“I need to know if it’s free from noon to two p.m.” Waiting, I fidgeted from one foot to the other. Finally, the docent picked up the phone in my office.
“It’s free all afternoon.”
“Thank you. Would you please write in Lin Snider?”
“Sure.”
After I arranged Lin’s session, I shoved my mounting worries about who she was and what she wanted to the back of my mind. Would I really break into her motel room tomorrow? Right now, I was ready to do so, especially after hearing how she’d questioned Evangeline about me. But would I be so gung ho tomorrow? Well, like Scarlett, I’d think about it then.
I stopped off at the historical museum and managed to wash away the worst part of the chocolate stain. I considered taking it off, but walking around in this cold weather wearing only a long-sleeve cotton T-shirt wasn’t appealing. The rest of the day ran so smoothly I kept looking for the Oz-like tornado on the horizon. But Mother Nature was kind and benevolent, presenting us with a breezy, if cold, day. A few storm clouds lingered far enough away that I wasn’t worried . . . much.
“Please, not until six p.m.,” I murmured more than once while glancing at the distant pewter-colored clouds.
If attendance was the only thing that counted, the Memory Festival appeared to be a success. People’s spirits were high, and there was an equal amount of laughter and emotional tears. Though their presence wasn’t obvious, I recognized quite a few San Celina police officers. Many of them were working plainclothes detail. It relieved me, despite knowing that if this sniper decided to attack again, the officers might not be able to stop it from happening.
I took photos at every booth to record the fair’s technical aspects so next year’s chairperson, which I was determined would not be me, would have an idea what to expect and how to plan.
At the historical society’s oral history booth people were asked to fill out a “Where were you and what were you doing?” questionnaire about their memories on various common incidents in our country’s history like the bombing of Pearl Harbor, John F. Kennedy’s assassination, the murder of Martin Luther King Jr., the Challenger explosion and the death of Elvis Presley.
Down on Lopez Street, the VFW’s booths, which emphasized military memories, took up almost a block. There were so many men in eclectic uniforms milling about that you would have thought someone was filming a movie. The background music of Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey and the Andrews Sisters caused more than one older couple to break out in spontaneous dancing, much to everyone’s delight. A wiry man in a World War II leather bomber jacket and a chevron cap pulled me into a quick jitterbug, maneuvering me with expertise. He had no doubt been quite the ladies’ man in his time. Or maybe still was.
The Vietnam and Korean war veterans seemed a more casual group, more sober than those of World War II, maybe because their memories were less softened by time. Some men dressed in immaculate uniforms, others with long, shaggy hair wore tattered camouflage military jackets with purple hearts pinned to their chests. The music from their CD players was more familiar to me, though I’d been in elementary school during most of the time they were fighting in Vietnam—Iron Butterfly, the Beatles, Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven,” even the song “Last Train to Clarksville” by the Monkees.
At the Vietnam War booth, a woman with short auburn hair wore dark green fatigues and shiny black combat boots. Two pairs of scissors were tucked into her shirt’s front top pocket and pens filled a pocket on the upper part of her left sleeve. She wore a stethoscope around her neck and was talking to three teenage girls dressed in almost identical tight narrow-legged blue jeans, black Nikes and midriff-baring sweaters in bright sixties prints showing peace symbols and doves.
“You were only twenty-one when you went to Vietnam?” one girl exclaimed. “That’s, like, so young! I’m nineteen! That’s, like, only . . .” She turned to her friends, her glossy mouth open. One ear was rimmed with tiny gold and silver earrings.
“Two years older than you,” the woman said. She appeared to be in her early fifties with sun-roughened skin. Her shirt had the last name, Bennett, written over her breast. She gave a high, quick laugh that didn’t reach her dark eyes. “I graduated nursing school only two months earlier. I wanted to get away from home. I wanted to be on my own. I wanted adventure.” Her laugh was more cynical this time. “Boy, did I get adventure.”
“Was it, like, scary?” one of the girls asked, sipping from her sixty-four ounce Taco Bell drinking cup.
The woman nodded. “Very scary.”
“Like how? Did you, like, get shot at? Did you see gross stuff?” The girls exchanged looks, poked each other and giggled.
“Our hospital came under fire many times. Yes, there was lots of gross stuff.” She rubbed the side of her nose and glanced over at me.
“Did you kill anyone?” the tallest girl asked. She wore her blonde hair long and straight and parted in the middle. She thrust one hip out in an arrogant stance. “My dad protested against the war. He, like, told me that people who went to Vietnam were not all that smart. That they totally wasted their lives.”
Her words made me gasp.
“Britney!” one of her friends exclaimed. “You’re such a mean girl.” Then she giggled and shoved Britney as if they were kindergartners.
The woman looked calmly at the girls, her expression neutral. “It was gross beyond your imagination,” she said, her voice as unemotional as if she were reading from an instruction manual. “There were maggots and rats and snakes and lice. There were times when I couldn’t see the floor because it was covered in sticky blood. Did you know blood was sticky? It reminds me a little of maple syrup.”
One of the girls gagged. Blonde-haired Britney just stared, openmouthed.
The woman continued as if she were talking about a day the beach. “I saw hundreds of boys die, screaming, full of maggots, their guts spilling out of them like spaghetti from a jar. There were piles of bodies and trash cans filled with amputated legs. That’s what we did with the legs, you know, throw them out. What else were we going to do with them? Boys burned by napalm stank and screamed and cried for their mothers and they died in the few minutes it took me to type their blood. Then we just moved on to the next one. Because there always was a next one. Vietnam was hot and sticky and dry as dust and dirty as shit and it was the most beautiful land I’ve ever seen. When I got home, people thanked me by spitting on my shoes and calling me a baby killer. I didn’t kill babies. On my days off, I went to orphanages and took care of babies. I immunized them and cleaned their sores and I rocked them to sleep. There are men walking around today who are here because I helped save them. The boys who went to ’Nam did so because they were told it was the right thing to do for our country. It was a war started by men who were forty years older than the boys carrying the guns. Like most wars, it was just a pissing contest between old men with naive young men and women paying the ultimate price. Oh, and just for the record, your dad is an ass.”
Behind the shocked, sputtering girls, I started slowly clapping. In seconds two men in marine uniforms and a woman dressed in a World War II WAC uniform joined me. Then the rest of the small gathered crowd joined in. While we applauded Nurse Bennett, the young girls walked away, cursing under their breath.
“Good on you, as my grandma used to say,” one of the silver-haired marines said to the nurse.
I stepped closer to the nurse. “More people should hear those things.”
The expression on her face was rueful now. She fingered the stethoscope around her neck. “I’m kind of sorry I got so graphic. They’re just girls. I should know better than to go off like that.”
She peered at the badge around my neck that read Memory Festival Chairman. A hand came up to her mouth. “Shoot, are you the one in charge of this festival? I am so sorry. I guess that wasn’t exactly the kind of memories you were expecting . . .”
“Stop,” I said, holding up my hand. “It’s exactly the kind of memories this fes
tival is about. This isn’t just the good memories festival. All memories are legitimate. Those girls were spoiled brats who needed to hear your story. And I totally agree that girl’s dad was an ass.”
She gave a sad smile. “You love someone who served in ’Nam.” It was a statement, not a question.
I nodded. “My husband was a marine. He was there in ’68 and ’69.”
“Where?” one of the marines asked.
“I don’t know all the places, but he’s mentioned Khe Sanh. He was there at the end of the siege. April of ’68, I think. He was only eighteen.”
“That was some bad shit,” the marine said.
“Is he okay?” the nurse asked.
“Mostly.” There seemed to be knowledge in her liquid brown eyes, as if she had seen through our closed window shades and witnessed his agony.
She took my hand and squeezed it. “Good luck. He’s fortunate to have you on his side.”
I stared into the face of someone who got it, who really understood. “He was injured there and because of a nurse, because of many nurses, he eventually came home. Thank you.”
“Semper fi,” she replied. “I’d do it again. All my guys, well, they were special.” She smiled. “I mean it. I’d go again, if only for them.”
During my rounds, I stopped to sign my name to the Memory Quilt, sponsored by the San Celina Quilt Guild and the Alzheimer’s Association. It was a huge Log Cabin design that had places for eight hundred people to sign their names, more if they used the plain muslin back. The Alzheimer’s Association booth was surprisingly upbeat with purple balloons and free grape Tootsie Roll pops. They sold greeting cards created by the memory impaired. I bought a set made from a painting by a man named Lefty. It showed a purple and red cowboy boot filled with brown flowers. The juxtaposition of the colors made me smile.
Next to their booth was the official Memory Painting, sponsored by the Central Coast Plein-Air Society. Using acrylic paints, people were encouraged to paint a two-inch section on the large six-foot-by-six-foot canvas. The finished painting would be displayed in the Arne Nybak wing of the San Celina Art Center. Arne Nybak had been one of our most famous regional artists. His daughter, Christine, owned Tea and Sympathy, where I’d given Elvia her bridal shower.
In one booth, sponsored by Deck Connors and promoting his newest business, Backdrops, people were photographed with their favorite object. They were given a free five-by-seven of the photograph and a discount coupon for a photo session at Backdrops. I expected to see Van Baxter there, but Tiffany Connors was helping in the booth, obviously pressed into service by her father.
The booths for each decade—1900 through 1990—were especially fascinating. They featured clothes, books, gadgets and advertising from each decade. A group of Cal Poly history students, those not working security, sponsored each booth.
The memory garden booth presented by our local nurseries and the Farm Supply made me want to start a memory garden filled with pansies, sunflowers and roses to remember my mother. There were booths promoting memory stones, flag cases and condolence lamps. One of my favorite booths was Kitchen Memories, which sold kitchen gadgets from every era. The Day of the Dead booth demonstrated how to make an altar in honor of your loved one. It even sold little sugar skulls and cookies in the shape of tombstones.
Though the Parkwell Mortuary’s tombstone booth should have been a little depressing, it was actually interesting with its clever display of funny tombstone sayings. Mel Blanc’s “That’s All, Folks!” and “Here Lies Ezekial Aikle. Age 102. The Good Die Young.” My favorite was “I Would Rather Be Here Than Texas” which I photographed so I could tease Hud with it. The explanation of the tombstone was the deceased’s ex-husband was buried in Texas.
It was no surprise that the booths celebrating the passing of pets were popular. They sold pet reliquaries and hand-blown glass urns gorgeous enough to sit on anyone’s mantel. In one booth, ashes, fur or a small photo could be sealed in silver and gold lockets. You could even have your dog or cat’s paw print made into a pendant or charm.
Along with our usual food vendors selling tri-tip steak sandwiches, hot dogs, turkey legs and pizza slices, we chose vendors that sold food the committee felt represented old-fashioned memories—a root beer float booth, cotton candy, a penny candy store filled with Walnettos, jelly mints, Fizzies, chicken bones, Necco Wafers, Bit-O-Honey, Mary Janes, wax bottles and sassafras drops. There was a popcorn ball vendor, a saltwater taffy booth and a booth selling hot chocolate and marshmallows.
The hot chocolate booth was also selling doughnuts made by the home economics department of San Celina High School. That was where I found Dove and Aunt Garnet.
“Put that back,” Aunt Garnet was saying to Dove, who was reaching for her favorite, a chocolate doughnut with sprinkles. Though they’d been getting along wonderfully up until now, the fact that Uncle WW was pretty much doing okay and Daddy was avoiding them and their matchmaking meant all they had left to do now that the festival was rolling along was pick at each other.
“Mind your own beeswax,” Dove said, taking a big bite. Aunt Garnet had been getting on Dove to lose a little weight. Dove, at five feet nothing, wasn’t fat but was definitely on the chubbier side of the equation. Aunt Garnet, despite being from the exact same gene pool, had four inches on Dove and weighed about twenty-five pounds less. The thing was, I had no doubt that Dove was in better shape. She’d worked on a farm or ranch since she’d been married to my grandpa, and once Aunt Garnet got married at eighteen, she had become pure city mouse. Truth be told, Dove could probably outrun, outride, outwork and certainly outlast Aunt Garnet.
“Do you realize how much fat and sugar is in one single doughnut?” Aunt Garnet said, pulling a banana out of her pocketbook.
“Do you realize that I don’t give a hootenanny?” Dove answered. No one stood between Dove and her doughnuts. “Wrap me up that orange one to go.” She contemplated the selection a moment, then added, “And two maple bars.”
“Dove!” Aunt Garnet exclaimed. “That’s just pure bingeing. I read about it in Reader’s Digest.” She gave the teenage girl selling the doughnuts a stern look. “Don’t you dare sell her one more doughnut.”
“Ignore the old biddy,” Dove told the girl. “Add that jelly one.”
Aunt Garnet’s face was horror-stricken, as if Dove had said, “Barbecue me that cute little bunny rabbit while you’re at it.”
“Sister,” Aunt Garnet said, “all I have to say is what would Jesus do?”
Without missing a beat Dove said, “Oh, please, God understands overeating. I’m betting Jesus binged once or twice in his life. We have no idea how much he ate at the Last Supper. Our Lord was under a lot of stress.”
With Aunt Garnet sputtering a shocked and incoherent reply, I decided it was time for me to move along. I walked the length of Lopez Street, found everything going smoothly, so I headed over to the Mission Plaza.
I stopped by Van Baxter’s booth to see if sales were going better than they had been the other night.
“How’s business today?” I asked.
“Much better,” he said. “I think the sun coming out might have loosened people’s hold on their wallets.” He grinned at me, then held up a finger that he’d be right back when a female customer asked him a question about a photograph showing the silhouette of a young woman on skis at the foot of a mountain. A rifle on her back mimicked the line of the skeleton trees.
“That’s my wife,” I heard him tell the customer. “She was training for a biathlon.” The woman decided to buy the photograph for her sister.
“How far did your wife get in her training?” I asked him after he finished the transaction.
He wiped one hand down the side of his brown cargo pants. “She was good. Probably could have gone to the Olympics.”
“What happened?”
“You know, her mom got sick, my job got hinky, money . . .” He shrugged.
“Life intervened,” I said. “I totally .
. .”
Before I could finish, a loud rat-tat-tat made me jump. The screaming was like a horrible flashback from a few days ago. I froze in place, my head telling me to move but my body feeling thick and slow.
“Get down!” Van yelled, shoving me to the ground.
I hit the ground with a jarring thump, my hip sparking with pain. But the pain revived me, and I fumbled for my cell phone, punching 911. Two uniformed officers ran past Van’s booth. My mind went into overdrive—where were Dove and Aunt Garnet? Were the shots near the amphitheater? Was another officer shot? Would they catch the sniper this time?
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” the dispatcher said.
“Shots fired at the festival downtown.”
“Already reported, thanks,” she said, hanging up.
I started to stand. “I have to go see what’s—”
“No!” Van said, pulling me back down. “It’s safer here.”
In that moment I spotted a young girl, not more than four or five, running across the grass, screaming. I pulled away from Van and headed toward her. When I heard another pop-pop-pop, I slid across the wet grass, caught the girl’s heel and pulled her to the ground. I instinctively curled my body around hers.
“Ashley!” I heard a woman scream.
I lifted my head slightly, keeping the girl’s head pressed into my chest. People were running for cover into the mission gift shop, the chapel, behind walls and trees, though no one had any idea where the shots came from or if anyone had been hit.
Beneath me, the little girl trembled and whimpered. “Mommy. I want my mommy.”
“Lie still, sweetie,” I said, keeping my voice calm and steady, though I felt like crying myself. “We’ll find your mommy.”
Seconds later I heard D-Daddy’s voice over a handheld PA system. “It’s okay, folks. Just some kids and firecrackers. It’s okay.”
I slowly sat up, still holding the little girl, who was crying hysterically now. Her mother, a young woman who seemed barely out of her teens, dashed up to us. “Ashley, are you okay?
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