by Jess Lourey
Last night, I had started to develop a theory about the Milkfed Marys’ hair mystery, and both Mrs. Berns and Kennie had assured me it made sense, not that they were a reliable gauge of sensibility. I’d need to wait to see all of the Milkfed Marys together with their hair down to test my theory, and that wasn’t gonna happen until the daily State Fair parade taking place later in the afternoon.
I thought I could at least check out Megan’s ’do, but she was rotating in the booth with her blonde hair in a ponytail and had turned up the collar on her jacket, so I was SOL. Glenda was having a bear of a time sculpting the perky hairstyle, which required her to balance butter in midair from a narrow point with all the skill of a civil engineer.
I hung around for the entire carving of Megan’s head, staking out a comfortable bench near the east wall where I could read and people watch. In the end, Megan’s carving took four hours, a third less time than the previous ones because her face was rather bland, making her the perfect subject for the milquetoast medium. When she stepped out of the booth, I had a quick chat with her and discovered she knew nothing of any significance.
“That’s creepy about Brittany’s hair, though.” She shook her head in disbelief, her ponytail swishing from side to side.
“She told you?”
“Yeh. We were all talking about it at the dorm last night.”
This might save me some time. “Anyone else missing hair?”
“Christine and Brittany, that’s it. We all checked each other. Felt like we were looking for ticks. I think it’s that princess from Olmstead County who did it. She’s such a hobag, I can totally see her cutting off people’s hair while they slept and then laughing about it all day long. A few of us took turns keeping watch on the dorm while the others slept last night, see if we could catch her in the act. At least we tried to. Britt fell asleep during her shift and never woke Christine up to take over.” She put her left hand to her right wrist, and then stopped as a look of frustration crossed her face.
“What’s up?”
“My aquamarine bracelet. It was a graduation present from my boyfriend, and I hardly ever take it off. I couldn’t find it anywhere this morning.”
I raised my eyebrows. This was a new twist, but it supported my current theory about where the hair had gone. “Yeah? Anyone else missing jewelry?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Can you ask the other princesses for me? I’ll be at the parade today.”
She snorted. “Am I supposed to flash you a sign if I find out something? We’ll be on a float, you know.”
“A thumbs up will do.”
She wrinkled her button nose. “Okay. If I remember.”
After my interesting dish with Megan and a final scan of the Dairy building to make sure no suspicious, cyanide-toting characters were in attendance, I headed back to the trailer to grab my wallet, which I must have left behind after losing $12.55 to Mrs. Berns in a feverish, if one-sided, Gin Rummy marathon.
I smiled as I passed the Kidway. In no hurry to be a mom myself, I still loved the squeal of kids having fun. I was yanked out of my reverie when Christine crossed my line of vision, disappearing behind the towering Giant Slide, a two hundred-foot-plus permanent fair structure that allowed groups of up to five people slide down at the same time on burlap sacks. She ducked behind one of the walls hiding the metal supports, and I dashed after her, curious why she wasn’t with the rest of the Milkfed Marys at the community event. A screech of outrage made me draw up before I cleared the corner of the slide wall.
“You’re a liar! You just wanted to ruin my career, and you’ve done mighty fine at that, thank you.” This first voice was familiar, but I couldn’t place it without a face. Christine spoke next.
“This isn’t about you. I didn’t even know you before the pageant.” My ears perked up at Christine’s mention of “pageant,” but I still couldn’t place the first agitated female voice.
“I didn’t mean getting into the pageant on a lie. I meant promising me you’d keep the secret. I had to leave the girls unchaperoned to come here and talk some sense into you. Why can’t you keep it all under wraps for seven more days? Then we can both go our own way.”
“Because I don’t like the lying.” Christine’s voice was solid with conviction.
“Didn’t bother you when you signed on.”
“That was then. Things have changed now.”
The accuser laughed, an ugly, threatening sound, and that’s when I definitively identified the speaker: Janice Opatz. “I’ll say they have.”
“Mommy, I want to go. Please mommy.”
I stopped my spying and came around the corner at the little girl’s voice. She sounded scared.
“Mira?”
“Christine?” I found myself eye-to-eye with her, and at her heels were the two towheaded girls Christine’s mother had introduced to me as Christine’s nieces at her butter-carving session. And here they were calling Christine “mom.”
“This is just great,” Janice hissed. “Now the whole world will know. Good work, Christine.”
I ignored Janice and spoke directly to Christine. “You have kids?”
“Two. Emma and Ella, will you say hi to Mira?”
Emma, the oldest, held out her hand. Ella ducked her face into her mom’s skirt. “I’m pleased to meet both of you.” I returned my attention to Christine. “Does this mean what I think it means?”
“That I’m not eligible to be a Milkfed Mary? Yeah.”
Janice puffed up. “It’s in the rules, clear as a bell. Section 14, Article 3, Subdivision 7, ‘A Milkfed Mary contestant must not have been married or have had any children, even if given up for adoption, prior to winning her title. If she gets married, becomes pregnant, or has any children at any time before the termination of her reign, she will forfeit any title and all winnings, including scholarships and endorsements, associated with the pageant.’ Christine knew the rules, and still she entered the contest. She’s a liar.”
Big tears started to stream down Emma’s cheeks as Janice berated her mother.
“You’re upsetting the girls, Janice. And it’s just a stupid contest,” I said. I stopped from voicing what I was really thinking: And you’d think the dairy industry would be more supportive of breeders.
“A contest I never should have entered, and one I’m formally withdrawing from today. I made a mistake, and I’m tired of living the lie. I’m proud to be a single mom, and I’m proud of my babies.” She hugged them both close.
I had a thought. I turned to Janice. “Was this the secret you were threatening Lana not to tell, up in the dormitory on Tuesday?”
She looked ready to breathe fire. “A few of the girls knew. We decided it was in their best interest to keep Christine’s situation private. If the reputation of one Milkfed Mary is sullied, she tarnishes all the girls’ standing. The contest becomes a joke.”
“That’s bull,” Christine said. “First of all, I only told Ashley, and that was in confidence. She told you because she was a worthless brown noser. Lana overheard Ashley snitching to you and then told me. And second, you weren’t ever worried about any of us. You were worried about your job, plain and simple. And I’m not going to ask anyone to lie for me anymore, which is why I’ve resigned. It’s history. Mira, you can help me spread the word. I’m a mom, and I’m proud of it. Come on, girls. We’ve got some sliding to do!”
Christine lifted Ella and rested her on her hip, grabbed Emma’s hand, and led them off. I was left with an abruptly deflated-looking Janice. She started to massage her hands and stopped, reaching into her purse for hand disinfectant. “I just wanted to protect the pageant, that’s all. It symbolizes something important in this immoral world, old-fashioned farm values. Was it so bad that I wanted to protect that?”
I studied her face, which had become sagging and gray without her characteristic controlled anger to plump it. “The pageant is important to you, isn’t it?”
“It’s my life.” She tur
ned and walked away.
I almost felt sorry for her until her missing chunk of hair drew my attention, reminding me of my theory. I had a pretty good idea that Janice Opatz wasn’t exactly what she appeared to be, and the parade in an hour would prove it, if Megan didn’t forget her job. I scurried back to the Airstream to grab my wallet. Mrs. Berns had scrawled me a note:
We’ve got a day full of Fair Bears’ duties. Don’t wait up. Bought you a fresh Nut Goodie.
Indeed, the green-and-red wrapped candy was serving as a paperweight to the note, but as I looked at it, a horrible realization dawned: I wasn’t hungry for a Nut Goodie. By my count, I’d eaten seven of the battered, deep-fried candy bars since my arrival at the fair, and while my mouth was willing, my stomach and dimpling ass were on strike. Ever the optimist, I shoved the candy in my purse for later and searched for my wallet. It wasn’t on the table next to my laptop where I’d left it, so I got down on all fours. A little scrabbling around, and I uncovered it just underneath Kennie’s unmade bed. It must have fallen from the table where we had played cards.
In that position, a black shape farther back under Kennie’s bed became visible. I flatted into an army crawl and pulled myself forward, fully expecting to discover a pile of dirty underwear or some old food. Instead, my searching hand made contact with my missing camera.
I pulled myself and the camera out and sat on my heels, dust bunnies in my hair, and turned the camera around. It was definitely mine, or at least the newspaper’s. It was unlikely Mrs. Berns or Kennie would have tossed it back there, and besides, I had already checked that location when I first noticed the camera missing. I flicked on the power switch, grateful to discover the battery still had juice. Selecting the “View Photos” function, I was not surprised to see that all the pictures of Ashley had been deleted, leaving only a series on Luna and Tiger Pop frolicking in my vegetable garden back home. My heartbeat picked up, and I suddenly felt vulnerable in the trailer.
Somebody had stolen the camera, destroyed the photos of Ashley, and then returned it. That meant the trailer had been broken into at least twice, and by somebody who didn’t want evidence of what the camera had captured at Ashley’s ceremony. I stood quickly, brushed myself off, and scoured the trailer for any more signs of a break-in. Nothing.
I turned on my laptop to see if anyone had monkeyed with it. A search of the “history” showed that no new sites had been visited. If the thief who had broken into the trailer was interested in what I was doing online, however, they would know I had been researching Aeon, cyanide, and the 1977 Milkfed Mary pageant. A cold tickle of fear whispered down my back. I would need to warn Mrs. Berns and Kennie about our malefactor, and we would have to make double sure to lock all windows and the door before we left.
With my computer on, I decided to check my e-mail. I only had two messages. The first was from Ron:
Got ’em.
Short and sweet, like the man himself. Well, half like him, and I was glad to know he had successfully received the Ag-Hort and 4-H articles I had sent the previous afternoon. The second e-mail was from Johnny, the third I’d received since our disastrous post-concert evening:
Hey, Mira! You wouldn’t believe the bounty that’s coming in at the farmer’s market. When you get back, we’ll have to do some canning. Oh, and the band got some good publicity at the fair. The Pioneer Press is running a full-page article on The Thumbs next week. Good stuff! See you tomorrow at the fair. Johnny
Tomorrow. He was coming back tomorrow. This raised a different kind of fear in me, one that ran deep. Sighing, I decided that it was time to stop being afraid of falling in love. This was as good a time as ever to start the new life with the new me, where I was defined by my actions instead of my reactions. I hit “reply” and typed quickly, my first e-mail to him ever:
Thanks for the e-mail, Johnny. That’s fantastic news about your band! You guys are going to make it big. Canning sounds great. I’m looking forward to seeing you tomorrow. I’d like to finish what we started.
Mira
I immediately pulled the “send” trigger before I chickened out. I had never been so direct with Johnny, so open about how I felt about him. I really did want to finish what we’d started after his show at the Leinie Lodge, though. I wanted him to kiss me long and hard. There. It was out there. It was the truth. I wanted to press up against Johnny as if I was butter and he was hot toast. I wanted to kiss so long that our lips pruned. I wanted to roll in the grass with him like we were wildcats tied together at the waist. I wanted all that and more.
Then, a thought occurred that squeezed my heart in a bad way: had my e-mail been too obtuse, too vague? Would he think I wanted to finish what we started in my garden, tying up the tomato plants? Or finish what we started at the library, where we were renovating the children’s reading space? Or even finish what we started in dialing back our relationship to friendship mode? Christ. I was a lousy flirt. I should have just told him he needed to kiss me and be out with it. I couldn’t retract the e-mail, though. It was hurtling through cyberspace, probably already on his laptop and maybe even being read.
I shut down the computer, grabbed the camera, and headed to the daily State Fair Parade, certain that everyone could spot my dork flag flying. The streets of the fairgrounds were packed with couples strolling hand in hand, laughing and leaning in to each other. How did they make it look so easy? Did I have a cellular disorder, a genetic man-repellent visible only under microscope or by watching me stumble through a conversation with a decent guy? Agh.
Fortunately, the sounds of a marching band signaled the beginning of the early-afternoon parade and saved me from further self-flagellation. I elbowed my way to the front and turned my camera on so I’d be ready when the Milkfed Mary float sailed past. I didn’t need to wait long as their float led the parade. The float was blue-spangled on white, pulled by a car that featured a plywood cow cutout on each side to disguise it. On the back of the float, ten cute beauty queens in ball gowns waved prettily at the crowd. I was pleased to see Christine had stuck to her principles and was nowhere in sight. Megan was on the far side of the float, so I made a mad dash across the front, wondering briefly how embarrassing it would be to get run over by a cow car going twelve miles per hour.
“Megan!” I yelled. The parade route was loud with cheering and clapping for the Milkfed Marys. “Megan! Over here!”
She separated her name from the rest of the cheers and looked in my direction. I caught her attention, giving her an expectant look. She flashed a rueful grimace and held up her hands to indicate that she hadn’t found out anything. I let the float pass, snapping photos as long as I was there. I retreated to the shade of an oak tree when the Milkfed Marys were out of sight so I could look over the photos.
“Hey, did you get what you were looking for? That was some crazy high-risk photography, running out in front of a moving float like that.”
I had been so engrossed in studying the photos that I hadn’t seen Aeon approach. I looked into his bright blue eyes, which appeared sad, tilting down at the corners. Maybe it was the dappled sunlight under the tree throwing shadows. “Hi, Aeon. How’re you doing?”
“Been better. You eaten yet?”
“As a matter of fact, no.”
“Care to get a late lunch with me?”
“Let me guess. You’re a vegetarian.”
“Vegan, actually. But you don’t have to be. The Blue Moon Drive-in has great woodfired pizzas with rice or regular cheese.”
I reminded myself that Aeon was still on my suspect list, a hard fact to remember when he was being so nice. “Deal.”
“Hey, I got a joke for you,” he said, as we strolled to the diner.
“Okay.”
“Knock knock.”
“Please.” I rolled my eyes to play it cool, but the truth was, I loved knock knock jokes.
“Come on. Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Interrupting cow.”
“In
terrupting cow wh—”
“MOOOO!”
I laughed. The kids at the library story hour would love that one. “You actually have a sense of humor! So how come you’re so serious all the time? You worried that if people find out you’re a human behind those glasses and that picket sign that they won’t take you seriously? A jury might go easier on you if you cracked more smiles, you know.”
He stopped in front of the restaurant and looked down at his shoes. “You Googled me.”
“What?”
“You Googled me and found about the ecoterrorism stuff, didn’t you?” His voice had an odd lilt.
I crinkled my forehead. “Yeah, but that’s not what I was talking about. I was just teasing you.”
He didn’t respond. Instead, he entered the restaurant, ordered his pizza, and sat at a table. I did the same, joining him though I wasn’t sure he welcomed my company anymore. In the back of the diner, an episode of “Gilligan’s Island” was playing on the big screen. We both pretended to watch it, neither of us talking even as our pizza and grape sodas were delivered.
“Look,” he said, putting his rice cheese pizza down and finally speaking. “Freaking out people and breaking the law isn’t my style. It’s what The Originals did, and it took me awhile to find my own direction.”
“The Originals?”
“My parents. Chandra and Chad. They founded GreenFreedom, but you probably know that already, too.”
“I did,” I mumbled around my pizza. “You call them ‘The Originals’?”
“They’re the original counterculture hippies, hell bent on civil disobedience and insurrection. I was raised in that environment, and it rubbed off on me. All of it, the good and the bad.”
“What was the bad?”
“The idea that I needed to destroy something to get attention. I understand activists who believe there’s no other way to get heard, but it’s not my style.” He shook his head, his face impassioned. “I found that out the hard way, with the bombing and the vandalism.”
