute but sort of wild. My folks wouldn’t let me go out with him. Not that he ever asked.”
Sue offered a sympathetic little smile. “Unfortunately, he’s still wild. Or was until he ended up in prison. And guess what, all Bonnie got out of the marriage was the cat.”
“Captain? At least he’s a keeper.” We laughed, and I was glad I hadn’t told her about Thelma. Poor Bonnie had enough problems without stories of a superior cat getting back to her. Thelma would never watch Dr. Phil.
“Sounds like Judy’s changed since becoming Mrs. Eberle,” Sue said.
“Could be. I can’t imagine her complaining about hot water and towels and stuff. The old Judy would have made do with melted ice cubes and a handkerchief.” I smiled at an old memory racing across my mind. “That girl was always fun. Guess now she’s more like Jerry.”
“Guess so. Know what she did? The cleaning lady’s landlord was going to raise her rent and there wasn’t anything close she could afford so, to keep her from moving away, Judy got Jerry to buy her place. Can you believe it? They bought a house so they wouldn’t lose the cleaning lady.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond to this and let it pass. As hard as housekeepers were to come by, I thought buying one a house made perfect sense.
Sue drank the last of her Coke before moving on. “Anyway, my dear, guess what—Ken’s here. He and his wife flew in from Montana.”
Ken and I had co-edited the Beemer Beacon, our school paper, but lost track of each other after graduation. Everyone liked Ken. He’d been voted Most Popular as well as Most Likely to Succeed.
“Montana? What’s he do there?”
Sue looked amazed. “Are you kidding? He has this huge ranch. Quite frankly, my dear, while the rest of us were marrying and having babies and stuff, he was building a cattle empire in Big Sky Country. Didn’t take the marriage plunge until two, three years ago. We’d about given up on him finding the perfect woman but then, guess what, he met this lawyer, Marjorie, at some kind of immigration rally and, zing, she was the one.”
“That’s Ken—always knew what he wanted and never settled for less. It’ll be great to see him.”
Sue nodded and set her empty can on the night stand. I thought of mentioning it might leave a ring and sat on my hands to keep from moving it. “Ray’s coming,” she said. “And guess what, he told me he was bringing a date.”
“He got married again? That rascal. I thought when Rosemary died he claimed he was too old to start over.”
“What makes you think she’s his wife?”
I blinked. “
Oh, come on, only someone bound by marriage would attend a reunion of people she doesn’t know talking about other people she doesn’t know.”
Sue giggled. “You got that right. Hey, didn’t you and Ray go together for a while?”
“Sort of, if that’s what you call walking me home from the freshman mixer. He was the first boy who ever kissed me, but that was before . . . well, before.”
“Before Dusty, you mean. You ever get over him? Probably not. You were all but engaged. And dying at eighteen means he never got fat or bald or wanted you to quit your job so he could move to North Dakota and save the seals.”
“They don’t have seals in North Dakota.”
“You know what I mean. They never found his body, did they?”
My throat tightened. “Guess not.” I knew they hadn’t.
“Shame.”
I tensed for more questions but Sue surprised me by looking at her watch and saying, “Time to go, my dear. Some of us are meeting for lunch across the street at Buster Burgers.” Misunderstanding my look of surprise, she added, “Kippy’s closed and there’s no other choice. The food’s pretty good. They have pie and stuff.”
“You can’t go wrong with pie,” I said, glad to stop talking about Dusty. “I’ll get my coat. Meet you outside in five minutes.”
The diner featured orange vinyl booths and blue tables with mismatched chairs. Old license plates ranging from Iowa 1957 to Virginia 2003 and posters of Elvis Presley, Marilyn Monroe, and James Dean hung on the wall. The other customers stopped eating and stared when we walked in but returned to dipping their fries in catsup when they didn’t recognize us.
Sue led me to the back room and waved at a woman with platinum hair curling under at her shoulders and flashy diamonds. “Sheila’s already here. Hey, how are you, my dear?”
Sheila reached up for hugs and updates. The high-school prettiness I remembered had changed to a more plastic attractiveness. She’d been tall and slim when she was young; now she just looked freeze-dried. Although recently divorced, she continued to live in Davenport. The ex’s family owned a chain of grocery stores and took good care of her. She, in turn, did not mention her former hubby’s cocaine habit to newspaper reporters.
Goodbye, Miss February Page 11
