Venom and the River

by Marsha Qualey

  When the clerk at the circulation desk balked at issuing her a card, Leigh retrieved the application and took her place in line at the reference desk.

  “Welcome to Pepin,” the librarian said when Leigh had at last reached her turn. “And yes, we desperately need a new building.”

  “As well as a second reference librarian. Are you always the only one on duty?”

  “There’s one other, weekends and nights.”

  “When you work at Dee’s. Odd combination of jobs.” She peered at the nametag. “Kate.”

  “Do you have a question?” Kate tipped her head. “There are others waiting.”

  “I’d like to get a temporary card, but the clerk said no. I thought maybe you’d waive a rule and vouch for me.”

  A pale eyebrow went up.

  “Except for your clerk, everyone in town seems to know who I am. The night I was in Dee’s, it was pretty clear people knew I was coming to work for the vice-president. Dee even knew my name. I think that qualifies me for a library card, don’t you?”

  Kate took the application and signed. She caught the eye of the desk clerk and nodded, then turned back to Leigh. “We knew you were coming because Pepin’s a small town and you’re working for its most famous citizen.”

  Leigh lifted a purple flyer from a brochure holder on the desk: Visitor’s Guide to Little Girl Land. “Oh no,” she said. “He’s the second-most famous.”

  *

  Leigh stepped over the sagging yellow tape. She sat on a crumbling library step and opened the purple flyer. The library was stop number four on the visitor’s guide map.

  Dedicated in 1904. Ida May’s application for a library card can be seen in the Little Girl Museum.

  Leigh smiled. Had the little outcast had to beg for her card too?

  The cottage was stop number twelve.

  Though it remains unoccupied, this beloved site is still in private hands. No Trespassing! No Visitors!

  And no car crashes to finagle entry!

  Most of the remaining places on the map were in what the guide called the historic business district on Main Street, one block over from the library. Only one spot survived with the same business name: the Pembroke Hotel.

  Site of the elegant New Year’s Eve dances.

  Leigh scanned the small advertising squares that bordered the map. The hotel may have housed elegant dances in the past, but now it was home to a coffee shop, a real estate office, a tattoo parlor, an art gallery, and a combo oxygen bar and beauty salon. She rose, hoisted her backpack to her shoulder, and stepped over the tape. She wouldn’t mind some caffeine, and she’d forgotten to pack shampoo.

  *

  Banners fluttered from every lamp post on Main Street. The town’s name was at the top of each one, right above a drawing of three girls. Underneath that, more script: “Welcome to ‘River Valley’.”

  Today, downtown Pepin looks much as “River Valley” would have in Ida May’s time.

  No lie, thought Leigh as she stood on a corner and admired the four blocks of carefully kept brick storefronts. A few had dates chiseled into stone: 1894, 1896, 1901. Ida May’s time, all right, as long as you ignored the large vehicles packed into the angled parking and the tourists in shorts and T-shirts parading on the sidewalks.

  “River Valley” had obviously usurped the town’s real name as the preferred business tag, Leigh decided as she walked past the storefronts, dodging other visitors, outdoor displays of sale merchandise, and oversized planters filled with purple and white petunias. River Valley Java, River Valley Arts Council, River Valley Suds and Subs, River Valley Plumbing and Heating.

  The Pembroke was at the west end of the small business district. Like the other downtown sites listed in the flyer it had a discrete plaque on a front wall. Little Girl Trail #3.

  Leigh shielded her eyes and looked further west. Main Street ended at a park. Just beyond, she could make out a finger of water curving into Pepin from the river. On the far bank were two motels, the grocery store, and Dee’s waterfront café—modern commercial Pepin, kept at a safe distance from the red-brick businesses.

  Floorboards creaked as she walked into the old hotel’s refurbished lobby, now a sunny atrium. A moment later, the scent of Patchouli. How long had it been since she’d smelled that? Probably from the tattoo parlor, she thought as she studied the businesses listed on the wall. Or perhaps Eva’s New Moon, which specialized in pottery, crystals, and organic dog food.

  Not the hair salon, thankfully. She pushed open the door to Joan’s Salon and Oxygen Bar and took a deep, oxygen-rich breath. At least a dozen women looked at her as she entered. “Holy crap,” she said, exhaling in a quick gasp.

  The five stylists and the receptionist were all dressed in ankle-length skirts and long-sleeved shirts with high lace collars. Each wore her hair in a top-heavy pile or in braids wrapped around her head. “Sorry, no walk-ins and no openings,” said the young woman behind the desk. “We have time tomorrow.”

  Leigh took a bottle from a display shelf and set it on the counter. “I just stopped for shampoo.” She waved a hand. “Your clothing is Little Girl related, right?” Either that, or she had stepped into a business run by a weird religious sect.

  The receptionist nodded. “We’re getting ready for the convention next month. Today was a trial run. Everyone needed some practice making pompadours and working in old-fashioned shoes and wigs before the storm hits.” She thumbed toward a sign taped to the wall behind her.

  Little Girl Convention Special

  Pompadours: $35.00; $75.00 with extensions

  Coronet Braids: $25.00; $65.00 with extensions

  Wig rental available!

  “Wigs are all taken, sorry. They went right after we ran the ad in the Little Girl newsletter. You should have called then to reserve one.”

  “I’m not a Little Girl.”

  The young woman stepped back and studied her, then her face erupted in a wide smile. “You’re working for the vice president, aren’t you? I saw you at Dee’s the other night. Everyone was talking about his new red-headed secretary!” She placed a hand on her hip and squinted. “That’s a great red. Who does your color?” She looked over her shoulder and shouted, “Mom, come look at this color. Might be what you want.”

  Seconds later a tiny short woman with a blond pompadour was running her fingers through Leigh’s hair. “Pardon the assault, honey; it’s purely professional touching. I’m Joan. This is my place and this is my daughter. JJ, you’re right. This is exactly what I need. Who does it?” she asked Leigh.

  “Someone in Wisconsin.”

  “I’d love to have her name and number so I can call and get the formula. I’ve been experimenting and just can’t nail it.”

  Leigh nodded toward the sign. “For the convention?”

  Joan nodded. “Fans from everywhere will be in town. Four nights and days of Little Girl heaven. I’m doing Petra’s hair. She always comes for the fun, and I always do her hair when she goes period.” Joan sighed, and her fingers finally fell to her side. “She liked the pomp I styled last time, but she didn’t like the color. I know she’ll like this; your skin tone’s just the same. Oh, honey, I am so glad you walked through the door.”

  JJ whispered to her mother, who suddenly clapped a hand over her mouth and then said, “You’re the one living in the cottage?”

  Leigh nodded as she scrolled through her cell’s contact list to find her salon’s number. She handed it to Joan. The salon owner hesitated, her wide wondering eyes still fixed on Leigh.

  “The cottage is lovely,” Leigh said. “Unfortunately I can’t open it to the public. At the family’s request.”

  Joan nodded. Finally, she sighed and took the phone. As she wrote down the information she waved away the credit card Leigh was handing to the receptionist. “No charge. And if Petra’s happy, I owe you even more. You’ve got a genius doing your hair, so I won’t mess with that. How about five free sessions at the oxygen bar?”

  JJ said,
“It’s great for hangovers.”

  Leigh put her credit card back into her wallet. Would it cure a Little Girl hangover? She could feel one coming on.

  7.

  Leigh dribbled coffee on her shirt as she walked down the steps of the Pembroke. She swore once and swore again when a sudden blast from a nearby car horn jolted her; more coffee splattered through the narrow opening on the cup lid onto her wrist. She looked toward the street as a green Lexus zipped into a handicapped space in front of the old hotel. The driver’s window whirred and slid down, and a head popped out.

  The flirty woman from Dee’s who had been playing pool with two young men smiled at Leigh. “Welcome to Pepin!”

  Leigh glanced up and down the street. Was there anyone in the small town who was unaware of her arrival? She walked forward and gave the woman a curt nod. “You’ve already welcomed me once before.” The woman in the car looked puzzled. “At the bar the other night. You took your eyes off those handsome young men just long enough to shout a welcome.”

  The woman ran jeweled fingers through salon-streaked hair as she laughed. “Oh, god—those delicious young men. Once fishing season starts they show up at Dee’s in droves. You should have joined us, and you could have taken one home too. And speaking of Dee’s, how about we scoot over there and I buy you a drink? I’ve been dying to meet you and now I don’t have to hunt you down. Hop in. My name is Marti Lanier, by the way.”

  That bitch Lanier. So this is who Peach Wickham was talking about. Leigh dropped her coffee into a trash bin on the corner and got into the car. She settled her backpack between her feet. “A drink might be nice, but I suspect that you’d rather we have it at my place. In the cottage.”

  Marti Lanier placed her hands on the leather-wrapped steering wheel. “Now you’re talking.”

  *

  Leigh gave the cottage door a final nudge with her shoulder. She stepped back. “Do you need a moment alone?”

  Marti laughed. “I taught high school for seventeen years. The sarcasm doesn’t escape me.” She hesitated before stepping across the threshold. “Not that it’s misplaced, of course. I do realize that.” She leaned forward and looked through the door. “Oh my goodness, it looks just the way it’s described.”

  “Go on in.”

  Marti took a breath. She smoothed the silk folds of her blouse. She plucked at the large diamond on her right ring finger. She stepped in.

  Leigh brushed past her and walked straight into the living room and dropped her backpack on a coffee table. Marti set her purse on the floor. As she straightened, her eyes fell on the notches in the door jamb, then she closed her eyes and smiled, swaying slightly.

  Would there be another kiss? Leigh wondered. At least this woman hadn’t swooned and crumpled on the floor. She quietly walked to her guest, held up a hand, and snapped her fingers.

  Marti Lanier’s eyes opened.

  “Just checking,” said Leigh. “My last visitor nearly passed out.”

  Marti wagged a finger. “I’m fifty-three years old, Leigh Burton. I graduated with honors from Wellesley and I have a master’s from Harvard. I’ve raised two fine sons and survived both a bout with breast cancer and a long marriage to a closeted gay man. I’ve made a quarter of a million dollars each year for the past five years developing and selling real estate in a town of twenty-five hundred people. You can laugh at me as I turn to pudding, but do not think for a moment that I’m not bright enough to get the joke. I see myself clearly. Now, where’s that drink?”

  Leigh said, “I’m not sure which part of that bio is the most interesting, so I’ll let it all slide for now. As for the drink, I should have warned you earlier: I only have Scotch.”

  “Which is perfect. On the rocks, please, but only if you have store-bought ice. Otherwise, neat.”

  Marti was sitting in the big brown chair when Leigh brought out the drinks. She took the offered glass and tapped it against Leigh’s. “Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, thank you.”

  “I needed one too.”

  “Not what I mean and you know it.” She waved an arm about. “I’m seeing it all for the first time, but everything is so familiar. The blue vase, just where it’s supposed to be, just the way she describes it in the books. The notches on the door frame where her mother measured her each New Year’s day. Her mother’s desk. The rocker. The fireplace.” Her hand stroked worn leather. “This blessed brown chair.”

  “News travels uncomfortably fast in this town, so I imagine you know that your friend Peach Wickham—”

  Marti coughed up a bit of Scotch. She shook her head. “Not friends. Not even close.”

  “She was here. Apparently it was a moving experience.”

  “I’ve heard. She told me, as a matter of fact. Came to my house right after and gloated. You see, no one’s been in here, ever.”

  “People have lived here, so what do you mean?”

  “No fans of the books have been allowed in, and you can believe we’ve tried. Don’t let anybody tell you that nasty wire fence was put up to keep out potential vice-presidential assassins; it’s there to keep us out.”

  “Us?”

  “Fans of the books. Little Girls. This place has been locked and boarded up for decades. And now it’s open.” Marti smiled. “Just for you. The vice president’s new secretary.” She sipped Scotch, rose, and walked toward the alcove and the desk. “This painting is stunning. I can’t wait to tell people about it. Her nipples are astounding. No wonder she called it The Red Lady.”

  “It’s a copy, but I guess the girl lived with the original.”

  Marti turned slowly, taking it all in. “Ida May certainly plumbed the physical details of her environment for her writing. It’s very much the way she described it in the books. Over a hundred years later—it’s just the same.”

  “Not quite; the place has been rewired and I’m sleeping on new sheets.” Leigh reached for her backpack and took out the library books. “I’ve never read even one book by Ida May Turnbull, but I just checked some out. You’ve retired from teaching?”

  “Quit, didn’t retire.” Marti pointed. “You cannot start with that one; Little Girl, Big World is the fourth book.” She shifted her finger slightly. “And certainly not Big River Autumn. Book six.”

  “I just grabbed a couple. Aren’t these any good?”

  “They’re wonderful. Autumn is actually my favorite, but you need to start with the first one in the series, Little Girl, Big River.” Marti walked quickly to the front door, hoisted her large bag from the floor, and returned to the brown chair. She poked around in it and pulled out two slender paperbacks and tossed them onto Leigh’s lap. “Books one and two, please read them in order. A house-warming gift.”

  “You carry them with you?”

  “Of course. I give away two or three a week. Can’t keep old stories like these in print if we don’t make new fans.” Marti settled back into the chair, rocking her glass slightly, the clinking of ice cubes the only sound in the house. Finally, she cleared her throat. “I might have given them to you a couple years ago and you could have become a fan then. We came close to meeting once before. I was going to introduce myself at that time, but I missed the chance.”

  Leigh’s hand froze over the pile of books on her lap. “When?”

  “Timmy Thompson’s wife’s funeral. Right after my divorce some years back Timmy and I had a sweet little thing going. He used to drive over from Mankato now and then to visit the VP. One time he stopped at Dee’s for a drink after he’d been with his pal. We got to talking, and, well, he stayed in Pepin a little longer than he planned that night. My god, he always stayed a long time, if you catch my drift. One of his many talents in bed. But then, I probably don’t need to tell you what he could do in the bedroom. After that first time, whenever he was in town or if we could coordinate an afternoon in the Cities…” She shrugged. “So he never told his ghostwriter about me? Don’t know if I like that or not. I heard about the two of you and assumed—”


  “If that’s what you heard, it was a lie. We weren’t lovers. I worked with him on his book, that’s all.”

  “Then you missed out on some sweet sex, Leigh Burton. He may have been old enough to be my father, but oh my, he was ardent and he was skilled. Didn’t have to waste sack time teaching him anything.” She pointed a finger. “Don’t smile. He was—is—old enough to be my father. I told you, I’m fifty-three. You?”

  “Forty-seven. And I smiled because I was picturing that potbellied old liar in bed.”

  “Oh come on, everybody’s gorgeous when the lights are off, and not very many are so sweet and funny when they go back on. Timmy’s still a good friend, even though the affair ended when his kids took away his car keys. I went to his wife’s funeral and heard the whispering about you and decided, once I spotted you across the room, that you were a kindred spirit. I wanted to introduce myself, but you slipped away before the lunch.”

  “I was told not to come by the family. And don’t be so sure we’re kindred spirits.”

  “Don’t you be so sure that we’re not.” Marti rose and resumed her survey of the cottage. She stopped at the door and stroked the notched wood. “Peach ran into your car on purpose, did you know that?”

  “I’ve guessed as much. She’s paying for the repairs.”

  “That was extreme, even for her. But, then, we Little Girls are a wicked bunch, though usually we save our claws and talons for each other.”

  Leigh studied the honed, red nails on her visitor’s hands. “I’m not sure I understand how some old children’s books have the power to do that.”

  “Do what? Don’t worry, Leigh, you’re not thinking anything I’ve not said out loud. You don’t understand how some books have the power to transform women into bitches, is that it? That’s fair. We ladies haven’t always played nice, not when it comes to Ida May.” She gestured toward the door. “Before my divorce I used to live just across the park.”

  “With the closeted gay man?”

  “Yes. He’s still there, by the way. Hank and the old queen he fell in love with. You’ll probably see them outside, tending their rather ostentatious garden. Feel free to stop in and admire it; they love to give tours.”