by Jess Lourey
I considered sitting on the article. The Recall only came out once a week, and so I technically had only one deadline, which was noon on Saturdays. I figured if I parsed the articles out all week long, though, Ron would think I was working extra hard.
I decided I’d rather just get it out of the way and e-mailed him the recipe before settling in to read for two peaceful hours. That’s what I told myself anyhow, but in the back of my mind, I was hoping Johnny would track me down at the Airstream. To that end, I practiced various provocative poses as I read until I got bored with being a silly girl and just fell into the story.
A half an hour before Johnny’s band was supposed to go on, I unbraided my hair, ran my fingers through it, and stepped into the still-warm night. The sun was settled on the horizon, throwing out tangerine and purple shadows. The air smelled like caramel apples and clean straw, and all around the campground, people laughed and talked about the fair. Because the campground was really just a parking lot, campfires weren’t an option, but some people had brought their own barbeque grills and were clinking beers in a toast and passing the ketchup. It felt very communal and summery. I strode to the concert site with a spring in my step.
When I arrived at the bandshell, I looked around to make sure I didn’t see anyone I knew before buying a mineral water. Being incognito felt good after so many months in the fishbowl of Battle Lake. I stretched a little mentally, relaxing into the evening.
I was paying for my water when I felt the tap on my shoulder. My esophagus twitched. I turned.
“I told Mrs. Berns that you’d come dressed like a refugee. Would a little makeup kill you?” Kennie’s face wasn’t helping her argument, as it appeared to be drowning in green eyeshadow, blue mascara, peach-colored blush, and coral lipstick.
Mrs. Berns popped up alongside her. “You look fine. You look like you. It sure is fun to fart in a crowd, by the way. No one knows where it came from.” Mrs. Berns effortlessly illustrated her point, and sure enough, the people around us began wiggling their noses and glaring suspiciously at one another.
I sighed. “What’re you two doing here?”
“Moral support,” Mrs. Berns said, grabbing my arm. “Now let’s get up close where we can see that boy shake his moneymaker.”
I let them lead me through the crowd, disappointed but figuring it was better to go quietly. They elbowed through the audience until we were positioned front and to the center, where we were surrounded by pretty young things. I glanced around for Brittany, Delrita, and Megan, but didn’t see them. A sound check drew my attention back to the stage, where Johnny was entering with his band mates.
My secret parts did a happy dance.
His worn Levis hung low on his narrow hips. His faded Rolling Stones T-shirt did more to define than cover his broad shoulders, accentuating the tanned lines of his arms and the muscles in his chest. He pushed his hair out of his eyes and looked into the crowd as if searching for someone.
I ducked reflexively.
Mrs. Berns whistled. “She’s over here, Johnny! She got as close as she could.”
Johnny glanced over, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His gaze locked with mine, and I melted in all the right places. I waved weakly, and he gestured back before finishing his sound check.
Soon, the band was in full swing. The music rocked the night and got the audience dancing. Johnny’s quiet confidence translated well on stage. He walked from end to end like a prowling lion, tossing his hair and singing about love and loss. His voice was deep and full, with a rumbling, sexy rasp.
Every fiber in my brain was trying to pull me away from that stage, reminding me that I was the gal who has trouble expressing serious emotion, that relationships end badly for me, that Johnny was too good for me, that I wasn’t meant for a happily ever after. My heart wasn’t paying attention, though, and my body was being oppositionally defiant.
Dang. Johnny looked good on stage.
I decided to let my body run the show, at least for a little while, and shook my ass alongside Mrs. Berns and Kennie, reveling in the moment. A screaming ovation brought The Thumbs out for one, and then two, and then three encores, and it wasn’t until midnight before it was all over.
I was hoarse from singing along, and Mrs. Berns and Kennie looked as spent as I felt. “Should we head back to the trailer?” I asked. I felt warm and happy with just a tinge of loneliness.
They nodded.
We were on our way when Steve, one of Johnny’s friends and occasional roadie for The Thumbs, jogged out from backstage. “Hey, ladies. You wanna come back? You know, have a Battle Lake get-together?”
In the first subtle act in their combined lives, Mrs. Berns and Kennie turned him down and pushed me forward. “We won’t wait up,” Kennie said.
I followed Steve, suddenly shy, and hung on the perimeter of the backstage area while everyone packed up. Johnny jogged over, ignoring the gaggle of female admirers waiting for his autograph. “You made it! What’d you think of the show?”
Sweat had curled his hair around the nape of his neck and pressed his shirt to his firm body. My mouth was suddenly dry, so I licked my lips. “It was great. You are rock hard.”
He blinked oddly, and I realized what I’d said. I concentrated on melting into oblivion. “I mean, you rock hard. Really good. Good show.” Kill me now.
He nodded. “Do you want to go for a walk? We had to unload and set up as soon as we got here, and I haven’t had a chance to see the fair. It’s probably mostly closed down, but we could check?” He raised his voice hopefully.
What he saw in me escaped me, as it always had, but we were friends, and friends walked around together at midnight, didn’t they?
“Sure. I know my way around pretty well by now.”
We took off, our shoulders almost touching as I brought him up to speed on Ashley’s death, seeing Mrs. Pederson, and rooming with Mrs. Berns and Kennie. Talking to Johnny had always been easy, once I got past the nerves his sexy smile and sun browned hands gave me. He was sympathetic at all the right spots and laughed when I mentioned my roomies’ bad habits. As we cruised the fair, I kept surreptitiously pinching my thigh to remind myself that Johnny and I were focusing on building a friendship, but the air between us was electric. I just wanted to pull his firm body against mine, get on my tiptoes, and plant a kiss right on that strong mouth. I looked around to break the spell and realized we were near the campground.
“Um, this is where I’m staying. It’s getting late, you know? I should probably go in.”
He was studying my mouth as I talked. “Sure.”
I turned my head to the side. “Where’re you staying tonight?”
“The band and I are at a hotel in one of the suburbs close to the fair. I have to leave early tomorrow to get back to the day job.” He stepped in closer. If I let myself, I could put my hand on his chest without leaning forward. “How long are you staying?” he asked, his voice deep.
“Another week or so.” Could he hear my heart beating? Could everyone? “Ron wants me to cover all the Battle Lake stuff going on here. And like I said, I promised Mrs. Pederson I’d see what I could find out about Ashley.”
“I can come back next weekend. You could show me the fair in the daytime.”
“That’d be great,” I said, drawn to his mouth as he leaned in to kiss me. My pulse hammered. I couldn’t believe it was finally happening.
One of his hands pushed my dark hair from my face and the other slid to my lower back, pulling me gently forward. Blood pounded in my toes, my fingertips, between my legs. My knees buckled slightly at the smell of him this close, clean sweat and fresh-cut grass.
He was going to kiss me.
He was really going to do it.
“Mira,” he whispered, his voice nearly a growl. His mouth was inches from mine, and I imagined the softness of his lips. I let him pull my hips to his, shivered at the hardness of him when our bodies met. I saw him close his eyes and bridge the final distance, and
I couldn’t do it.
I pulled away. This wasn’t meant for me. It was a mistake.
“Good night,” I said as I darted toward the trailer. “I’m sorry.”
I didn’t turn back.
Twelve
I snuck out early the next morning to avoid Mrs. Berns’ and Kennie’s questions about my night with Johnny. If I wasn’t going to answer them for myself, I certainly wasn’t going to answer them for those two. I headed toward the Agriculture Horticulture building south of the campground for a scheduled interview with a Battle Lakean.
A person could walk from one end of the State Fair to another in less than half an hour, quicker if the place was just waking up, like now. The farmers and 4-H kids were out and about, but otherwise, people slept on in their trailers and tents.
The air smelled fresh with a crisp hint of the fall to come. The temperature was supposed to hit the lower eighties by noon, which would cook that leafy smell from the air soon enough. I zipped up my cotton jacket and swung into the Salem Lutheran Church Dining Hall for tea and pancakes on my way. The sound of clinking plates under an aroma of fresh-brewed coffee was welcoming, and I entered the screened-in area glad for company but not wanting to talk to anyone.
I listened to farmers in a friendly game of one-upmanship, trying to out-story each other. An old guy in a red plaid shirt had been coming to the State Fair for longer than anyone here—over forty years—so he swept that round, but his friend in the jean jacket had grown the largest pumpkin in fair history three summers ago. He’d snagged a grand prize ribbon and bragging rights for eternity. There was much laughing, hearty slaps on the back, and the dark coffee kept flowing.
By the time I left it was nine a.m., and I was feeling almost normal. I wanted to fall in love with Johnny, but it just wasn’t in my cards. Better to avoid it all together than suffer the inevitable pain. I had more important things to focus on anyhow, most notably helping Mrs. Pederson find out what had happened to her daughter and doing my job for the Battle Lake Recall.
I needed to cover the launch party of Henry Sunder, a Battle Lake legend whose third book was being released today in the Ag-Hort building, as the regulars called it. It was a bit of an odd location, as all his books were on hunting and trapping, but Henry was a peculiar man. He resided in the woods south of town, living off the grid. He was known around town as a hermit until about five years ago, when he discovered the Internet and iUniverse while visiting the library. Since then, he wrote books espousing his life philosophies, including the need to live off the land and generally keep your nose clean. He’d arranged for iUniverse to publish his tomes on demand, and sold them to people all over the world by advertising on a modest website, www.earthwarriorbooks.com.
This venture brought him in the library regularly to use the computers, which is how I knew him. About three years ago, he’d met a woman online, a fan of his books, and they’d gotten married. She had produced fraternal twins from the union: a boy named Hunter and a girl named Gatherer.
They called her Gathy.
Henry was a nice enough guy if you overlooked a few peculiarities. Specifically, he didn’t brush his teeth because he thought fluoride was poisonous, he sewed all his own clothes by hand and so always looked like he was going to a casting call for a Neanderthal movie, and although he washed and brushed his hair, he’d never cut it in his adult life. It hung halfway down his back, ending as a buttocks curtain. Years ago the hairs must have given up any idea of working as a unit, and the ends split every which way.
The book he was releasing today was called, Entrails, Ears, and Bones, Oh My! How to Use the Whole Animal. He must have a friend in high places at the State Fair because when I entered the Ag-Hort building, I found him dead center in the round floor plan, right next to the Information booth. He was surrounded by his books and wore a peaceful smile.
“Hey, Henry. How’s business?”
He stood to greet me. “Mira! Thanks for coming. I just arrived myself.”
“Well then, welcome to the fair. I’ve been here since Thursday. It’s been quite a wild ride.”
His face sobered. “Terrible thing about that Pederson girl. They know what happened?”
“Poisoning, they think.”
His forehead furrowed. “How’d she get her hands on poison?”
I shrugged, laying my hands out. “Someone probably slipped it to her, but no one knows how. They can’t even be sure what kind of poison it was until the toxicology reports are complete, and that could take weeks.”
“My heart aches for the parents. If anything ever happened to Hunter and Gathy …” he shook his head. “Lisa’s home with the kids, by the way. They’re helping me to put together a care package for the Pedersons. A community’s got to come together when tragedy strikes.”
I tipped my head, wondering what would be in a Sunder care package. A soft purse made from the skin of a bear’s nose? Water bottles crafted from dried pig bladders? It didn’t matter. It was the thought that counted, and Henry was a good person. I interviewed him for over a half an hour, asking about the focus of the latest book and what he was planning next. I wrote the answers on paper with a pencil, even though I had a laptop in a bag slung over my shoulder.
At the end of the question and answer session, I slapped my notebook shut. “Thanks, Henry. That’ll make for a good article.” People were starting to crowd into the building and eye Henry with interest. “Want me to bring you some food around lunchtime?”
He grinned and held up a bag of dried meat with red flecks in it. “Brown bagging it.”
“OK. See you around.”
He waved to me before commencing to sign copies of his books for a gaggle of admirers wearing animal skin vests and headbands. Some people might say he had a cult following, with the emphasis on “cult,” but everyone gets to choose their own spot in the world.
I found a wooden bench in a quiet spot in the round building, which was by now swarming with folks crowding in to check out the stalls full of Minnesota-grown apples and the Home and Garden exhibit, featuring about twenty backyard displays featuring exotic and native plants and flowers pruned and coaxed in every direction possible. I could smell the black earth and growing things from here. Made me miss my garden, which is where I had spent a good chunk of the summer, tending my vegetables and generally communing with the dirt.
Yanking out the computer, I fired it up, preparing to organize and e-mail the article on Henry. Feeling lazy, I almost hoped that the wireless wouldn’t link. No such luck.
In a classic work-avoidance move, I checked my e-mail before typing the article. I had one message from Jed, my house-sitter, two from the Battle Lake library, and one from… my heart started pounding: “[email protected].”
We’d never emailed before. Was this advance warning of a restraining order? A request to please forget I knew him? My fingers were suddenly trembly, and I decided to read the e-mails in the order I’d received them. Johnny hadn’t emailed me until five o’clock this morning, so he’d be last.
I clicked on Jed’s message, and like him, it was short, sweet, and vaguely troubling:
Mir, the house is fine. Tiger Pop sure likes the catnip, doesn’t she? I can see why.
Luna says “hi.” Don’t ask Mrs. Berns about the bathroom wall.
Love, His Jedness
The first message from the library was written by Curtis Poling, whom I was surprised to see knew how to e-mail. He must be at least ninety years old and came across as an old-fashioned guy, but I should know better than to judge a book by its cover, especially when it came to Battle Lake’s elderly.
You call this work? I sit at a desk and talk to people about books all day. You might want to worry about me taking your job for good, except it’s cutting into my fishing time. There’s a box of books came in the mail for you. We’ll leave them until you get back.
Curtis Poling
When I opened the second library e-mail, I saw it was also from Curtis, written a day a
fter the first:
Everything’s still good. Those of us from the Senior Sunset who are mobile are taking turns. We’ve extended the hours, and some of the ladies took it upon themselves to dust every book and wash every leaf on every plant. You could read by the reflection of clean surfaces here, I swear.
You remember Janice Applet from the Sunset? Turns out she used to be a grant writer. Said she’s coming out of retirement to see what she can find for the library. I had to kick her off this computer to e-mail you. Oh, and I’m donating my collection of fly-fishing books to the library. First editions, good as new.
We’re having the time of our lives. Don’t hurry back.
Curtis Poling
The Japanese had it right. Respect the elderly, for they are amazing. Feeling better since finding out my home, animals, and primary job were in order, I took a deep breath and double-clicked on Johnny’s e-mail, immediately had second thoughts, and clamped my eyes shut before I could read the short message.
I’m normally a “rip-the-bandaid-off-quick” sort of gal, but I guess I didn’t want to find out Johnny had once and for all realized what a loser I was. Sigh. Enough. Get it over with.
I opened one eye, and then the other:
I’m sorry about last night. I shouldn’t have rushed things like that. It was good to see you.
Johnny
The hammering in my ears receded. I looked around to make sure I wasn’t being filmed for some prank show, but only saw families eating apples, sniffing flowers, and giving Henry a wide berth. A little smile tugged at my mouth.
Johnny was sticking with me.
I didn’t want to think too hard on what that meant, so I began typing my coverage of Henry’s book release:
“Local Author Takes His Wares to the State Fair”
Battle Lake native Henry Sunder launched his latest nonfiction book at the Minnesota State Fair. The book, Entrails, Ears, and Bones, Oh My! How to Use the Whole Animal, is the third installment in the Don’t Get Left Behind series. The first two, Tracking for Dummies and Putting Meat By: How to Make One Day’s Hunt Last through the Winter, sold so well that Sunder was invited to the State Fair to celebrate the publication of the third.
