All Your Pretty Dreams (8 page)

“
Another, Jonny?” A
waitress in a red tank top picked up the bottle. He’d already
forgotten her name. When she came back with the beer she looked at
his sketches. “Whatcha doing?”

The answer was in there
somewhere. A grain bin. A door. He drew a lay-out angle as new
arrivals let a blast of warm moist air. Jonny sat by the only
window that let in light, lost in his sketches. The summer evenings
stretched long; he had no idea what time it was.

The Owl was common ground
for singles of all stripes, a place where husbands could get away
from wives, where there was always someone to talk to or stare at
you while you got drunk. Ten small tables inside gouged, dirty
walls, a dusty wood floor, a single, ancient lavatory, a bandstand
that held three assuming none of them were drummers. A long bar
along one side, with a mirrored back-bar with its silver half-gone.
The back-bar was the pride of Red Vine, transported up the
Mississippi River on a steamboat in the 1870s from New Orleans and
passed from bar to bar in the county. Dark and sticky from decades
of smoke and liquor, its carved trim and decorative posts draped
with faded streamers from New Years gone by. The Owl hadn’t allowed
smoking for over a year now but the smell of it was deep in the
woodwork and paneling, in the furniture, in the bar, and especially
in Walter.

In black apron and green
golf shirt, Walter Leclerc wiped the bar obsessively. The white
towel, a new one each morning and evening, was a fixture in his
left hand, just down from the tattoo of the dancing girl. Thin with
a hooked nose, nicotine-stained teeth, and a shock of gray hair,
he’d managed to stay single into his fifties. He’d been wiped out
in a hurricane down in Mobile or Mississippi or somewhere.
(Everywhere that far south was the same to a Minnesotan.) His
insurance money being as green as anybody’s, after five or six
years of careful scrutiny proved him to be no skirt-chaser or
confidence man, he was allowed to become part of the town— a rather
important part.

“
What the hell?” Lenny
stood by the table, glaring down at the sketch paper. “Is that your
grandma’s corn crib or my grandpa’s?”

“
Can’t have it. Unless you
trap raccoons.”

Lenny pulled up a chair.
“Was it the polka mass that tipped you over or did you eat some
funny mushrooms out on the farm?”

“
Didn’t see you at mass.”
Jonny flipped over the page. Where would you put the toilet, the
kitchen sink, the bed? Was there room for a partition?

“
Well, it was a bit early.
And I had to wash my hair. And— how was Little Toot?”

“
We survived.”

“
No wrath of God? Sweet.”
Lenny took a long drink from his beer and started describing the
plans for the fundraiser on Friday night. A groundwater expert from
the Department of Natural Resources would discuss landfill runoff.
Fifty people might come, more if the food was free. Lenny was
looking for a sponsor; without one Kool-aid and Ritz crackers would
do. With the Notable Knobels playing, well, the sky was the limit,
attendance-wise.

“
About that, Len.” Jonny
set down his sketch pad.

“
You can’t back out on me
now.”

“
I was just thinking. What
if it’s just me? My sister—“

“
Gotcha.
Ix-nay
on the
umpet-tray
.”

“
And my dad is friends
with Norm.”

A black look transformed
Lenny’s face as if it occurred to him that people he knew might
vote for someone else. That it was a
race
, and there was a possibility,
slim though it was, that somebody else— namely a dumb-ass named
Norm— could actually win.

“
Is the party here then?”
Jonny asked. He had never seen more than twenty-five people in the
Owl at one time.

“
I gotta get another beer.
Walter!” Lenny headed for the bar, then turned back. “It’s at the
landfill. That’s the point, man.”

Great, a concert at the
dump. How appropriate. The accordion was the Rodney Dangerfield of
the music world. Well, what did he expect from a hometown homer who
lived in his parents’ garage? He liked Lenny, always had. But if he
thought a concert at the dump was going to be fun, well.

Jonny went back to his
sketch pad, trying to work like he once did, organically, without
thinking too hard. He scribbled, absorbed in his task. The bar was
silent. Even Walter had stopped wiping the bar. In front of the
table stood Cuppie, wearing a pink sweater, her hands folded in
front of her, head tilted in a coy way.

“
Look at you. Working so
hard,” she said, smiling down at the table piled with sheets of
paper. “Just doodling or something special?”

The morning’s drama crashed
back into his mind. He jammed the papers into the sketchbook and
threw down a five-dollar bill.

Cuppie asked, “Where are
you going?”

He rounded the table, hit a
chair with his foot and knocked it over. Someone— that stuck-up
college girl— righted it for him. Cuppie was calling to him, asking
him to stop. Of all places, the Owl Bar, a sanctuary from nagging
wives and small-town gossip. She never went into bars. Why start
now? He stopped, unwilling to give her the last word— or these
people something to talk about.

“
What is it?” He kept his
voice even. He turned to face her. Yes, that was the right thing.
Face your demons. “What do you want?”

“
I just wanted to say
goodbye.” Cuppie looked at the students lined up at the bar, at
Lenny, at Walter. She stepped closer to him, smiling. Her scent
again repelled him. “And that I’ll see you at home
soon.”

Jonny blinked, amazed by
her stubbornness. Why couldn’t he just push her away, here in front
of everyone? He was a coward.

She gave him a little
squeeze as she swished out the door.

Chapter 6

When Isabel arrived at the
gathering of rose lovers in Margaret Knobel’s parlor she was
already tired. The day started at dawn in the blueberry fields.
When she got back she downloaded the photos of the screens, counted
the bees, and worked on her spreadsheets. If she didn’t keep up
with the logging of the research, her own notes as well as
Professor Mendel’s, she would get too far behind. Even one day
could threaten to throw the entire project into chaos.

So many bees. That was the
good news, for the environment, the earth, the project, the apples
and berries— and the bad news. More bees, more work.

And the phone call from her
sister. Somehow Daria had gotten the number of the University’s
cell phone. The anticipation of being sucked back into her family’s
drama made Isabel weak as she mounted the sagging front steps of
the Victorian farmhouse.

Gray clapboard, peeling,
rot
. So different from the houses back
home. Surrounded by gardens, that at least was similar. The front
lawn had been ripped out for rose bushes, a stone path, an arbor of
climbing vines. The same attention didn’t extend to the house.
Cardboard filled a broken pane. Shingles were missing. Dead leaves
accumulated on the stoop.

Isabel felt the wind go out
of her crusading sails. But she knocked and arranged a smile on her
face.

Margaret was wearing
chartreuse Capri pants and a pink print blouse, a Florida look
rarely seen this far from a beach. Her lipstick missed her mouth in
places. She offered to take Isabel’s flowered beanie, and there was
a moment when Margaret almost snatched it off her head.

In the parlor she met Vern
and David, Vern’s wife, three plump women from New Ulm drinking
wine from tumblers, and Margaret’s friend, Carol Chichester, who
followed the same fashion cues with a frizzy perm and vivid yellow
slacks. A dark-haired woman in a tight skirt, high heels, and
bright red lipstick entered from the kitchen. Loreen was a
secretary at the church and at least ten years younger than the
others. She carried in a tray of carrot sticks and ranch dressing.
Ozzie followed with coffee.

After the chitchat died
down Isabel told the old story of ‘Silent Spring,’ new material to
this group. The food chain, DDT and the bald eagle. Then she
launched into her bee message. She explained the Bee Wild study,
what they hoped to find about the relationship of wild bees to
orchards, about feral bees versus honeybees. She explained about
colony collapse disorder, the mysterious die-off of honeybees. The
importance of bees to fruit and vegetable yields. The magic of
insect life. The intricate balance of plant and animal
interdependence. Yada yada.

They asked polite
questions. After a long pause, sips of coffee and wine, Loreen
pursed her ruby lips. What was it like trying to corral all those
rowdy young college students, she asked.

One of the New Ulm ladies
squealed. “Are they jumping into each others’ beds?”

The three ladies slapped
each other on the knees, giggling. Isabel looked around the parlor.
Oh Good Lord. Their eyes shined eagerly. Did they want to live
vicariously through a field camp of twenty-year-olds? Some old
people got incensed about sex, mad anyone was having it. Maybe not
this group. The men and women tipped up their chins,
eager.

Isabel bit her lip. What
would be best? A joke? A suggestive phrase? She looked up into the
gray eyes of the accordionist, Jon, who had materialized in the
hall, arms crossed on his chest. He fixed her in his cool stare,
amused, as if her embarrassment was high entertainment.

“
Tell us, Isabel,” Carol
said. “Is it Peyton Place over there— or Melrose Place?”

One of the men, presumably
a birdwatcher, asked if there were any ‘double-breasted
mattress-thumpers’ on the loose. The New Ulm ladies whooped. Isabel
had never seen so many old people go pink so fast. Next dentures
would fly. Jon continued to smirk, no help at all. His parents were
laughing with the others. The dolled-up woman in the tight skirt
looked around with a strange hunger in her eyes.

“
Well, ah. I do have to
apply the occasional towel snap to an— to a behind,” Isabel said,
trying to keep her tone light.

“
A bare behind?” a lady
cackled.

“
A bare ass, you mean?—
Are they taking showers together? Is that what she means?— Don’t be
silly, Vern.— Don’t bend over in the shower, Vern!”

More jokes, more laughter.
Isabel felt her face go red. Pesticides— oh, who the hell cares?
Bees? Forget about it. She straightened, trying to recover her
composure. “If there are no more questions then. Thanks for
inviting me.”

Terry was loitering outside
her door when she got back to the motel. He wanted to go to the bar
again. She blew him off. He shouted something through the door. “Go
away,” she called back.

A knock while she was
washing her face. Before she could shout again, a girl spoke
through the door: “It’s Kate. I need to talk to you.”

Kate wasn’t one of the
problem girls. Isabel only knew her through her work habits. She
took orders gracefully, worked hard. She was from Utah where the
worker bee is famous although she made sure everyone knew she
wasn’t like all of that state’s citizens. No, she liked to have
fun. Short with plump cheeks and long highlighted hair, Kate now
looked like she’d been crying.

“
What’s wrong?” Isabel
handed the girl her hand towel as she sat on the bed. “Has
something happened at home?”

“
No.” She wiped her eyes
with towel and sighed. “I just had to get away from that bitch.”
She looked up and spit out the name: “
Alison.
We were talking in my room
and she says she’s got dibs on Jonny, and she could get anybody—
she’s got a boyfriend back home who calls her all the time— why
does she get dibs? I hate her!”

Isabel felt her last bit of
energy escape. Girls should have grown out of this by twenty. She
had avoided the sort of bitchy competition that girls sometimes
fell into, in both high school and college. She studied nonstop. No
cheerleading, no soccer, no bars, no drugs: nothing to take time
away from studies.

Well, that wasn’t exactly
true. Her two best friends in high school were into Goth culture, a
matched set of red-on-black fright hair and black lipstick. At
school they reveled in being different, but they were surprisingly
normal elsewhere, reading magazines, writing in diaries, listening
to salsa and disco. Isabel’s mother thought they were heroin
addicts and gave each other tattoos. Isabel used white makeup but
balked on dyeing her blonde hair black and going totally Goth. (And
here she was, hating her black hair.) That they stayed friends,
defended her against the socials and debs and jocks, made her
appreciate them all the more.