Knee High by the 4th of July (8 page)

Johnny smiled a strange smile at me and walked back into the classroom.

Maybe I had misjudged Johnny and Dolly’s hanging out last night. They could have been talking about Wisconsin, for all I knew, since both had spent a lot of time there. I literally skipped to the front door and floated to the
Recall
office to pick up the digital camera before I headed to the Kiddie Karnival. The carnival was always held right off Lake Street in the parking lot of the fire hall. It was actually a pretty lame event, if you knew better. If you were four, though, the fishing for plastic ducks, throwing darts at balloons, and tossing rings on old glass Coke bottles was nirvana, and everyone left a winner with a pocketful of Tootsie Rolls.

The Turtle Races, however, were a little grimmer. The turtles started in the center of the pavement, where there was a four-foot- diameter circle permanently painted. The first turtle to make it outside the circle won. The pavement at the First National Bank parking lot had been sprayed with hoses, but it seemed to be steaming slightly. I was worried the turtles were going to melt their little mitts right into the tar.

Fortunately, there was a plastic wading pool filled with water and chilling turtles on each side of the track. Kids could choose a favorite filthy turtle from the free-for-all pools or bring their own. It was a zoo, literally and figuratively. Much shrieking and turtle prodding ensued, and twenty minutes later, I was snapping pictures of the winner, Ashley Grosbain, holding her urinating reptile close to her face and grinning. It was sweet, and good birth control.

When I hit Lake Street, hundreds of people were milling around in anticipation of the parade, some carrying treasures from the flea market, others with popcorn from the Big Bopper. The Big Bopper had been driving his popcorn cart into town every July for as long as people could remember. I don’t know how he made ends meet. He sold caramel corn, kettle corn, regular popcorn, popcorn balls … if it had popcorn in it, John sold it, but never for more than fifty cents a bag. I didn’t need to be a math whiz to figure out he would need to sell a lot of popcorn to even cover his gas money. Not for the first time, I wondered if he was a wealthy eccentric who netted secret joy out of infusing the population with delicious fiber.

The Big Bopper knew me from the previous summers when I had visited Battle Lake to see Sunny, and he never forgot a name. As I walked past his cart, he called out to me, “It’s gonna be a busy weekend, Ms. James. Popcorn?”

I declined, but then thought better of it. It’s never too early for popcorn. I even bought two sapphire-blue, sugar-soaked popcorn balls to give to the birds back at my place. It might keep them appeased for another day.

I found a good parade-viewing spot directly in front of Ace Hardware and settled myself on the curb between two families just as I heard the cacophonous sound of the high school band break into the opening bars of “Louie, Louie” on the north side of town. The Battle Lake Bulldogs inched their way toward me in hitches and spurts, stopping and starting as directed by their bandleader. By the time they got to me, they had finished “Louie, Louie,” segued to “Apache” and then “Wipeout,” and were back to “Louie, Louie” again.

Behind the Bulldogs rode the Kiwanis, who hurtled along in their tiny little motorcycles, performing death-defying crazy eights while barely avoiding spectators and each other. They always got my blood racing. A string of convertibles and antique cars followed them, but suddenly, a murmuring passed down the crowd, and I could see people standing up far to the north. This movement passed down the crowd like a wave, until I too was forced to my feet to see what was going on. Bringing up the rear of a 1953 navy blue Chevy were two men, each holding the end of a pole on which hung a “Diversity in Battle Lake” sign. This could only be Kennie’s work, a knee-jerk response to Dolly’s request for more cultural awareness.

Leading the “diverse” group were three white-skinned men wearing leather Indian outfits straight from a Hollywood wardrobe department, circa 1950. They actually looked like miniature, pale Chief Wenongas without the strength and beauty, and it made me sad. One of them held a sign that said “We Support Native Americans,” but they were beating their chests like Tarzan and whooping and hollering. The crowd near me clapped politely. In this area, folks were proud of their hyperliteral rendition of the Chief in the same way they rooted for global warming—quietly, with a good dose of self-flagellation for being so selfish.

Mrs. Berns and her friend Ida followed closely in a golf cart draped with a “Love an Old Lady” banner. Ida looked as crisp as a fall apple, even in this unbearable heat. She wore a white sun visor with a matching tennis dress and shoes, and there was not a curl out of place in her short, white hair. Mrs. Berns was a little less conservative in her Nascar tank top and bike shorts, but the look seemed appropriate, given the speed with which she was driving the golf cart. She apparently was living out her dream of being a Kiwanis.

Holding up the rear were four Klimeks, a family notorious for its farm machinery accidents. All four were dressed in street clothes. One held a sign that said, “Imagine not being able to play video games.” The second had a sign that said, “What if you couldn’t hitchhike?” The third’s sign said, “Envision a life where you can’t show approval to someone standing very far away.” The fourth, and final, member of this odd troupe had a sign that said, “Support Those Without Thumbs. TWT.” The entire group chanted, “Support TWT” as they walked past, and sure enough, all four of them were missing at least one thumb. And that was diversity in Battle Lake.

Before I could get my head around it, the Battle Lake fire truck rolled past, its occupants beaning the crowd with purple taffy and causing children to leave their parents like lemmings toward a cliff, scrambling for pavement-warmed candy. Some more old cars, four really big horses looking lathered in the heat, and what looked like a cheerleading group, followed the fire truck. As they drew closer, I realized it wasn’t just any cheerleading group. Kennie Rogers was at the head, and she was wearing her silver can-can dress and stovepipe red, white, and blue hat from yesterday’s crime scene. She was accompanied by twelve other women dressed identically, the youngest around fifty, and they were all chanting, “We got spirit, yes we do! We got spirit, how ’bout you? Goooo, Beaver Pelts!”

Between cheers, the baker’s dozen of women were handing out business cards. Kennie ran to me and stuffed one in my hand, her cheeks rosy with excitement. “Guess you know what I’ve been up to, eh Mira? Cheerleading camp! It’s called radical cheerleading, and it’s the newest way to activate crowds and advertise products in the summer, what with all the parades across the state. You’all could be a Beaver Pelt, too!”

I pulled my hand away as if burned, but I couldn’t keep from looking at the card with raised brown letters against a white background.

Radical Cheerleaders for Rent.

Contact Kennie Rogers at [email protected]
for More Information.

I looked up just in time to see Kennie and her group execute a painfully sexy group hip-grind to Kennie’s shouted cheers of “Whoomp, there it is! Whoomp, there it is!”

Kennie was renowned for her odd business endeavors. First she had tried hosting a geriatric party house, then she attempted to push elderly beauty contests with little success, and so she created a gold-panning business on nearby Otter Tail River. I supposed the radical cheerleading shouldn’t have been a surprise, but I was having a hard time digesting it.

Before I had a chance to really try, Brando Erikkson’s red Humvee roared up on the tails of the Beaver Pelts. The driver pulled the mammoth vehicle to a halt, put it in park, and climbed half-out through the sunroof of the car, megaphone in hand. Kennie rushed from the front of her Pelts so she stood within ten feet of the man. She kept her group dancing what appeared to be a creakily seductive version of Pat Benatar’s “Hell Is for Children” music video while they all stared at the Humvee occupant.

In the light of day, he was even more handsome than I had thought from my glimpse of him at Les’ Meat and RV and again last night in the dark back streets with Kennie. His black hair, now loose and straight around his shoulders, accented his sharp cheekbones and straight nose, and his smooth smile was dazzlingly white. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who noticed his good looks, as the men around me began grumbling and the women’s faces went slack. I wasn’t impressed with him, though, if for no other reason than the obnoxious vehicle he drove. Never trust a man who pays for a Hummer.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Hello, and thank you for inviting me to your beautiful town!”

I snapped some shots with the digital, and then angled my head a bit so I could watch him work the crowd. He was good, too. He managed to make visual contact with every woman within distance. His erection eyes slid off one eager face on to the next, and I wondered if he was going to whip out his flute and lead all the women of Battle Lake away like the Pied Piper.

“My name is Brando Erikkson, and my father created the Chief Wenonga statue for your town. Now, it is my understanding that the Chief has gone missing.” At his mention of the missing Chief, Brando hung his head, as if saddened. He waited one beat, two beats, three, then lifted his head and blinded the crowd with his grin. “But I have good news! Fibertastic Enterprises is going to donate a slightly irregular woodchuck to grace your beautiful town until the Chief is returned!”

Kennie squealed and applauded, and soon, the whole crowd was cheering good-naturedly. Brando threw his hands in the air as if signaling a victory.

A woodchuck? That was slightly irregular?

I was distracted from the rest of Brando’s speech as the golf cart that had carried Ida and Mrs. Berns came roaring back against the grain of the parade. Mrs. Berns was no longer in the cart, and an addled-looking Ida was yelling, “Someone stole the Indian! The Indian is gone!”

She was largely ignored as everyone stared, rapt, at Brando in his Humvee. The woman next to me muttered, “The old coot just figured out someone stole Chief Wenonga?”

I glared at the woman and rushed out to Ida, worried she was suffering from heat stroke. When I reached the cart, I placed my hand over hers and pulled her foot off the pedal. “Are you OK, Ida? Is it the temperature?”

She looked at me, her eyes blazing. “Someone stole the Indian!”

“Shh, shh, Ida. It’s OK. The police are looking for Chief Wenonga. It’ll be OK.” I could hear Brando mesmerizing the crowd through his megaphone but couldn’t pay attention to the words. I turned my head to holler for an ambulance, but not before the panic in Ida’s voice cut through the thick summer air and forced me to look back at her.

“It’s not the Wenonga statue. It was Bill Myers, one of the Indian impersonators from the parade. He’s been kidnapped!”

My knees went weak,
and I dropped myself into the shaded seat next to Ida. “What do you mean, kidnapped?”

“I mean, he was there, talking to me and Mrs. Berns, and then he was gone. The other two Indians don’t know where he went. He’s been taken by ghosts!”

“I’m sure there is a rational explanation. He probably just went into the Rusty Nail for a beer.” I felt my heartbeat slow down.

She set her shoulders stubbornly. “He was supposed to go with the other two Indians to the head of the parade and walk back down again. Kennie wanted the parade to end with Indians. He’s disappeared.”

Sure enough, as Brando pulled himself back into his Humvee, his speech apparently over, and the Beaver Pelts faced front again, I noticed two confused-looking guys in Indian costumes straggling behind the mammoth red vehicle. They were scanning the crowd and shrugging.

“I’m sure it’s fine, Ida. Why don’t you go tell Gary Wohnt what’s going on? I bet they’ll find Mr. Myers real soon.”

She looked doubtful, but after I slipped out of the cart, she drove off toward the police station. For my part, I jogged down the street the half mile or so to the Meat and RV shop, stopping at the end of the parade route to buy a bottle of icy water from a kid with a cooler. I didn’t know if Les was capable of kidnapping a statue
and
a man, but if he had taken Bill Myers, he wouldn’t have gotten far.

I cruised to the back of the shop, out of breath and sweaty. Before I checked for Les, I chugged some cold water, pressing the chilled bottle against my face after I capped it. I knew the Meat and RV store was closed for the holiday, but when I yanked on the back door, it opened smoothly. Surprised, I walked in without pausing, washed in the smell of smoked meat and car oil. The back room looked exactly like I expected—open pizza boxes falling over piles of newspaper, dingy gray file cabinets half open, overflowing ashtrays heaped in corners. This place was a fire hazard and far too messy to snoop in. A computer printout on the top of a mound of newspapers caught my eye because of its whiteness. I glanced quickly at it, noting “University of Wisconsin” printed across the top. It appeared to be a hard copy of Dr. Dolly Castle’s web page. It featured a photo of her smiling sedately, a list of the Native American Indian classes she would be teaching in the fall and their syllabi, and contact information.

Underneath it was a printout from another website with a laminated card paperclipped to it. The website was called “The Man’s Militia,” and the front page listed a statement of grievances against the United States federal government. The next page listed adversaries of the militia, but it was all general references to corrupt bureaucrats, law enforcement agencies, judges, and prosecutors. The laminated card attached to it had a grainy photo of Les Pastner, sans hat, his full name—Lester Luther Pastner—his vital statistics, and a picture of a red flag featuring a blue “x” dotted with eleven white stars over the words “The Independent States of America.” I glanced around for a computer but didn’t see one.

I strode purposefully to the front before I lost my adrenaline boner. This was the part of the store the customers saw, and it smelled cool and peppery. There was one refrigerated display case about the size of a couch next to the cash register, and it was packed with shrink-wrapped beef, sausages, and jerky. In the far corner, an old-fashioned metal desk was stacked neatly with Winnebago brochures. The corkboard to the left of the front door was covered in notices for auctions, garage sales, and free kittens.

Other than the furniture, the room was empty, which left only one place to explore. Behind the till, directly next to the doorway leading to the back room I had just come out of, was a closed door made of the cheap wood found in prefabricated homes. I turned around and walked to this door, the cockiness melting out of my step. It occurred to me that I was trespassing in the workspace of a questionably unstable militia man who had begun to wear a hat about the same time a piece of scalp had shown up at the base of the stolen Chief Wenonga.

I forced myself forward, leaving a trail of cooling nerve behind me. One step, two steps, three steps, and the cool metal of the doorknob was in my hand. One turn, push, and I was in the windowless room. My eyes adjusted in seconds, and I moved forward into what could be generously described as a living space. There was an aging TV against one wall, its antennae covered in twisted tin foil. Next to the television was an open door that looked in on a toilet and sink. On the far wall of the room stood a card table with a gimpy leg and two folding chairs. The next wall over was consumed by a couch, and someone was sprawled on it. I stepped back involuntarily, an image of finding Jeff’s body in the library slapping me across both cheeks.

In fact, this body was laid out just like Jeff’s, with the arms crossed and a hat instead of a book covering the face. I forced myself forward, my legs creaking stiffly. I reached down and toward the hat, the smell of smoked meat overwhelming all my senses. I noticed distantly that it was the Cenex cap I had seen Les wearing last night. I felt as if I was swimming through Vaseline, pushing toward the green bill of the cap. My fingers grasped the smooth cloth, and I pulled the hat gently away and screamed.