by Jess Lourey
I warmed to her a hair, a microscopic, split-end of a hair. Maybe she was a misplanted chick, just like me. “In Battle Lake, you don’t get in trouble. It gets in you. Besides, they’re just books.”
“You’re a little bit of a rebel, Mira James.”
The door dinged as she let herself out, and I looked around for anywhere my name would appear. I didn’t wear a nametag, announce my name or station anywhere on the front desk, and I didn’t post newsletters around town. For someone I had never met before, she knew a little too much for my comfort. Or maybe my depression was making me paranoid, as well.
It didn’t matter much. I’d be gone in two weeks, if all went well today, and Alicia Meale could turn Battle Lake into a hemp-harvesting, pyramid-worshipping, electrolysis-mandating commune, for all I cared. I shelved the books that had been dropped after closing last night, dusted and vacuumed, and had all the résumés arranged by time of interview when Mrs. Berns showed up with Lucy in tow.
“You’re both late.”
“I’m so sorry, Mira.” Lucy looked ready to cry. I had met her last May, when she offered to work at the library for minimum wage. She had been a junior in high school at the time and said she loved books more than anything. There wasn’t enough money to hire her on regularly, but her earnestness had convinced me to let her help out on an as-needed basis. “Mrs. Berns called and asked me to pick her up, and when I went to get her, well, it took a little longer than I thought.”
Lucy looked uncomfortably from Mrs. Berns to me, and then went quickly to the back room to get dusting and watering supplies. “What’d you do to her?”
Today, I was happy to note Mrs. Berns was looking exactly like you’d think a little old lady should—tight-curled apricot hair, penciled-in eyebrows, big saggy nose shading a pair of salmon-pink lips, a red Sedona T-shirt, a pair of white shorts, and white bootie socks with flat white tennies. If not for the pair of sharpshooters tucked into her gun belt, you’d want to hug her and call her grandma. She flashed her watery eyes at me. “Why you always playin’ me, homey?”
“Have you been watching MTV again?”
“Tru dat. And the sweet little poonta over there was helping me out.”
“How?”
She took out a Polaroid. “We pimped my ride. I told her I’d pop a couple caps up her ass if she didn’t help.”
I held the photo of Mrs. Berns’ seldom-used walker and admired the flames on the tennis balls stuck to the bottom of it, as well as the skull-and-crossbones stickers up and down the metal sides. The black plastic streamers coming out the handles were particularly arresting. “Very nice.”
She snatched the picture back. “Thought so.”
“You ready to work?”
“I’m here.”
I blew air out my mouth and settled in. The plan was for her to run the library as I conducted the interviews, but to check in on all the candidates surreptitiously. That was funny, because Mrs. Berns was subtle like a yeast infection. I figured, though, since she was going to work with whomever I hired, she had a right to weigh in on them.
“How many applicants you got?”
“Four interviews, Mrs. Berns. What’s up with those pistols, anyhow?”
“These?” She tugged them out of their holsters and fired a couple rounds toward the ceiling. The smell of sulfur filled the air as the caps popped off. Delicate smoke curled out of each plastic barrel. Lucy, to her credit, didn’t jump as she shelved books. “I had such a hoot with them and Bill after the Fourth of July parade that I figured I’d just hang on to them. They make a good conversation piece. Now tell me again why you’re leaving town, chickenshit.”
“If you promise to stop calling me ‘chickenshit’.” It was how she had been addressing me since I informed her of my plans to move. She holstered her guns and pretended not to hear me, one of the luxuries of the golden years, but I answered her question anyway. “I’m leaving town because there isn’t anything here for me. I’m not qualified to be a librarian, I don’t get paid enough to be a columnist, and this town is full of crazy people and murderers.”
“Pah, pah, pah, and pah. This town was just fine until Mr. Johnny Leeson ditched you like a deer carcass. Don’t you know you’re not ever supposed to do anything just because of a man? Don’t stay for a man, don’t leave for a man. You make your decisions for yourself. Chickenshit.”
I sighed. The door opened, saving me from a chickenshit reply. In walked a woman whose attitude was certainly in its fifties if she was not. Her gray-flecked hair was noosed back in a severe bun, her scraggly eyebrows shot out from her horn-rimmed, bechained glasses, and her nose spread out in an effort to slow its descent into the colorless razor-cut where her lips should have been. Her blouse was gray, as was the sweater tied over her shoulders, the shapeless pencil skirt covering her bony lower body, and her support hose. The only flashes of color were her black, orthopedic shoes. She apparently had not gotten the memo that librarians were cool.
“You hire her, girl, and I’ll make her life a living hell.”
I believed Mrs. Berns, and I believed it when she said it before, during, and after the next two interviews, one with a statuesque former ballerina who could no longer dance due to a toe injury, and the other with a shiny-faced boy fresh out of grad school. The spitballs she lobbed at them along with the fake cat turd she pretended to slip on while I interviewed each (“Ouch, my hip!”) cemented their lack of interest in the job. When the fourth woman walked in at noon, I was frazzled, frustrated, and not optimistic. This candidate looked like a brown-haired Shelley Long, circa Cheers, with good posture and a bad perm, and in her early forties. She struck me as one of those women who was so pleasant and average as to be almost invisible. Her name was Sarah Ruth O’Hanlon, and according to her résumé, she had ten years experience as an assistant librarian in the St. Cloud Regional Library system.
When she shook my hand, her grip was firm and dry. “Welcome to our library,” I said. My eyes furtively scanned the room for Mrs. Berns, who had gone AWOL when she saw Sarah Ruth enter. Lucy was behind the front desk checking out books, a happy smile on her face.
“Thank you. It’s lovely, as is this town. I appreciate your time.”
When Mrs. Berns leapt up from behind the giant green dinosaur in the kids’ reading section and popped a couple caps with her fake gun, followed by a hoot, a holler, and a thunderous fart, Sarah Ruth didn’t flinch. “You’re hired,” I said.
“What?”
“Your résumé looks impeccable, and the job starts immediately. Are you interested?”
“Well, I, ah, I guess.” She smiled at me, a little frown line between her eyes. “Are you sure you don’t want to call my references?”
“Do you think you’d be okay living in Battle Lake?”
“I imagine so. I grew up in a small town, and I have family here.” She nodded at me, convincing herself as she spoke. “I think I’d love it.”
“That’s all the reference I need.” I smiled on the outside. “Can you start training on Monday? I’ll stay around for two weeks to show you the ropes, and then you’d take over.”
“And what will you do after the two weeks are up?”
I blinked, one eye closing sooner than the other. “I’m moving back to the Cities. I just came here to housesit for a friend for a couple months, and I think my time is up. I’m getting someone else in town to take over her house September first, so I can pick my life up where it left off.” Alone, living in a dreary apartment on a depressing street, drinking too much, and cutting classes. My nose started to run, so I sniffed and held out my hand. “See you Monday?”
Sarah Ruth gripped my proffered hand warmly, and rested her free one over it. “I’m excited to start, but sad that it means you’ll be leaving. I think you and I would get along great, Ms. James.” I became aware of a tiny silver crucifix on her neck, a miniature version of the one Alicia Meale had been wearing this morning. Crosses were not unusual, but crucifixes were rarely worn as je
welry in these parts.
“That’s an interesting necklace. Do you mind if I ask you where you got it?”
Her hands dropped and moved self-consciously to her throat. “It’s a little macabre, don’t you think? My niece bought it for me in Mexico, and I wear it out of loyalty. It wouldn’t be my first choice in jewelry, given my druthers.”
Mrs. Berns, who had holstered her pistols and army-crawled to the open spot in the middle of the library where I was conducting interviews, saved me from a reply. “Shit or get off the pot.”
“Excuse me?”
“Either start working, start reading, or get out of the library. This isn’t a halfway house.”
I helped Mrs. Berns off the floor. “This might be a good time to introduce you two. Mrs. Berns, this is Sarah Ruth. She’s going to run the library when I leave.”
“You ain’t leaving.”
I sighed. This was an argument I couldn’t win. “Sarah Ruth, Mrs. Berns. She’s the librarian’s assistant.”
Sarah Ruth chuckled. “It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Berns. I look forward to starting work with you on Monday.”
“If I come. My social calendar fills pretty quick, you know.” With that, Mrs. Berns went back to shelving books. No more farts, fake cat feces, or gunshots. I took that to mean she liked her new boss. I introduced Lucy to the new hire, then walked Sarah Ruth out into the blazing heat of the early afternoon, wondering at the squishiness of the molten pavement.
“It’s a good summer to own a lake home,” I offered.
“Yes, I love it.”
I smiled politely. My comment had been general, but her response had been specific. When Sarah Ruth got into her car, I returned to the air-conditioned coolness of the library and breathed deeply. I tracked down Mrs. Berns in the reference section, where she was looking up “thespian.”
“Hunh. I always thought it was one of those women who like women. Guess Ida wins that bet.”
“Sarah Ruth seems nice.”
“Humph. If you like those gangly, pear-shaped women with pizzly home perms. Mostly, that type’s just good for childbearing, but if you think she can be a librarian, then what do I know?”
“You might end up liking her.”
“What’s in it for me?”
Lucy appeared from behind the Pla-Sca aisle, a sweet smile on her face. “I thought she was very nice.”
I nodded. Lucy looked for the good in everyone and always found it. It wasn’t a particularly useful quality in my eyes, but it hung nicely on her. I turned to the back room. “I’m going to get our new shipment catalogued. You know where to find me if anyone needs me.”
I’m pretty sure I heard a muttered, “Chickenshit,” as I strode to the back, but it was too quiet to be certain. It could have just been my conscience.
When Monday scorched around, I hadn’t yet screwed up the courage to give Ron Sims, owner, editor, publisher, and ad man for the Battle Lake Recall, my two weeks’ notice. I figured I’d send it in an e-mail today with my two deadlined columns, the one on the August Moon Festival and the other featuring a gnarly recipe for “Battle Lake Bites.” To that end, I had risen before the sun and gone into town to fire up the library computer.
I was actually looking forward to the upcoming August Moon Festival, my first and last in Battle Lake. Based on my research, the celebration had a primitive, pagan feel, and I loved any excuse to get back to the dirt. It appealed to my inner gardener. I gathered my notes around me and began a draft of the article in the quiet, pre-dawn library.
August Moon FestivalCelebrates The Harvest
Saturday, August 21 marks the 55th annual August Moon Festival in Battle Lake. The festival can be traced back to the mid-1950s, a time of challenges and privation for agricultural west-central Minnesota. In the fourth year of a drought that had ravaged the region, local farmers became desperate. Those who were WWII vets had heard about a Chinese tradition called the August Moon Festival, when families celebrated the harvest with a feast to honor nature’s bounty and encourage it to return the next year. The farmers decided they had nothing to lose, and the Minnesota version of the August Moon Festival was born.
Chinese tradition holds that the mid-autumn festival should be celebrated the 15th day of the eighth lunar month. That worked for local farmers who decided to hold their festival in mid-August to coincide with the wheat and oat harvest. The celebration originally included a community potluck in the streets of Battle Lake, along with dancing and an annual drag race.
The August Moon Festival has since evolved to a potluck masquerade ball held at Hershod’s Corn Maze on Highway 210, between Battle Lake and Clitherall. The Festival begins at 5:00 p.m. this Saturday and ends at midnight. It is open to the public, and there is no entrance fee if you bring a dish to share. Costumes are optional but encouraged. The band Not with My Horse will be playing from 9:00 p.m. until midnight.
Incidentally, the drought ended shortly after the initial August Moon Festival, and Battle Lake has had green harvests ever since, until this year. It has been nearly four weeks since the last recorded rainfall in Otter Tail County. Hopefully, the celebration this year will once again work its magic.
I winced when I typed the name of the band. The lead singer of Not with My Horse was my ex-boyfriend, who I now referred to as Bad Brad. Brad and I had dated in the Cities, right up until I caught him making skin-flute music with my neighbor’s dog sitter. I had moved to Battle Lake shortly after that. When Bad Brad’s band showed up in town in July to play a gig at the Battle Lake street dance, he fell in love with the place and took up shop. He was now oddjobbing during the day and bartending at Stub’s and playing with his band at night. Other than one close, bikini-wax run-in with Bad Brad and Kennie last month, I had successfully avoided him since he had moved to town. I was hoping I could maintain my perfect record at the August Moon Festival this Saturday.
I proofed the Festival article and put it aside until noon. That was my deadline and would give me enough time to look over the article with fresh eyes before I zipped it off to Ron. Next on my list was the recipe search. My personal crusade was to find unique recipes that were representative of the oddness, flavor, and overall feel of Battle Lake. I eyeballed the wall clock, too old-fashioned to check the one on my computer, and saw I had an hour before Sarah Ruth showed up for her first day.
I fired up Google and typed “Food I’d Never Eat” into the search bar. I came up with worm, lizard, and moose-testicle recipes, but nothing that screamed Battle Lake. I changed my search to “Weird Minnesota Food” and mostly pulled up dishes that were thinly disguised vehicles for Cream of Mushroom soup. I revised my search to “Moving Food,” with the thought that I would soon be relocating. I think the computer thought I meant food that moved one’s bowels because I clicked on a whole slew of strange edibles.
I skipped over Spam Shake and Kitty Litter Cake (complete with Tootsie Rolls as garnish—yum!) as too obvious. I wanted to go out with a bang, with something really wild and memorable. That’s when I tripped across it: Turdeasant—a turkey stuffed with a duck, stuffed with a pheasant, stuffed with dressing. How grody toad meaty was that? Three dead birds in one. People’d be eating it long after I’d moved.
The recipe was deceptively simple. You brine all three birds overnight in one cup of salt, one cup brown sugar, and one gallon water. The next day you heat the roaster to 500° F and shove some Stove Top Stuffing into the turkey. Not too much, though, because you’ve got two more birds moving in. Next, you nestle the duck in the turkey cavity on its fluffy stuffing bed, and then you grab onto something for leverage and shove that pheasant as deep into the duck as you can. Don’t forget to surgically insert the leftover stuffing into any hint of an orifice.
Then comes the final step, the turdeasant coup de grâce. You truss the turkey cavity (read: sew the birdhole) by inserting a metal skewer about one-half inch from the edge of the skin and up through the other side. Next, run butcher’s twine between the skin and the skewer and t
ighten it until you’ve drawn both sides together. As the last step in trussing, tie together the turkey legs so your hybrid creature resembles a standard turkey. No ducks and pheasants hiding in here, says Dr. Frankenstein!
Finally, you sprinkle paprika on the turkey and roast the turdeasant long enough to brown. After about fifteen minutes, turn the oven down to 325° F and bake for approximately three hours. Remove the turdeasant from the roaster once the innermost bird, the pheasant, is at 170° F. Let it sit for twenty minutes and think about what it’s done, and then serve to your ever-lovin’, ravenous, knife-wielding family.
I was onto something here. Maybe we could start a pigoosken or deerlamalina roasting tradition. Why eat just one animal when you could scarf down a threefer? Sigh. I was going to miss Battle Lake, a little bit. I changed the roasting time on the recipe from three hours to five—I didn’t want to get sued for giving someone salmonella—saved the recipe on my computer, and cruised to unlock the front door in anticipation of Sarah Ruth’s arrival, as she didn’t yet have a key.
It was nine thirty, and the library wasn’t due to open for another half an hour. To my dismay, there was an oddly dressed family of three making their way down the street toward me. The male was clad in a lightweight black coat and slacks and a preacher’s collar, one of the females was in a wheelchair and a turtleneck on this sultry August day, and the other, younger female pushing the wheelchair was wearing a modest dress. The way she carried herself struck a familiar chord, but I couldn’t see her face well under the rolls of dark hair. Maybe they were just heading to the Apothecary for some odds and ends, I thought, retreating to the cool interior of the library.
I grabbed the books out of the after-hours drop bin, relishing their solid feel and the clean, comforting smell of ink on paper. There were five nonfiction (Jesus: Then and Now, Conspiracy of Fools: A True Story, Just Say Yes, The World Is Flat [Updated and Expanded], and Cod: A Biography of the Fish that Changed the World) and three mysteries. I was on my way to the front computer to enter them into the system as returned when the front door let out its chirpy, muted ding. I turned, expecting to see Sarah Ruth, and instead was greeted by the sight of the somber family I had just witnessed on the street.
