Bend

by Nancy Hedin

  The worst part of Becky being pregnant and preparing to marry Kenny Hollister was that it took all of Momma and Dad’s attention. The best part of Becky being pregnant and preparing to marry Kenny Hollister was that it took all of Momma and Dad’s attention. I was under their radar. I worked with Twitch whenever I wanted. I read veterinary science and sketched whenever I wanted. Then in January, a week before Becky’s wedding, it happened. I found out I wasn’t the only queer in the world, and not the only queer in Bend, Minnesota.

  Of all places, it happened at the most sacred ground in my hometown—second only to the woods on our farm—the library. I was there to research a stack of notebook assignments from Dad and I’d picked up our family’s requests for reading that week. Momma wanted a book on the lives of the Saints, Dad wanted that book about the guy who lived alone in Alaska, Becky wanted a book on the benefits of eating the placenta, and I wanted something on raising chickens with big breasts for big profits.

  I saw her again. Backlit by dusty fluorescent bulbs and stacks of musty volumes of Reader’s Digest Select Editions. The newcomer pretty girl sparred with the librarian, Gerry, like gunslingers in a Western movie. I nearly sprained my ears eavesdropping.

  “I have two college courses I must complete by correspondence. I was a bad girl at college,” she told Gerry. “I’ll need some reference materials—some that the library probably has and some other things that’ll have to be borrowed from a bigger library system, and I’ll need time on the library’s computer.”

  Gerry, keeper of the books and all things Dewey Decimal, pushed her glasses back up her nose, tapped her felt-tip pen against her lip, and gave the librarian’s version of the Miranda rights.

  “You must have a library card to use the computer or reference department or order materials. You must have a valid picture ID to get a library card. You may only use the computer in the reference department for one hour per day if there are persons waiting to use the computer in the reference department. You may not use the computer or reference department for any illegal or immoral activities or you will forfeit all future use of the computer, reference department, and your library card.”

  The woman gave Gerry a puzzled look. “No immoral activities when you’re giving me a whole hour in there?”

  I liked that girl’s spunk. I especially liked seeing that spunk wrapped up in that body.

  Gerry gasped and nearly sucked her pen into her throat.

  The girl smiled. “I can live with those rules, but I wish you could be more flexible on the time limit. Do you ever make exceptions?” She tilted her head to read Gerry’s name tag. “Gerry?”

  Obviously, she did not know nor had she heard about Gerry. I hoped I would be the one who enlightened her about the strange and curious ways of Geraldine Narrows, the Bend librarian.

  I planned to point at Geraldine Narrows and note her all-season matching organic cotton skirt, vest, and suit coat, her buttoned-to-the-neck blouses noosed by complementary silk ties with petite flower or rodent patterns. She always wore hose and a sturdy tie shoe in varying shades of concrete. Geraldine had never married, and to my knowledge had never dated, lusted, or felt particularly warm about anything other than books and the machination of the Bend library. Geraldine lived in her house on our road, sandwiched between our farm and Kenny Hollister’s family farm.

  I trusted Gerry. She was reliable as cotton. I liked her rational approach to problem solving, her access to information, and that Gerry often helped with a school project or practical advice when Momma’s mood necessitated safe distance. Hell, even Becky liked Gerry because Gerry held the newest women’s magazines aside for Becky to see first. Becky helped Geraldine by sewing some of her clothes and by cooking a hot dish for Gerry every so often, because Becky said Gerry only cooked from boxes.

  Most recently, Gerry had helped me review college programs in animal science. From my frequent dealings with Geraldine, I knew her to be a kind, knowledgeable, and helpful person once she got to know you, but she also liked protocol. Nothing about Geraldine suggested that she made exceptions. That was what I would tell the prettier-than-horses young woman if I ever got the nerve to talk to her.

  Gerry licked her fingers, retrieved a red form, and placed it on the counter without breaking eye contact. “Yes. It’s short for Geraldine, and no, I do not make exceptions. I do not have that sort of authority, but if you would like me to present your concern to the library board, you can submit a library board concern form to me. It must include your library card number.”

  “I guess I’m going to need a library card.” The girl took a driver’s license from her back pocket and placed it in front of Gerry. “How long does it take to get a library card?”

  Gerry took her pen and let it tumble between the fingers of her right hand, gambler-style.

  “The processing of library card requests varies depending on the volume of requests and the general work load for library staff. I will take a copy of your ID while you complete a library card request form and submit your completed paperwork to the library card issuance officer.”

  Still twirling the pen and looking into the girl’s eyes, Gerry retrieved a goldenrod-colored form from below the desk and placed it before her. At the moment the form hit the counter, Gerry flipped her pen in the air, caught it, and presented it to the girl. The girl presented her ID to Gerry.

  The duel was suspended. Gerry peered at the ID, varying its distance from her nearsighted orbs like she was playing the slide trombone. “Is this your current address?”

  “God, no. Not unless we’re in a suburb of St. Paul, which we clearly are not. My parents moved here a couple years ago, only God knows why. My father believes he has a direct line to God. I came here at their extortion. I haven’t yet had an opportunity to change the address because I hope that my stay is only temporary. But I’ll change it rather than having to take some sort of test to show I can drive a tractor or avoid stray cattle and hogs, which seem to find their way onto the roads and move faster than the motorists here,” she said in one breath.

  She took Gerry’s hands and turned them over so that the ID fell flat onto the counter. Still holding Gerry’s hands, she said, “Gerry, look at this picture.”

  Gerry nodded her head, never looking away from the girl’s face.

  “It is me. The license is reasonably accurate except for the address, and I’m much more charming in person than that picture could ever suggest.” She leaned in, pulled Gerry closer. Gerry was slack-jawed. “Couldn’t you see your way clear to pass my paperwork along to the library card issuance officer?”

  Her lips were pouty. God how I hoped I’d have something that girl needed or wanted. Gerry couldn’t lift her shield of rules anymore. Gerry photocopied the ID and slid a fresh library card across the counter a few minutes later.

  “Congratulations, Ms. Charity Krans.” She gave a slight salute.

  Charity thanked Gerry and told her she’d be back at six thirty that evening.

  She walked over to the reference area and stood on the opposite side of the glass window from me. She tapped on the glass, smiled, winked, and left the library. I was so befuddled that I dropped the S volume of the World Book Encyclopedia on my foot. I saved my remaining twenty-two minutes of time on the library computer in the reference department and planned to return that evening and make it an offering to Charity.

  Gerry shuffled through the papers Charity had completed, while I hovered. Finally, Gerry looked up at me.

  “She’s new, huh?”

  “Yes,” Gerry said. “She never actually lived here with her folks before. She stayed in St. Paul. College, I suppose. That’s Grind’s oldest daughter. They don’t talk about her much. She changed her name.”

  “Holy shit! Oops, sorry I swore.”

  “Holy shit indeed. Hard to believe she’s related to that minister, isn’t it? No offense. You go to that church, don’t you?” Gerry took her papers over to the typewriter.

  “You think she go
t married?”

  “No. I heard she just changed her name,” Gerry said. “Even her first name. She used to be Jeannine or something like that. That family has a thing for J names—probably would have named a son Jesus.”

  Gerry let me use the library phone to call home for a ride. I wanted to get home to take a bath, wash my hair, and find the right clothes for seeing Charity again. I hoped Dad would drive me to the library again later. At the same time, I was resolved to walk to the library if Dad wouldn’t take me.

  There was no good reason to expect that another person like me existed in my own town and that she could be beautiful and also need the library. My heart raced and my mind tried to keep up. Something told me that Charity Krans hadn’t noticed the nice boys in town either. Maybe it was like elephants. Elephants tapped the ground and communicated to other elephants miles away. Maybe all this time the yearnings of my heart had reverberated—tapped the ground. Maybe Charity had heard me and come in my direction. I kept my ear to the ground.

  Charity was already at work by the time I reached the library. I watched her as she thumbed through reference books, made notes, and rat-a-tatted on the computer keyboard. This wasn’t the entrance I had pictured. I had planned to be there first, seated in the reference section. I imagined that Charity would have stood close to me and asked whether the other seat in the reference section was taken. I had planned to look up at Charity with my brown cow eyes and high cheekbones—the only thing my momma gave me worth mentioning. I’d intended to drink Charity in. I’d planned to tell Charity that I had saved most of my time on the computer so that I could give it to her because I’d heard she needed to get her college course work done.

  In my mental romance Charity smiled at me, asked my name, and discovered that at least somebody in this one-horse town knew she had important things to do. I imagined Charity seated in a chair next to me.

  Lust oozed from my heart, lust for someone who was like me, lust for someone who would like me, lust for knowing what it would be like to like somebody like me who liked me back. I had lust in my heart and impatience in my soul. I was impatient thinking of how all the dumb boys clumsily flirted with girls, went places with them, held their hands, and kissed them.

  Lust and impatience launched me to that library in hopes of meeting Charity Krans and having my suspicions confirmed, my hopes fulfilled.

  I’d arrived late.

  Charity was totally into whatever she was writing. Then I noticed Charity wasn’t taking notes. She was sketching a horse. I loved Charity even more.

  “Hey, Lorraine!”

  For a moment I thought I was hearing voices and had suddenly become one of those people who heard their names called and got special messages from undiscovered planets and the inner workings of electric can openers, televisions, and satellite dishes. Then I heard it again, louder.

  “Hey, Lorraine!”

  It was Charity, and she had called my name. Oh my God! She knew my name and had called it. I was so excited I almost left the library because reality had already surpassed my expectations. But like a child, I believed there could be more to come. I racked my addled brain to think of the perfect, cool, mature response to this siren and said, “Hey.”

  “I hope you don’t mind. Gerry told me your name. Thought I might see you again. My name is Charity Krans.”

  “I know. I mean I heard that was your name.”

  With boldness that did not match my stumbling words, only the courage in my imagination, and weakness in my knees, I took the remaining chair in the reference department and pulled it closer to Charity.

  My eyes, like fingers on braille, moved slowly over Charity, the shelves of books and framed pictures of dead presidents fading to indistinct shadows. Charity’s auburn hair; creamy pink skin; and round, hound-dog-brown eyes came clearly into focus. Her slender fingers used the pencil like a brush, the line sharp and thin here, dark and fat there, and then she tipped it over and shaded something so that the horse’s muscles rippled and its mane wisped up from its neck.

  Charity looked at me. We both wore jeans and white T-shirts that peeked out from crew neck sweaters. Charity’s Sorel snow boots were empty, and her legs were knotted up beneath her. The sock closest to me was white with black words on it, nouns: earth, love, beauty, peace, solitude. I wanted to take Charity’s foot in my hands and read her sock and have her turn onto her back and then stomach so that I didn’t miss a word.

  “I like your socks.”

  “Thanks, they’re just regular socks, but I like to write on stuff. Do you want them?”

  “Yes.”

  Charity slipped them off and handed them to me. The sock I couldn’t see before was white with red verbs: walk, lie, sleep, run, touch. I held Charity Krans’s socks and thought I might float away. I wanted to put them against my face like kisses.

  “Are you sure your feet won’t be cold?”

  I was willing to put Charity’s feet under my shirt and warm them against my stomach. I was willing to rub them between my hands and warm them. I hoped I wouldn’t have to give the socks back.

  “It’s okay. My boots are warm enough. I drove over here. I’ll be fine. I could drive you home later.” She looked back at her sketch.

  What we talked about was half blurred and half knitted into my DNA. I learned that Charity had turned nineteen and was finishing the last two courses of her sophomore year of college by correspondence, and the reason was a big convoluted story she wasn’t ready to go into yet. I questioned her about everything she liked and loved, and counted only the things we had in common. God, we were virtually soul mates.

  Charity confirmed what Gerry had told me. Charity Krans was Jolene Grind’s older sister. Her last name was different because she’d changed it to her mother’s maiden name once she was eighteen. While she was at it, she’d decided to take a new first name too.

  “I’m surprised you haven’t heard about me,” Charity said. “Dad likes to use our family sins for his sermons. I’ve given him plenty of material.”

  “Jolene never told me about you. Did Jolene mention me?”

  Charity leaned in. I could feel her breath on my face.

  “Yeah, she told me about you, Lorraine Tyler. Jolene thought I might want to meet you since we may have the same condition. She’s praying for me too.”

  God, it felt hot in that library.

  She asked for my cell phone number, and I got mad at Momma and Dad all over again. “My folks won’t let us have a cell phone, or internet, or college loans.”

  “Are they Luddites, you know those people who don’t believe in technology?” she asked.

  “No, they’re just cheap and old-fashioned. They don’t believe in anything above necessities, and Momma defines what we all need. We have a landline.” I wrote our phone number on an index card and gave it to Charity.

  The next step was obvious. When Charity drove me home, I invited her to come back the next day and see my mice. “One of the mommas just had babies. They look like a nest of pinkie fingers.”

  Charity said she’d come back to our farm the next morning at 10 a.m., and maybe we could take a walk, and she could sketch some trees and stuff. Charity dropped me off at home.

  I wished I could call Jolene. It seemed like I should tell my best friend that I’d finally fallen in love, but again, I had to make my own path.

  Charity said she had never dealt with animals other than cats and dogs and maybe a hamster, but she was excited to meet my animals. I had stoked the wood-burning stove in the barn so it was toasty for Charity to meet the beasts. Charity pulled off her mittens and knelt to greet the hounds. Pants and Sniff rubbed up against her and licked her hands and nosed her jeans. She held the mice, nuzzled the rabbits, and cooed at the chickens. I envied all of them.

  Charity said just the right things: that the animals were cute and soft and that she understood why I wanted to take care of them. She asked if she could sketch them sometime. After Charity met the animals, I suggested that w
e take a hike in the woods, my most sacred place. I was confident about Charity meeting the animals, but didn’t want to run into Momma, the real beast, just yet.

  Charity grabbed her sketch pad and toolbox of pencils and paints from her truck. We walked along the driveway where it had been plowed. Then I veered off to the beaten-down path I had made on my walks in the woods. I held the middle strand of barbed-wire fence down with my boot and pulled the top strand up so that Charity could slip through. We weaved through naked oaks, maples, and aspens into the pasture west of the house. It had been a dry winter by Minnesota standards. The snow was not deep even off the trail. The snow crunched beneath our boots and our breaths hung like small clouds in front of our faces.

  We crested a hill in the west pasture.

  “That next farm belongs to Gerry Narrows, the librarian you met. The next farm after that is where Becky is going to live with Kenny Hollister. It’s a stinky pig farm.” I pointed to the south side of the farm. “That side has more trees and that’s Little Swan Lake. I’ll show it to you in the spring. There’s a road to get there, but we don’t plow it in the winter. Dad uses the public access by the beach to put his fish house out.”

  We walked down to where the pasture woods sloped to the fence line. I brushed snow off a huge rock. We both got up on the rock and sat side by side. Charity removed her mittens, blew on her hands, and sketched. I could watch her do about anything for most of my lifetime. We sat quietly.

  “Charity, can I ask you another more personal question?”

  “Sure.” She kept drawing. Her fingertips were smudged from where she blended the oil crayons, creating and blurring landscapes without sharp lines where a hill ended and trees and sky began. Her creation was a stark contrast to the white vista before us.