August Moon (13 page)
“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 courted. “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.
“You’ll like Mrs. Berns. She’s nice.”
“Yeah, she reminds me of my grandma.”
“Hm. I wouldn’t go that far. She’s pretty spirited. Just remember that no means no.”
He blanched. “I would never!”
“No, I mean tell her that. Sometimes she forgets and gets a little too aggressive. But if you play dead, you’ll be just fine.”
Weston looked uneasy for a moment, as if he wanted to trade in his capelet for body armor, and then he rallied gamely. “It sounds like tomorrow night will be an adventure. Can I count on seeing you there?”
I felt a rush of fondness for the man. Anyone who was open to appreciating Mrs. Berns deserved some appreciation in turn. “You betcha. I’ll be covering it for the paper.”
“Wonderful. Good day.” He did a little cape whisk, like a nebbish Zorro, and disappeared into the sunshine. I spent the rest of my shift cleaning and avoiding Sarah Ruth. Or, she was avoiding me. Either way, we didn’t talk much, and at closing time, the three of us went our separate ways.
My bike ride home was not nearly as enjoyable as my trip into town. I felt like I was gliding over a dragon’s tongue, down her throat, and into her fiery gullet. My face flushed as my body fought the humid, 103-degree heat shimmering up from the pavement like a mirage. My water bottle was full of tepid liquid, so I just kept my head down and biked as fast as I could. By the time I turned into my driveway, my hair was plastered to my neck and even my toes were sweating. I bypassed the turn off into my house and cruised down to the lake.
Luna followed, running alongside the bike down the shady driveway, her tongue lolling out the side of her mouth.
“Last one in is a fried egg!” I jumped off the bike, tires still spinning, shed my flip-flops and plunged into the refreshing water, tank top, jean shorts, and all. I stayed close to the bottom where the lake was a good ten degrees cooler than the top. The water peeled off layers of grit and fatigue, and I popped to the surface a new woman.
“Whooo!” Luna swam next to me, grinning. “Ever think of trying the breaststroke? That doggie-paddling is getting old.” She just kept smiling and treading water. I waded to shore, found some driftwood, and waded back out to waist-deep water. We played water fetch for a good half an hour, my lower half cool as a cucumber. When both Luna and I were bored and hungry, I walked my bike up to the house, dripping water onto the dusty road.
I filled Luna and Tiger Pop’s water bowls with fresh water and ice cubes and got food for them and the birds before I traded my rapidly drying clothes for a loose cotton sundress. I scarfed down a bowl of Rice Twice cereal, popped some grapes into my mouth, and set to packing. My plan was to bundle up my winter clothes, my meager decorations, including the photographs on the fridge, my cat-ears lamp, and a few watercolor paintings I’d picked up at a garage sale. I’d scrub out the spare bedroom and the spare bathroom and pile my boxes in the living room. All I’d have left to do before I left town would be to pack up my summer clothes, my toiletries, my spices, my plants, and my pet, and the doublewide would be open to the next lucky occupants.
I packed and cleaned and managed to not think about how much this doublewide felt like home. Almost. By nine o’clock, I was done. I fixed myself a pickle, provolone, and mustard sandwich on wheat, drank some bottled water, and changed into my sleuthing clothes. The summer version was black china flats, a pair of black linen pants, a black tank top, and my hair in a ponytail held with a black rubber band.
I slid a flashlight into one pocket and slid the handle of my spider knife over my waistband. The knife was über-perilous and could be flicked open with one quick twitch of your thumb. That cocky accessibility is what made it dangerous, from my end. I had already dropped it on my thigh when I was practicing my “menacing English major” stance on a camping trip and gotten a good gash. Despite my shortcomings as a gangster, I felt safer with the knife.
My plan was to drive out to Hancock Lake and park my car on the side of the road a half mile from the Golden Pond Road turnoff. There was no public access on Hancock, but it was full of bass so some fishers got around that by putting their boats in at a low spot in the road. It would not be unusual to have a car parked there. From that point, I would walk to where I thought Mrs. Meales’ sister’s house was, sticking to the woods on the uninhabited side of Golden Pond Road. There, I would do a little spying to see if I could catch a glimpse of the sister. If she wasn’t there, I might need to peek in some windows. My heart hammered pleasantly at the thought, and the sensation was a nice alternative to sitting at home, waiting to move, trying not to drink. As the sun set, I hopped into the car and went to meet my destiny.
Hancock Lake was small and clean and about three miles from New Millennium Bible Camp as the crow flies. I had rarely driven past it, tucked away as it was between County Road 5 running to Clitherall and County Road 6 running from Battle Lake to 94. You couldn’t reach it on a blacktop, which was just as well. The isolation made the area beautiful, I thought, as I parked my car next to some cattails. Golden Pond Road was a one-mile elbow about four city blocks up and on my left, and the only length of Hancock’s shores that was inhabited. The air was dark but not cool, and it smelled heavy and volatile, like gunpowder.
I strolled past what used to be Hendershot’s Snowmobile Repair. A couple from the Cities had bought the place, and they looked to have a litter of children. I had heard the couple kept to themselves, which was just as well. A walker on a warm summer night was not unusual, but I was a stranger to them, and so they would remember me if someone asked them later. Directly ahead of me, the road T-boned; if you went to the left, you’d end up at Silver Sage Riding Ranch, and if you went to the right, you’d end up at the blacktop that would take you to Inspiration Peak.
I took the left just before the T and crunched down the gravel of Golden Pond. I smelled grilling meat and crept farther to the uninhabited side of the road. The whole lane was heavily treed. On my left were seven summer cabins and three year-round houses, each sitting back from the road on one to three acres of land. On my right was a slough the size of a small lake, a little sister to Hancock on the other side. A welcome breeze licked at my shorthairs, sending a whisper through the popple trees.
When I was in front of the driveway to the house I thought Pastor Winter had described, the only year-round house next to the pink house, I crossed the road and melted into the woods skirting the driveway. The moon was bright enough that I could avoid stepping on sticks or rustling through leaves, and my passage was mostly silent. Ahead shone a single light through what I assumed was the kitchen window, based on the high cupboards illuminated inside. This side of the house facing the road looked like a single-story rambler with a two-car garage, but I assumed if I followed the driveway down its steep incline around the side of the house, I’d see it was really a walkout rambler.
There was no noise except for a distant conversation carrying over the water, an occasional cow mooing from the dairy farm across the lake, and the far-off rumble of cars. I had walked as far as I could without leaving the tree cover, about twenty feet from the house. Now I could either wait it out and see if anyone passed a window inside, or I could scurry up to the house like a summer mouse and peek in the windows. Never a creature of patience, I made to break my cover when I heard heavy footsteps from inside the dwelling.
