August Moon

by Jess Lourey

  Tina considered my words, cast a furtive glance at the rear room, and whispered. “She said she’d be back tomorrow, working with Kaitlyn. You better go.”

  “Okay.” I raised my voice to normal pitch. “That would be great if you could order me that Celtic puzzle ring. Fantastic! I’ll be by tomorrow to see if it’s in.” Before she could answer, I was out the door and into the dragon’s mouth. I stretched my arms over my head, shaking off the dirty feeling of hearing Tom abuse Tina. His wife had been giving him good common sense—an employee was stealing from right under their noses—and he had just ridiculed her. Verbal putdowns like that didn’t spring up overnight, and it saddened me to think that she had been enduring this behavior for years. It must have taken a lot of courage for her to come to me with the embezzling problem. Abusive men usually keep their women on a short leash.

  I had done my duty by Tina, and I would follow through tomorrow as promised. I couldn’t pry her out of an icky relationship, but maybe, if I was lucky, I could finger whoever was stealing from her. In the meantime, it was time to spy on some of God’s blessed flock. If they were going to fling dirt, I’d best be armed.

  It was a Wednesday night, so the New Millennium Bible Camp services would be open to the public. I could attend wearing my regular clothes, blend in somewhere on the expansive grounds that would be full of kids and parents on this roasting summer evening, and avoid the Meales. My plan was to find out what sort of people these Meales were and to get some dirt on them. Once I had some information, I’d have leverage when dealing with the banned book petition and future conflicts with the Meales that were sure to crop up now that the gauntlet had been thrown down.

  At the very least, it would be good to get a handle on my enemies. That’s what I was telling myself as I turned right on County Road 5 and followed it south, straight across the Clitherall prairie, a little curve past Belmont Lake, and then straight again. The New Millennium Bible Camp sign on my right was handpainted wood, leaning dangerously. I had never taken notice of it before so I wasn’t sure if it was suffering from neglect or abuse.

  I followed the arrow on the sign and was relieved to see that there were dozens of cars parked along the side of the road, and when I reached the end of the two-mile driveway, that the parking lot by the church was also nearly full. If my car had been any larger, I wouldn’t have been able to squeeze between the Chevy Blazer and the Ford extended cab pickup. As it was, I was forced to crawl out through my window.

  Everyone was piling into the church, which indicated the service was about to start. That made it a safe bet that all three Meales were inside, leaving me to explore the grounds unattended. I walked to the nearest rise to get a lay of the land. To the east was the church, a simple white structure with red, gold, and green stained-glass windows. Straight north and nearest the lake were six cabins, as tidy as hospital beds, and east of them was a partially submerged circle of benches and a pulpit. The furniture was in five inches of swampy water, as if God had sent the flood prematurely and washed his flock away mid-worship. To the west was the main hall where they likely held assembly, meals, and public affairs. Farther up the hill, between the main hall and the cabins, was a house that I presumed was the Meales’ residence.

  “It’s as fine as frog’s hair, isn’t it?”

  The voice startled me, and I turned to see a woman in her mid-thirties, with a beatific smile on her face. “What is?”

  “The Bible camp. It was closed for three years before Pastor Meale brought it back to life last fall, bless him. He put all his own money into painting it and getting wheelchair ramps for his wife set up. He is a beacon of faith and fellowship.”

  “You live around here?”

  She offered her hand. “I’m so sorry! I should have introduced myself. My name is Christina Sahlberg. I live right over on Spitzer Lake. Are you here for the service?”

  “I am. I’m new. Could you direct me to the church?”

  “Silly, it’s right over there.” She pointed at the building at the bottom of the hill. The line of her finger led directly to the back of a man entering the church, and he appeared to be wearing a cape. It must have been Weston Lippmann, tick curator and fellow bird-fearer. I wouldn’t have pegged him for a churchgoer.

  “Of course. Well, thank you.”

  “I am but a humble shepherd.” She floated off toward the main hall, and when she was out of sight, I snuck around to the cabins so I could peek into the windows. All six of them were set up like typical resort cabins, with one main room housing the kitchen, living, and dining spaces, and three bedrooms off of the central room, each with two, three-level bunk beds.

  I passed the sunken log circle to the east, noticing the hand-hewn logs in a horseshoe shape around the humble pulpit. My movements made the sunning turtles plop into the water. Something about the space was eerie. Maybe it was the wetness of it in this time of drought, as if it had intentionally been built underwater. Up close, it looked lascivious, like the wet smile of a dirty and prune-faced old man. I marched back across the gravel road winding through the camp and straight west to the main hall. I could hear singing coming from inside, and wondered if there was a junior service going on for the kids attending camp for the week.

  No one appeared to be watching me, but I chose caution and darted around to the back of the building before peeking in, scaring up dust as I scuttled. I slid up the side of the building and peered in an open window, settling my fingers on the splintered wood of the sill. Body heat and rhythmic singing poured out.

  At first, I couldn’t make sense of what I saw. There were at least fifty children, ranging in age from about five to their late teens, and they were all wearing camouflage pants or shorts and T-shirts. The group was mostly male, and they were in various stages of prostration, ripping their clothes, bowing, and throwing their hands up in the air.

  Through the cracked window, I could smell sweat and incense, and the organic tang of hardworking farmers’ kids.

  “Are you a warrior for Jesus?”

  The rhetorical question came from a female voice in the front, and by hugging the rough outer wall, I saw it was Alicia Meale. She looked different from my last sighting of her, her face intense and luminous, even with her eyes closed in rapture. The crowd of kids raised their hands and swayed—some moaning, others spouting rapid gibberish.

  “I said, are you a warrior for Jesus!”

  This earned a rallying cry, and I noticed a young boy, about six, hitting the side of his head with his right fist as he stared, rapt, at Alicia. “I will fight for Jesus!” he yelled. Forty-plus voices agreed with him.

  “Are you ready to do as Jesus asks?”

  “We are!”

  “And you will lead the way for the righteous, and shoot down the unbelievers who block your path?”

  “So sayeth the Lord!”

  “Then you are always welcome in Christ’s Church of the Apocryphal Revelation!”

  Christ’s Church of the Apocryphal Revelation? I had never heard of them, but I was pretty sure they weren’t Lutherans. I scoured the large room for any familiar faces, maybe a regular from my story hour at the library, but didn’t see anyone I knew. The whole scene felt about as agreeable as a high-speed enema.

  “I thought you were looking for the church?”

  I spun around, my heart gyrating like a go-go dancer on pay day. “Hi, uh, Christina. I guess I got a little lost.”

  Her eyes glittered at me, sharp and hot. “Let me walk you to the church. And I didn’t catch your name.”

  I made to follow her, but she stood her ground until I led the way. She felt dangerous at my back. “I’m just visiting. Getting a feel for the grounds. You know, trying to choose a church.”

  “Your name?”

  “Mary Catherine Gallagher.”

  “Are you a believer?”

  “I certainly am.” It wasn’t a lie. I did believe in something, just probably not the same thing as her. “You really have a lovely camp here, bu
t I guess I better get going. So many churches, so little time.”

  She stopped, her arms crossed at her waist. “I hope to see you back again, Mary Catherine. God watches over us all.”

  “Thank you, Christina.” I backed away until I was beyond pouncing distance and when I turned, felt her eyes burn an X across my back. It was all I could do not to run to my car. The Ford pickup had left and so I could open my door. When I crawled in, I risked a peek back, and there she was, standing like a scarecrow, her arms still crossed at her waist, watching me.

  I started my car, not-so-stealthily rolled up the windows, locked the doors, and squealed out. Well, it was a 1985 Toyota hatchback. I whined out. I considered stopping at Bonnie & Clyde’s to cleanse my scarred soul but decided it would be cheaper to drink at home. In fact, getting deeply drunk tonight in front of the TV, and then every night until I moved away from this freakish coil of a town in a week and a half, sounded like a brilliant plan. Let Sarah Ruth deal with the petition and the police deal with Lucy’s murder.

  When I pulled into my driveway, an unfamiliar car was parked in the shade of the gigantic lilacs in the center of the turnaround. Luna ran out and snuffled my hand.

  “Who’s here, girl? Who is it?”

  My dog smiled at me, and I returned the look, until I saw the dark-haired woman come around the corner of the house, her expression indecipherable.

  “Mom?”

  She held out her hands. “Mira.”

  I stood my ground. My mom and I had talked on the phone in June but hadn’t seen each other in over a year. She had never visited me in Battle Lake, and I felt territorial, off-balance. “What are you doing here?”

  Her hands hovered in the air like two premature greeters at a surprise party and then dropped to her side. We had the same eyes, gray and serious. We were also the same height and build, but her dress and hair were conservative, particularly against my tank top and Indian skirt. “I’m sorry. I wanted to see you. I should have called. Is this the dog you’re sitting for, Luna?”

  I wasn’t letting her off the hook. “Why’d you want to see me?”

  “I don’t know, Miranda, because you’re my daughter? Because you call me in June and tell me you’ve been beaten up and haven’t called since? Because you’ve been here since March, living not even a hundred miles from me, and I don’t know what your house looks like?”

  Luna whimpered between us. My mom and I also had the same voice. “You might as well come on in, then. I have plans tonight, though, so you can’t stay long.”

  I strode past her, and she quietly followed me inside. “This is the living room, over there is the kitchen, my bedroom and bathroom are off this door, and the spare bedroom and office are over there.”

  “Tiger Pop!” Mom held out her hands to my kitty, and the traitor ate it up. She hugged him and scratched his eternal ear itch. “I can’t believe how healthy he looks! How old is this cat?”

  “Thirteen.” I glared at him.

  “And your house looks really beautiful. Clean. You must love it out here.”

  I didn’t want to tell her I was moving. I didn’t want her to be here. It felt too close, too unexpected, and besides, she always brought the specter of my dad with her. We had pushed through some barriers via a phone conversation, but having her in my house was too much, too soon. “It’s fine.”

  “Can I see your gardens?” She set Tiger Pop down and strode out before I could object.

  “It’s been dry,” I said defensively.

  “Oh, Mira! They’re gorgeous! Look at the size of your tomatoes. And you have fresh dill. Are you going to can this year? You could come home. We could can together.”

  “I am home.”

  “Of course.” She looked down at her feet.

  “Mom, why are you here? Why today?”

  Her smile fled. I witnessed her fifty-four years grind down on her with all their weight, and she laid it out between us like rotten food. “I have breast cancer, Miranda. I found out last week. I didn’t want to tell you over the phone.”

  The earth grew papery underfoot. I had ditched Paynesville as soon as I graduated, and I had deliberately left behind as many memories as I could, determined to craft my own life from that point on. Suddenly, though, long-forgotten mental pictures were leaking out. My mom pushing me on our tire swing when I was five, or staying up to read to me when I had chicken pox in eighth grade, or driving me to my first dance, the one where the boys stood on one side of the gym and girls on the other. With those memories came a glimpse of my dad before his drinking got bad, bringing home a calico kitten for me, laughing with me as it pounced at the air. “How bad?”

  “Not bad. They caught it early.” She smiled, almost apologetically, and brushed her hair back from her face in a gesture I recognized from my childhood. “I start chemo in three weeks, and the prognosis is good. I should be fine, Mir, with God’s grace. I just thought you deserved to know. Face to face.”

  Tears and angry words fought for escape, one climbing on the back of the other to reach my head. The angry words won. “What am I supposed to say to that?”

  She came over and held me while I stood rigid. “You don’t need to say anything. I came by to let you know, that’s all, and to say I love you. You have a home whenever you need it.”

  I nodded stiffly. “I know.” It was petty, horrible petty, but I couldn’t tell her I loved her. Not right then.

  “Mira, look at me. I’m going to be fine. This is just a wake-up call, that’s all. Life’s short. I would like to see you more. What do I need to do to make that happen?”

  Suddenly, the whole outdoors were too big, and I could feel myself disconnect and spray out. It was terrifying. “I need time.”

  “How much?”

  “I don’t know. I need to process this. I’ll call you in a few days, okay?”

  Her smile was small, but it had a flash of hope in its corners. “Okay. You call me next week.” She waved at the pets. “Bye Luna! Bye Tiger Pop! You take care of each other. Love you, Mira. You’re a good person.” She wiped my cheek, got in her car, fastened her seat belt, and drove away.

  I walked into the house, straight to the bathroom, and yanked out the bottle of tequila. It was supper time, and I was going for liquid nourishment. I took two big swigs and held the bottle up. “Here’s to you, Mom and Dad.” I kept the bottle in my hand, ripped the Tank Girl CD out of my rack, and cranked it to full volume. Between the liquor and the music, I was going to drown out the raw truth, that I had realized I wanted my mom in my life more than anything—at the same moment I discovered she wasn’t going to live forever. I suppose that possibility was what I had been running from since I moved to the Twin Cities after graduation, and it had hunted me down and found me all the way in Battle Lake. It was frightening. By the time the sun was taking its unrelenting heat to another part of the world, I was toast.

  “Luna? Tiger Pop? You wanna help me garden?” They weren’t in the mood to enable, so I tripped outside, fighting the tilting earth. “You’re a pretty big weed,” I said, reaching for the base of my tallest tomato plant. It took three tries before I had it out of the ground, ripe fruit busting around my feet like bloody bombs.

  “And you. You’ve never been anything but trouble.” Up came the Brussels sprouts, followed by a broccoli, two cabbages, and a whole row of onions, their green stems turned to brown as they were getting ready to set up for winter. When my arms were too tired to rip, I stomped, feeling vegetables go flat and dead under my shoes.

  “And thanks for all the help planting, Johnny. You’ve really been a big, stand-up, follow-through kind of guy.” I leapt in the air and came down on a watermelon. It was hard, and I rolled off, landing with a painful thud. I wiped myself off, nodded at my double-

  vision gardening, and went inside. I made it as far as the couch before blacking out.

  ___

  “Luna? Huh? Luna?” The licking wouldn’t stop, and when I rolled over to push her away, my skin fel
t tight and sticky. I raised myself up on shaky arms and the room shifted under me. My heart was tripping oddly and I could have woken up in Marrakesh for all that I recognized my surroundings. The room was hot and close, and the sun was already two clicks off the horizon. It must be near eight a.m. Luna continued to lick me patiently, bringing me back to myself.

  I recognized the couch, and the house, and when I pulled myself up and lurched outside, I recognized the front lawn. My stomach shifted, and I had to swallow hard to keep everything down. “I must have tied one hell of a one on,” I said to Luna, who was still by my side. She looked at me sadly. I returned the look and saw the white bumps on my arms. Tomato seeds? I stared, and squinted back at my garden. I sensed it, a fiend lurking in the back of my brain, some horrible news about to break through and burn my life down. I stumbled down to my hand-tended plot, the center of my summer universe, my one saving grace.

  My garden. It was destroyed. It looked like an elephant had rolled in it, grazed in it, danced in it. There were a few spindly vegetables still in the ground, tilting precariously, but they were so denuded it was impossible to tell what sort of plant they had been. Whole onions lay scattered like dirty pearls, and green leaves were stomped into pulp. I wept at what I had done, and then cried harder when I remembered that my mom had breast cancer. I cried so hard that I got hiccups, and when my throat was hoarse and my body was as dry as the air around me, I went into the house and gathered up all the liquor. I even pulled my secret stash of whiskey from the desk drawer in the office.

  I crashed the bottles into the burning barrel and lit them up into a whooshing blaze. Mrs. Berns’ words, don’t do nothing for a man, whispered to me, and I listened to them. I was done with drinking. It had killed my father and wormed its way into my life, but his problem wasn’t going to be mine. I had been here before, but I wasn’t ever coming back to this spot.