by Jess Lourey
I wasn’t used to gardening before dawn, and I was amazed at the freshness of the day. The sun wasn’t yet pinking the horizon, and nature had set aside her August cottonmouth to sparkle the grass with dew. After I watered my vegetable and flower gardens and fed and watered my kitty and dog, I stretched. I would bike to town today. The three-mile trip was hilly, but I didn’t want to interrupt the blanketing stillness of dawn by cranking up my car.
As I cruised the gravel on my ten-speed mountain bike, rocks crunching like corn flakes under my tires, I mulled over the people I would be leaving Battle Lake to. The Meales were religious fanatics and had a daughter with questionable ethics. Pastor Winter seemed like a stand-up guy, though he was a little too generous in his judgments for my taste. Sarah Ruth fit well in the library and the town. Tina at 4Ts was going through a bad patch, but I could help her deal with her embezzler, if not her husband. Weston, the tick curator, was just passing through, but that was one thing about Battle Lake that I’d really miss—how it attracted all types from all corners. Between the whacky tourists and the whackier locals, like Mrs. Berns and Kennie, I could honestly say I had never been bored in this town.
I had planned to start packing today after opening the Fortune Café for Sid and Nancy and putting in my shift at the library. I could get a couple rooms bundled up and still have time to run out to Naomi Meales’ sister’s house at Hancock Lake to see if she really was the chick I had seen at the Creation Science Fair. There was something about the intensity in her eyes that drew me, and I figured the more I did away from home, the easier it’d be to avoid drinking. Nothing like spying on strangers to keep a gal distracted.
I coasted down the last big hill on Whiskey Road before I hit Battle Lake. My hair flew behind me like wings, and I closed my eyes. Only for a millisecond, though. I had terrible balance. As I cruised into town, I was soothed by how quiet it was. I felt like I could walk into any house and grab something out of the refrigerator without the sleeping owners being any the wiser. You feel invincible in the early morning, when everyone else is so vulnerable. Getting up early might be part of my new regimen when I moved back to the Cities.
My bike glided down Lake Avenue to the Fortune Café. I smelled West Battle Lake half a mile away and imagined I could see the giant statue of Chief Wenonga around the corner, six-pack abs rippling in the morning sun, fierce eyes ever watchful over the lake. I was glad to have him back in town. He was one man I was going to miss when I moved, even if he was fiberglass.
“Morning,” I whispered in his general direction. No point in being desperate. Hot statues preferred subtlety from their admirers. I slapped out my kickstand and dug around my jean shorts pocket for the Fortune key, admiring the Café. It had originally been a cool Victorian house, full of windows and small rooms, around since the early 1900s. When Sid and Nancy bought it, they slapped a coat of sage-green paint with white trim on the outside and renovated the inside to turn the downstairs into a café/bakery and the upstairs into an apartment. I walked up the front lawn. The marigolds and lavender lining the sidewalk looked a little crusty, and I made a note to water them before I left. There was no hose on the front of the renovated house, but I saw the double tracks of a wagon in the lawn and knew I could fill up buckets with water and haul them out here.
A strong whoosh of bakery-goods odors gusted toward me, and I smiled. I couldn’t wait to get inside there and be surrounded by that heavenly cinnamon smell. As I drew in another deep breath, my hackles tapped my shoulder. The smell of baked goods should not be this strong, ten feet from the front door. Had the door been left open? My heartbeat did a little giddyup kick. The deathly quiet of the town was all of a sudden not so benign. I looked left, right, and spotted nothing out of place. I continued to the door and found it firmly locked. Shoulders still tense, I unlocked it and stuck my head in.
“Hello? Anyone here?” The fresh goodie smell was even stronger inside, and rightly so. The front room was washed in shadows and uneven rays of the rising sun peeking through the windows. I stepped toward the only light switch I was sure of, the one behind the front counter that I looked at every time I ordered food. Once the room was fully illuminated, I could shake the paranoid feeling. My hope proved to be premature, however. Three strides to the counter, and I was on my knees. I had tripped over something, and sharp glass ground into my knees and palms. I pushed off, feeling my skin pierced in thirty different spots, but I couldn’t make out what I had landed on. Panicking, I bolted toward the light switch.
Washed in light, the main room was a mess. The window facing the West Battle Lake side of the house was a gaping, jagged hole, and the floor was covered in hundreds of glass shards. I gingerly brushed them from my hands and blood-pricked knees and eyeballed the large rock I had tripped over. The rock was gray, about the size of a cooking pumpkin, and it had white paper strapped to it with twine.
The paper crinkled under my fingers as I tugged it out. It was standard 8 ½ by 11-inch white printer paper, and some unoriginal genius had cut out letters from a magazine to spell “God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve. Go back to Soddom, immoral heathens.” Blood from my nicked palms melted into the paper, creating a gruesome frame, and I realized I was holding my breath.
“Those fucking fuckers.” And I knew who I meant. Somebody from that whacked-out New Millennium Bible Camp had done this. Sid and Nancy had lived in Battle Lake for over five years, and people had been drawn to their warmth, their knack for baking, and their humor since day one. I imagine there were people in town who didn’t approve of Sid and Nancy’s sexual orientation, but they at least had the sense to keep their ignorance to themselves.
No, this was the first outright hateful incident that had happened at the café to my knowledge, and it didn’t take a genius to see it directly correlated to the group at the Bible camp. Sodom indeed, and spelled wrong. You’d think if someone was going to slice letters from magazines one by one, they’d take the time to check their spelling so they didn’t need to track down any unnecessary letters.
I folded up the note, shoved it in my back pocket, and went into the bakery kitchen to wash my hands and knees. I walked the whole building, bottom floor to top and back down again, and didn’t see any more damage or vitriol. Convinced that the harm was contained to the main room, I called the Battle Lake Police Department and got through on the third ring.
“Battle Lake Police.”
“Gary Wohnt?”
“Hummph.”
“This is Mira James. I’m over at the Fortune Café. Sid and Nancy asked me to open up for them this morning, and I’m afraid we have an incident on our hands.”
I heard a thump in the background and some scrabbling. Either Chief Wohnt had fallen off his chair, or he had set down the phone. When he came back on the line, his voice was Sisyphean in its weariness. “Why am I not surprised?”
“I won’t take that personally. Do you want to know what the incident is?”
“A dead body.”
He said it so matter-of-factly that I couldn’t help but snort. “Not even. Somebody hurled a rock through the north side of the café. There’s glass everywhere.”
I heard a creak, like he was sitting up in his chair. “Was there anything on the rock?”
“Like lichen?” I had decided before I called that I wasn’t going to mention the note. I knew from experience that Battle Lake didn’t have the means or the finances to fingerprint a piece of paper from a plain ol’ vandalism case. The only thing I would accomplish by telling someone about the note was to make Sid and Nancy feel bad, and possibly add fuel to the fire of the haters who had tossed it.
Chief Wohnt’s voice came over the line slowly, like he was trying to talk a three-year-old out of a tree. “No, not like lichen. Like words.”
“Hm. Lemme go check.” I marched in place so it sounded like I was walking toward something. “No. Nope. No words on the rock. Just some twine.”
“What was the twine holding?”
Shit. “Maybe it was just put on there for purchase, so the rock could be hurled farther. But what do I know? You’re the police chief, not me. You better come down and look at it.”
“Don’t touch anything.”
“Then you better get here quick because I have a coffee shop to open up.”
A grunt was my answer. I went outside to water the front flowers while I waited. There was no wagon in sight, and I didn’t know the combination to the storage shed, so I grabbed the empty, five-gallon pickle bucket from next to the back faucet, filled it to the top with icy water, and hauled it to the front. The earth soaked up the water so fast I swore I heard slurping sounds. I made three more trips with the bucket for good measure and was back inside when Gary showed up.
“Chief Wohnt.”
He didn’t have his sunglasses on. I was always startled by the blackness of his eyes, like they were two pools of oil swimming in his tanned face. It was unsettling and not his fault, and I wondered if his disconcerting eyes were the reason he usually wore the mirrored glasses. “Where’s the rock?”
“Over here.” I gestured around the corner from the entryway and into the main room. Gary knelt by the rock, turned it over, looked toward every corner of the room as if calculating distances, and chomped his way over to the broken window.
“You haven’t moved anything?”
“I might have nudged the rock when I tripped over it in the dark, but that’s about where it was.” He studied me, his head cocked, and I had to turn away. “Do you mind if I sweep this up? I told Sid and Nancy I’d have this place open by six o’clock.”
“Around here, people usually put notes on the rock before they throw it through the window.”
“You can check outside. A note could have fallen off before the rock was lobbed.” I was very careful to not exactly lie.
“I’ll do that.”
“So I can sweep up?”
“You can, but keep your eyes open for anything out of place.”
“Will do. Don’t you think it’s weird, though, that this act of vandalism happens around the same time as the Creation Science Fair out at the New Millennium?”
Gary bristled like a dog that smells a deer. “What are you suggesting?”
“Just that it seems like an awful big coincidence.”
“A lot of people come through the area in the summer. Is there something you want to tell me?” His eyes pierced into me like inky lasers.
“Nah. But maybe you’ll find something out by the window.”
Gary freed me from his penetrating gaze and stepped outside. As soon as I was sure he was out of sight, I pulled the note out of my pocket and hid it in the crack between the caramel and vanilla Italian syrups. It felt too conspicuous in my pocket, like my left butt cheek was glowing with a red X and the words “She’s hiding it in here.” When the Chief returned, I had most of the front room swept. “You find anything?”
“No. And it’s too dry for any footprints.”
“So you might have to just write this one off?”
He ignored me, again studying all the corners of the room. “You didn’t move anything?”
“It’s all still right in this room.”
He saved me another black-eyed probe. “When Sid and Nancy get back, send one of them down to the station to fill out a report. In the meantime, call Boechler’s to fix the window. With the August Moon Festival tomorrow night, we’re sure to get some rain.”
That sounded like a joke, but Gary Wohnt was as easy to read as a fish. “You going to the Festival?”
“I’ll be on duty. If you have anything to tell me, you know where to find me.”
“Uh-huh.” I made like I was real interested in a scabby piece of food crusted to the table nearest me. One beat, two beats, three beats, and Gary turned on his heel and headed out the door. I finished wiping down the counters, got some fresh coffee brewing, and had served about a third of Battle Lake by the time Sid and Nancy arrived.
All the broken glass had been cleaned up, and Harold Boechler was measuring the window. I had returned the vile (and poorly formatted) note to my back pocket and after I made sure Nancy’s sister’s operation had gone okay, I brought them up to speed on the broken window. Neither one seemed particularly fazed.
“Kids,” Nancy said, sliding her apron over her head and tying it at the waist. This one featured a sad blue and blonde Smurfette above the words, “Let My People Go.”
Sid nodded in agreement. “I heard a couple were caught spray-painting the water tower last weekend. It’s hot, the summer’s getting boring, and they’re being teenagers.”
I put on a happy face and nodded. I knew it wasn’t thrill-
seeking teenagers. They wouldn’t have bothered with a note, they wouldn’t have referenced Sodom, and they wouldn’t have targeted one of their favorite hangouts. Battle Lake high schoolers were treated with respect at the Fortune Café, an unusual experience for teenagers. The game and computer room was often full of study groups during the school year, and in the summer, the Fortune was a popular hangout for teens looking for relief from the heat. They drank their Diet Cokes and smoothies and bragged about how they couldn’t wait to escape this ten-cent town. “You guys need anything else before I head to the library?”
“We’re good. We owe you one.”
“Anytime.” I gathered up my iced coffee and breakfast bagel and braved the molten day. The temperature must have risen thirty degrees in the three and a half hours I had been in the cafe. Phew. I balanced my drink and sandwich in my bike basket and pedaled the three short blocks to the library, waving to locals I recognized on the way. When I arrived, Sarah Ruth had already opened up, her brown slacks and polo shirt a professional contrast to my T-shirt and jean shorts. I had never been one to forego comfort for rules.
Mrs. Berns was nowhere in sight, and I chose to ignore the iciness that had developed between Sarah Ruth and me the last two days. We exchanged pleasantries before I planted myself in front of the computer and typed up my article on the Creation Science Fair. I used every passive-aggressive bone in my body to walk the line between responsible journalism and reckless make-fun-alism.
On Thursday, August 19, the New Millennium Bible Camp in Clitherall hosted their first annual Creation Science Fair. The event had a real sense of community and drew over 100 people interested in the biblical view of science. Attendants were not disappointed. Featured displays included a rebuff of the theory of evolution featuring the irrefutable hypothesis, “My Great, Great Grandpa Was a Christian, Not a Monkey,” and an examination into how capitalistic structures could have been successfully applied in biblical times.
In addition, the creationists looked to the pre-literacy era for inspiration on women’s possible contributions to our current global economy. Entrants also tackled the sticky issue of teen sexuality and the hotly debated realm of thermodynamics.
All the exhibits in the Creation Science Fair displayed a bandwagon appeal and the ability to think inside the box. Pastor Meale, host of the event, said, “I take my greatest pleasure in days like today where I can touch the faithful…” Wednesday and Sunday services at Christ’s Church of the Apocryphal Revelation, the church at New Millennium Bible Camp, are open to the public.
I sent the article off to Ron as a Word attachment, along with a picture of the monkey exhibit, just to give him his second coronary this week. I’d get him used to me meeting deadlines just before I skipped town. Sarah Ruth and I made polite but distant small talk throughout the day, which was uneventful except for a visit from Weston Lippmann, tick curator. As soon as I spotted the wilted wildflowers in his hand, I got an apprehensive, sour feeling in my stomach.
“Hi, Mira!” he said cheerfully, flinging his cape over each shoulder so it rested on his back like folded bat wings. “These are for you.”
He grinned his lopsided grin as he thrust the daisies at me. They were my favorite flower next to lilacs, but I was in no mood to be courted. Heck, I was in no century to be cou
rted. “Thank you for the flowers. They’re beautiful. I don’t date men.”
“Oh, I’m…you’re…I’m so sorry! I didn’t know.”
I grimaced. “There’s nothing to know. I’m taking a break from dating. I’d be happy to be your friend while you’re here.”
He smiled again, but it had lost its wattage. Having your offer of romance exchanged for second-hand friendship feels about as good as getting your leg humped by a raccoon. And I would know. “They’re just flowers, and you’re the only person in town I know.” He made that strange throat-clearing sound I remembered from our first meeting.
“I appreciate the gesture.” I scurried to alleviate his discomfort. “Are you going to the August Moon Festival tomorrow?”
“I hadn’t thought of it.” Now he was pouting.
“Well, you should! It’s a good time.”
A squawky voice piped up behind me. “I’ll take you to the Festival.”
I looked over my shoulder. “Mrs. Berns! When did you get here?”
“Are you suggesting I’m not a hard worker?”
The clock told me it was quarter to three, and this was the first I’d seen her. “You’ve been here all day?”
“All I’m saying is that if the boy doesn’t want to go to the August Moon Festival alone, I’d be happy to take him. Granny needs an escort.” She smiled sweetly, her perfectly even dentures glittering in the light.
Weston glanced at me, unsure how to respond. I kept my face smooth. “Sure, that would be fine,” he said. “Thank you for the offer.”
“Great, sonny. You can pick me up at five o’clock. I live over at the nursing home.” She strode off to dust the bookshelves like she had been doing it all along.
