September Mourn

by Jess Lourey

  I heard ladies excitedly chattering about following Neil Diamond around the country, and I noticed more than a few fans with tears streaming down their faces, staring at the stage as if waiting for the second coming of Christ. As we made our way through the general admission area and down toward the stage, we passed an impromptu poetry recital, women overcome by their love for Neil and driven to compose sonnets in his honor.

  “Neil, Neil,” one woman in a short-sleeved concert T-shirt was intoning, “you make me feel, special when you sing a tune, and I know, this girl’s gonna be a woman soon.” She’d been a woman for at least six decades judging by the skin hanging off her chicken wings, but I had to admit there was a certain girlish glow in her face as she waxed poetic. I didn’t get to hear the entire poem of the stooped woman she passed the torch to, but it started out, “To America, you bade us come, and I’m saying yes, to a night of fun.”

  “Mrs. Berns,” I whispered, feeling conspicuous. “Name me a Neil Diamond song.”

  She pressed her lips into a firm line and looked away. “The shame. Now come on. We’re right up front.”

  She pinned an “All Access” badge to my sundress and stuck her elbows out to launch us through the crowd. I was amazed as we passed level after level, descending lower and closer to the front, until we ended up in the plaza area, center stage, standing room only. These were the best concert seats I’d ever scored, and I couldn’t hum a single song by the star of the show. Jeez Louise. Around me, people chattered like magpies on speed. Their anticipation was contagious.

  That’s when it came to me. “Sweet Caroline!” I yelled, grabbing Mrs. Berns’ shoulder.

  “It’s a start,” she hissed. “Now shut up. I think he’s coming out.”

  Sure enough, there was some commotion stage left. The crowd dialed it down to an intense hum, doing their best impression of a gigantic electric generator. Overhead, the moon had punched in, and the night was absolutely gorgeous, warm with a light breeze. I smelled hotdogs and popcorn and the spicy cologne of the man next to me. Although I was warm, goose bumps speckled my arms as I got caught up in the charge of sharing an experience with fifteen thousand other people.

  In a short while, the band trickled out, followed by a sexy older guy wearing a tight black, button-down shirt with a head of beautiful, thick and graying hair. “That him?” I asked.

  My gaze walked him up and down as I tugged at Mrs. Berns to get her attention. “Is that Neil Diamond?” I looked over in time to see her bent double and wrestling something out of her shorts. “For god’s sake, what’re you doing?”

  One good yank, and she was holding a pair of authentic granny panties—white, elastic-hemmed, and approximately the size of a bedsheet. She whooped triumphantly and chucked them at Neil. They fell short, landing on the shoulder of a security guard with his back to the stage. He grimaced and batted them away.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I got plenty more where that came from. I sewed them into the lining of my clothes this morning. Even have a couple bras up here.” She patted her lumpy shorts.

  Good lord. “Glad to hear you came prepared.” A change of subject seemed in order. I nodded toward the stage. “You know, you weren’t lying about him. He’s one silver fox.”

  “Wait until he opens his mouth.”

  As if on cue, he picked up a microphone. “Hello.” His voice was impossibly deep and mellow. It made me shiver a little in my down below. “I’m thrilled to be back in Minnesota, one of my favorite states in the world. How’re you all doing?”

  Screams filled the outdoor arena, wild, lingerie-laced, sexual-fantasy screams. He chuckled. “I’m doing good, too. How about I sing for you? This is one of my favorites. I call it ‘September Morn.’”

  His voice filled the Grandstand and soared to the stars and back. He wasn’t flashy—no costume changes or dance moves—but he put on a great show. Ten songs in, I asked Mrs. Berns if I could throw a pair of her underwear onstage.

  “Sure,” she agreed amiably, if a little smugly. She was reaching down to pluck me a pair when I spotted something very bad out of the corner of my eye.

  “Mrs. Berns.”

  “I’m trying. Hold on. This one’s sewed up good.”

  “Mrs. Berns.”

  “I think it’s one of the super-reinforced undies. It feels like it’s made out of burlap.”

  “Mrs. Berns, is that Kennie?”

  She glanced up just in time to see Battle Lake’s mayor, in full groupie regalia, rushing the stage, wiping out security guards as if they were bowling pins. She was a little Norwegian and a lot buxom to be wearing the black bustier over a spandex skirt. She resembled a human tube of toothpaste that someone had squeezed in the middle and then dressed in fishnet stockings and five-inch heels, and topped with hooker makeup and an up-do.

  “I love you, Neil!” she screamed. “It’s me, Kennie Rogers! Remember me? It’s me, Neil!”

  Neil strolled to the opposite end of the stage, belting out “Solitary Man” without breaking stride. I tried to elbow through to Kennie, who was about twenty feet to my right, but there was no moving in this tight crowd. I don’t know what I’d have done if I caught her. Probably tossed a pair of Mrs. Berns’ underwear over her to cover her up and calm her down.

  She made it all the way to the thin wall separating the crowd from the stage. Behind that barricade was a line of security guards. The one nearest Kennie whispered something to her, and she smiled ecstatically. When he hoisted her on his shoulders, she pumped her bespangled arms in the air and cheered.

  The guards began to pass her down the line on their shoulders, like she was the only sandbag that could stop the flood. They were moving her closer and closer to Neil, and my jaw dropped as a thought struck me: maybe Kennie actually did know him. Maybe for once she hadn’t been stretching the truth, and she was now going to join him on stage in front of thousands. Next to me, Mrs. Berns watched, her open-mouthed expression mirroring my own.

  When Kennie was directly beneath the superstar, on her back and resting on the broad shoulders of four security guards, she reached up as if to welcome Neil into her arms.

  Time stood still.

  A stage camera turned to her, projecting her face fifty feet high on both of the immense concert screens. Her smile curved beatifically as she reached for the music man, but alas, it wasn’t to be. The guards didn’t stop. They kept passing her down the line, farther and farther from her idol, until she was out of sight, and, presumably, out of the Grandstand.

  Neil’s face replaced hers on the concert screens, and the moment was gone.

  “Well, that’s one way to get kicked out of a concert. I prefer toking on the wacky tobacky myself, but no way am I going to risk it—the show isn’t even half over.”

  “You smoke pot?” I asked, wondering what plan Kennie was currently hatching to sneak back into the Grandstand. She wasn’t a woman who gave up.

  “Helps my glaucoma. There’s a great many advantages to getting old, but we don’t like to tell you pups too much. Gotta have a few surprises when you grow up.”

  I smiled, putting Kennie’s mini-drama behind me to enjoy the rest of the concert. For the record, though, I’d be thrilled to grow up into a Mrs. Berns.

  We swayed to the music, danced to the numbers that rocked, and generally partied like it was 1999. The concert was off the charts, and when it was time to go backstage, I was surprised to find myself as excited as if I were going to meet a real rock star.

  “What should I say to him?” I said.

  “Lemme do the talking. Always let me do the talking.”

  As we were ushered past the security and toward the backstage, the bustle was intense as people rushed about with equipment and instructions. Our badges were checked again and we were ushered into a large room replete with bottles of icy champagne and trays of fruit, cheeses, prosciutto, and other meats they couldn’t pronounce in Battle Lake. Mrs. Berns took out a Tupperware container from her purse and began fillin
g it.

  “No use having this all go to waste,” she said to no one in particular.

  I sniffed at the food but was too excited to eat. The room was filled with other people who wore badges similar to ours, presumably also radio contest winners. Many of them held posters and T-shirts in their shaking hands, or autograph books, and most were clothed in their best—dresses, heels, ties. The few people my age or younger were not quite as spiffy, but they looked as awestruck and out of place as I felt.

  We all shuffled around trying to appear as though we’d spent most of our lives backstage. No biggie. I’m with the band. The only person I recognized besides Mrs. Berns was the woman from the press conference—Kate Lewis, president of the State Fair Corporation. She appeared as rumpled and mad-scientisty as she had then, and if anything, seemed paler and more distracted. A man broke away from the buffet line and joined her. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t immediately place him.

  I sidled up to the two of them and offered my hand, wanting to share my joy at the concert. “Hi, I’m Mira James. I’m a reporter for the Battle Lake Recall, and I was at the press conference the other day.”

  She reacted as if I’d offered her a blanket with smallpox. “I’m here on my own free time,” she said, backing up toward a wall. “I don’t have to answer any questions.”

  “Oh no. I just came over to say hello. A friend of mine won backstage passes, which is why I’m here. She’s over by the door.” I pointed toward where Mrs. Berns was hitting up an uncomfortable-looking security guard, her last pair of sewed-in underwear dangling from the rear waistband of her shorts. At least I hoped they were her sewn-in underwear.

  “Did you enjoy the show? I couldn’t believe how awesome it was! I wish I had brought my camera. I haven’t had it out since the first day of the fair, when I was covering the butter sculpting. I was right up front for that, too, but this show was way better. Of course it was. No one got hurt here.” I clamped my mouth shut. Have I mentioned I gush when I’m excited? That’s another good reason to avoid emotions.

  Kate began distancing herself from me. “The concert was very good. I hate to be rude, but it’s been a long day. If you don’t mind?”

  I thought she was going to leave, but instead, she turned her back to me and whispered to the man who was digging into his plateful of buffet food. I traveled back to Mrs. Berns, remembering where I knew him from. He was the same guy Janice had been speaking to at the bottom of the dorm stairs on Saturday, while the police were still on guard. He must be an employee of the fair.

  When I reached Mrs. Berns, I subtly leaned over to yank the dangling underwear free, shoving them into her purse. “When will Neil get here?”

  “Addicted, aren’t you? Told you so.”

  Suddenly, the room grew quiet, and we heard that sweet, booming voice of the sexy man in the black button-down shirt. His laughter filled the hall as he neared us, and it was almost enough to distract me from the agitated conversation Kate was involved in on the other side of the room.

  Sixteen

  The night before’s dancing must have exhausted me in a cleansing way, because I slept like the dead, waking up around nine a.m. on the pull-out couch with a warm yellow sunbeam across my face. Kennie was still sleeping on her bed across from mine, and I assumed Mrs. Berns was doing the same in the back bedroom.

  Stretching like a kitty before rising, I snuck to the showers for a quick rinse and tooth brushing, pulled on the navy blue tank top and cut-off shorts I’d brought with me, dropped my toiletries and pajamas under the trailer so as not to risk waking the ladies, and set off to catch a Metro bus to the West Bank. My plan was to visit my old hunting grounds and exorcise some demons before taking in the crown-passing ceremony at the Dairy building later today. As I walked along, the balmy late-summer sun was behind my plan one hundred percent.

  This trip to the State Fair had been my first return to the Cities since I’d left for Battle Lake last spring. That was an easy fact to forget because I’d been isolated in the biome that was the fair since I’d arrived. A person had everything she needed here—food, community, water, showers, bed. There was absolutely no reason to leave, and as I did, I realized the State Fair was just another small town, much like Battle Lake. That thought made me apprehensive to step outside the gate and into the gesellschaft that was Minneapolis/St. Paul. I’d changed a lot since I’d left last March, but was it a change for the better?

  I kept my face to the glass of the MTC bus as it puttered down Como, heading west. Forty-five minutes later, I recognized the familiar businesses of Riverside Avenue. I’d worked here, in the Cedar-Riverside neighborhood, for almost ten years before escaping to Battle Lake. I pulled the stop cord and stepped out tentatively, not sure what I was expecting to find.

  The area had been a hippie hangout when I’d left, a throwback culture with a flavor reminiscent of a 1990s Grateful Dead concert, peopled with a generation clinging to something they’d never known. The Riverside Café had taken up most of the block with its usually vegan and more frequently flavor-free dishes. Chili Time Café had been across the street, patronized by college freshman dabbling in Marxism. Patchouli and Nag Champa incense were the scent of choice outdoors, and street musicians wandered in all weather.

  Now, both restaurants were gone, one replaced by an Ethiopian grill and the other sitting empty. I smelled curry and cigars, and the scarves and India print skirts had been replaced by suits and burqas, but the place still had the same energy. There was room to be different here. The diversity of color and appearance let me relax in a way I couldn’t in a small town, a fact I’d forgotten in my rural isolation. My shoulders eased a little.

  I strolled past the empty windows of the Riverside Café, toward Perfume River, the Vietnamese restaurant I had waited tables at for many years before answering the siren song of Battle Lake. The outside was still painted salmon and yellow, two bay windows leading into a narrow restaurant that had room for only three rows of tables, seven tables deep. I pulled the door open and smiled to hear the same tinkling bell, the familiar scent of lemongrass and curry washing over me.

  I’d hoped Alison would be working the lunch shift, but she was nowhere in sight. I stood at the front counter and waited for someone to come from the rear of the restaurant, where the kitchen and wait station were. A teenage girl appeared, wearing the requisite black skirt, white shirt, and tie. I recognized the bow tie. It was the one we all fought over because it was the only clip-on and didn’t constrict your throat like the real ones.

  “Hello. Can I help you?”

  “Is Alison working?”

  She smiled prettily. “Sorry?” Her Vietnamese accent was faint.

  “Alison Short? The manager?”

  “Oh, she doesn’t work here anymore. My family bought the restaurant in June. The food still is very good, though. Would you like to see a menu?”

  I peeked around her, peering at the kitchen behind the glass of the waitress station. I saw one man chopping vegetables and another stirring a steaming soup pot. I didn’t know either of them. “Maybe later. Thanks.”

  I shoved my hands in my pockets and retreated quickly. I took a left out the door and walked north toward Washington Avenue, in the direction of my old loft apartment above an Indian restaurant. I still dreamt about that place, with its three, door-less rooms and ten-foot windows. When I lived there, I shared a bathroom with the guy next door, but it’d worked fine as he kept to himself. I didn’t know what I was looking for returning to the apartment. Maybe a banner proclaiming I had made the right choice in leaving?

  As I crossed the Washington Avenue Bridge toward my old abode, a young woman walked toward me. She was about my height, with long brown hair. Her head was down, but there was something familiar about the way she carried herself. As she drew closer, I noted the short-sleeved white blouse she was wearing over a dark cotton skirt. She wore comfortable black shoes. Her only break from the uniform was a dramatic amber ring on the middle finger of her righ
t hand.

  When we passed, she didn’t look up, and I didn’t say anything because I’d suddenly realized who she was: me, a year ago. I spun around abruptly, following her toward the West Bank. I pushed down the anxiousness that rose in me when she turned into Perfume River to start her shift. I didn’t peek in because I knew what she’d do next: go into the back room. Punch in. Say hello to the cooks. Slip on her apron and tie, cursing the other waitress for getting the good one. Begin to fold silverware in paper napkins until customers arrived. Dream of a different life.

  I blinked rapidly and crossed Riverside against the light. That put me in front of the 400 Bar, which had been another favorite hangout. I’d danced to a lot of bands and drank a lot of vodka there. The bartenders and bouncers had known me by name, and that was the shameful truth. I considered coming back to the bar later tonight, when it was open, to confirm with someone that I had in fact once lived here and was not disposable or easily replaced, but what does a person do at a bar if they don’t drink?

  A bus stopped in front of me with a pneumatic wheeze and huff of exhaust, and I stepped in, pausing to glanced around one last time before the doors closed behind me. I felt oddly unrooted, vulnerable, but also free. It was a lonely, scary feeling, like the bird who doesn’t know what to do when her cage door is opened.

  It was too much to fit in my head, and as if in reflection of my mood, the sun crept behind the clouds and a deep rumble echoed along the sky. The humid temperature dropped noticeably.

  I forced my thoughts to shift focus. I didn’t like the unmoored feeling. More importantly, there was nothing I could do about it. What I could do was find out who had killed Ashley Kirsten Pederson.

  And if I succeeded, people would realize they needed me.

  In a few hours Lana would be officially crowned Milkfed Mary, Queen of the Dairy, and get her beautiful young head enshrined in Grade A, unsalted butter. Hopefully, she wouldn’t also get it handed to her by the same person who had offed Ashley. I had been lax in not yet successfully tracking down Lana to question her about Ashley’s murder and to make sure she felt safe herself.