The Queen of Sleepy Eye (21 page)

“You're sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Will you even remember what you promised tonight?”

He kissed my forehead. “I'll remember.”

H pulled onto the highway, shifting fiercely through the gears. Out the truck's rear window, I watched the window sashes slide across the truck bed. Pastor Ted had helped me wrap each sash with a blanket and secure them with twine. The sashes weighed a ton, which was only a modest exaggeration. “Watch how you take the corners, H. The sashes are sliding.” H remained mute, scowling at the road ahead of us.

“We'll be turning at DeCrane Road,” I said.

“I thought this artsy guy lived near Clearwater.”

“The artist lives on the
way
to Clearwater.” I twisted my hair off my neck.

“He doesn't live at that New Morning place, does he?”

“You saw his work. You couldn't tell which sash was the original. That kind of skill is a gift from God.” How was that for justification?

H downshifted and skidded to a stop on the shoulder. “I'm not moving another inch until I know exactly where we're going.”

“What are you so worked up about?”

“Why's your hair down? You always wear it tied back or something.”

I let my hair fall over my shoulders. “What does my hair have to do with anything?”

“You're trying to look like one of them.”

“
Them?
You mean the hippies? You think I'm trying to look like a hippie?” Of course, that was exactly what I was trying to do, but that wasn't his business. “Are you driving me to the artist's studio or not? If not, then take me back to Cordial, so I can have Pastor Ted drive me.”

“He wouldn't drive you to New Morning.”

“A lot you know. Pastor Ted has met the artist
and
been to his studio.”

H sat staring out the windshield, his jaw twitching.

“Can we go now?” I asked.

It took H several attempts to get the truck into first gear, but we finally pulled onto the highway. By the time he was in third gear, we turned onto DeCrane Road.

“Head for the teepees,” I told him.

H stopped the truck at the New Morning gate. He barely moved his lips as he spoke. “They do crazy things here. You saw the marijuana they grow. It's not for ornamental purposes, you know. And I've heard things at school. You're libel to come across almost anything. They're like rabbits.” He left the cab and lowered the tailgate.

H unloaded two sashes at a time and leaned them against the fence. I could only carry one at a time. I sidled up to him. “You're getting as bad as the old men who hang out at Gartley's, talking about stuff they know nothing about.”

H motioned over his shoulder to a group of children splashing in a stock tank near a barn. Naked children jumped in and out of the
tank. A bearded man prowled the water, grabbing at ankles. The children squealed with delight. “Look at that,” H said. “What's a grown man doing in a kid's swimming pool?” H turned away from the scene. “And what are those kids doing running around without clothes on? That might be cute for toddlers, but I bet those boys are in the fourth grade. That's not right. And the man? When he stands up, you're in for a big surprise.”

H hefted the last pair of sashes from the truck.

“Aren't you going to help me carry these in?”

Walking away from me, H mumbled over his shoulder. “Find another way home.”

“Fine, H, just fine.”

Walking toward me on the other side of the gate, Sasha cocked her head, her smile a question. She really should have been wearing a bra. “Hey, Amy, remember me? Sasha? What brings you to the farm?” She asked this like I was the last person she expected to see that day.

“I'm bringing work to Falcon.”

Her surprise stopped her in her tracks. “How do you know Falcon?”

All that had been welcoming and generous about our last chance encounter in town had turned into something I'd only observed from a distance between rival teenage girls. I decided to enjoy the intrigue. “I've known Falcon since we moved here. I think I met him at Straw and Butter's farm. Yes, that's right. He was chopping wood, and I helped him out at the Founder's Day craft sale.” I looked around the yard, hoping Falcon would show up. “Could you help me find his studio?”

She shielded her eyes from the sun to study my face. “Sure. I guess. I'll lead the way.” I tilted a sash toward me, and she picked up the other end. “So you know Falcon pretty well?” she asked. She said his name like she enjoyed the play of its sound on her tongue.

What did I know of Falcon? He was a gifted artist. He liked to play with kids. He wasn't too keen on Christians but was magnanimous enough to judge us individually. When he touched me, all sense and sensibility drained out of me. “Not really. He's doing some work for the church I attend.”

“Is that so? Wow, that's a trip.” She sounded incredulous rather than intrigued.

A man stooped to step out of the barn and into the sunlight. He wore overalls but no shirt. Tattoos of shapely women and scaly sea creatures wound their way around his forearms, past his elbow to his biceps and shoulders. The man was an illustrated edition of Dante's
Inferno
. Sasha disappeared between the tired-looking house and a shed. The man squinted over my shoulder to the road before he settled his black eyes on me. “Who are you and what's your business at the farm?”

Clearly, this man had never seen a bottle of Tame crème rinse or used a hair brush. Long hair, I'd learned from Butter, was meant to be a statement but became an issue of economy. With what little cash they earned going toward necessities, a barber and razor blades became expendable. But I still couldn't help wondering what lived inside the man's beard. He asked me the same questions again, only this time I understood he saw me as an intruder. I spilled my life story.

“My name is Amy. I'm delivering stained-glass work to Falcon's studio. In fact, this is one of the windows he'll repair. I could take the blanket off, if you want to see it.” I worked at the knotted twine. “I'll just be a minute,” I said, hoping he would tell me not to bother, but he didn't.

“How'd you get here?”

I stopped fidgeting with the string. “If this is a bad time—”

He stepped closer, lowering his face to mine. His breath would make a dog whimper. “Don't make me ask you again.”

“My friend H drove me,” I squeaked.

“Is that the kid who sicced his dog on them boys who was messing with private property?”

“That's H.”

“Good kid.” The man pulled on his beard. “How long will you be here?”

I turned my attention back to the knots. “Do you have some scissors?”

His frown deepened.

I worked the knots as I talked. “I have to be to work by 3:00 so no later than 2:45, unless I have to walk home, then I'll be leaving earlier, probably by 2:15 because I'll have to shower.” The man's face remained unreadable. I told him more. “I work at the funeral home. I keep the place clean and supervise the viewings. The mortician likes meatloaf sandwiches, so I'm in charge of preparing his lunches when he's around. Sometimes, just once, actually, I went on a death call to pick up the deceased. You never want to call the dearly departed
dead
to the survivors. That's a rule morticians have.” The blanket fell away from the window, and the sun shone through the glass to color the dirt a sickly green.

“Wait here until Falcon comes to escort you to his studio, and don't you go wandering around alone,” the man said.

A woman wearing cutoffs with a man's shirt closed the gate. If not for the windows and my promise to Leoti, I could have hurdled it.

The man's attention shifted from me to scan the jumble of teepees and converted buses and a sandbag hut with a chalet roof, shingles included, that filled a paddock. Beyond the house and barn, more temporary dwellings leaned, billowed, and swayed with the breeze. Up close, none of the structures seemed inhabitable beyond a two-day, one-night camping trip. That was my limit for using an outhouse,
although the outhouse was by far the most conventional of the structures. In spite of the domestic behaviors I observed that morning— women hanging laundry, workers bent over gardens, and dogs sleeping in the shade—the ordinary and the extraordinary pooled like oil on water at New Morning farm.

Satisfied that I hadn't disturbed his universe, the man disappeared back into the shadows of the barn. Only then did the weight of his suspicion and the sun's heat threaten to topple me. I squatted to rest my forehead on the sash and closed my eyes to stifle my tears.

Jesus, get me out of here.

Falcon put his arm around me and pulled my head to his shoulder. “It's okay. I should have been here. Frank scares everybody at first. He's a vet. Nam messed him up real bad.”

* * *

CARRYING THE WINDOW sash between us, Falcon and I followed an orange extension cord that wound its way from the house to his studio. Hay stubble scrunched under our feet, and grasshoppers hopped gracelessly from one toasted hay stalk to another. The studio turned out to be part Volkswagen van, part tent, and part lean-to. Falcon pulled back an orange flap for me to enter. He followed, hefting the sash easily onto a long table made of plywood and sawhorses. I rubbed the indentations the sash had made in my hands.

Falcon noticed. “Would a cool cloth help? I could get some water from the canal.”

I held my hands behind my back. “I'll be fine, really. Shouldn't we go get the other sashes?”

“It's cool to leave them where they are. Frank will help me later.” Falcon spread his arms in a grand gesture. “Well, Amelia, welcome to my home and studio, such as it is.”

“It's … it's a little cooler in here.”

“Wait until we start soldering.”

Sasha entered with an infant on her hip. Looking from Falcon to me, she said, “Good. You found each other.” She switched the pudgy baby to her other hip. “Don't let Frank scare you, Amy. He's a pussy cat, really. It's just that we get hassled by the locals. He's very protective. He was a Green Beret or something.”

“He was a marine,” corrected Falcon.

“I'll try to remember,” she said evenly.

Falcon rubbed his palms together. “We better get to work then.”

Sasha said, “I'm watching Sunshine's boys this morning so she can get some beading done.” She pivoted as sharply as any marching soldier. Falcon watched her walk away with long, purposeful strides.

“I'll be right back,” he said, following her.

Left alone in the studio, I felt less conspicuous studying the details of Falcon's life. Constructed of mixed tarps and tent fragments draped over a wooden frame, the studio and home possessed all the permanence of a gypsy wagon. Overhead, a canvas tarp, army surplus from its dill-pickle color, provided deep shade. The side of the van created one wall with its side door left open to reveal a lumpy mattress and an assortment of cotton blankets, those thin panels from India as ubiquitous as the buffalo robes of a hundred years earlier. The opposite wall, the lean-to, held a small crib, and two children's sleeping bags, zipped and smoothed, glowed orange from its nylon covering.

Oh.

This was Sasha and her children's home too. What had happened to Jackson? Disappointment wrung my heart. I sat on a three-legged camping stool. Was Falcon married? Was he living with Sasha? I wanted to run.

How stupid could I be?

Relax. Breathe. Remember why you're here.

And that reason would be?

Leoti's windows, of course. Right?

Right.

Yes. Yes, I was there to help Leoti realize her dream. I wiped my palms on my shorts and continued the self-guided tour, trying to piece together a better picture of Falcon without being too snoopy.

Although temporary, the studio modeled order. A partitioned wooden box held scraps of glass filed by color. So, Falcon preferred some predictability in his life, like knowing where the red or green or purple glass could be found. In the center of the studio, two tables constructed of plywood and sawhorses filled the space. On one, line drawings of the top and bottom sashes had been taped on the surface. On the other table, an appliance I assumed to be the grinder sat beside a pitcher of water. This would be where I worked. I sat in front of the machine and waited.

Falcon returned, breathless. He spoke, but I might as well have been one of the flies that buzzed in and out of the studio. “Everything's cool. Let's get to work.” He set a stack of glass pieces with paper patterns taped to them by the grinder. I worked at this table and referred often to what I learned was the master cartoon taped down to the table, comparing the pieces of glass I'd ground and hoping the glass fit just inside the lines. Doing so allowed for the lead came Falcon used to build the sashes. The sashes were assembled and soldered on the base cartoons at the second table where Falcon worked. Had I known working over the table would knot the space between my shoulders, I'm not sure I would have volunteered my help.

Whom am I kidding?

Through the screen door I watched Mom reach across the kitchen table to dab Charles's chin with her napkin. “Miracle Whip,” she said. “I hope you don't mind.” He smiled with a bite of sandwich in his cheek. Despite the deep coves of his hairline, he looked twelve years old.

The walk home from the farm had sullied my mood. My arms and legs stung from sunburn. My feet ached from walking on gravel in my flip-flops. And my teeth stuck to my lips. I let the screen door slam behind me to announce my arrival. “Boy, it's hot out there.”

“
Fofa,
where have you been? You're as red as a beet.” Mom rose from her seat. “Sit here, in front of the fan. I made some iced tea.”

I rolled the glass across my forehead. “Did a death call come?” I asked Charles.

“I'm in town to … to get a haircut.” A rim of white flesh bordered his hairline at the nape of his neck and over his ears. I was surprised that Charles got out in the sun enough to get a tan, even a modest one. But then, he had been spending more and more
time behind the garage visiting with mom. He looked at his watch. “I should get going, I guess.”

Was he squirming? The man plugged orifices of dead people, and he was definitely squirming under my gaze.

Mom patted his hand. “Nonsense. It takes two minutes to walk to the barber shop from here. You have time to finish your sandwich. Relax.”

And what was Mom doing home from work? Before I could ask, she said, “I have too many overtime hours at the hardware store. They gave me the rest of the day off. Isn't that a nice surprise?” What surprised me were her clothes. She wore a blouse with puffy sleeves and a Peter-Pan collar buttoned to her throat with a navy skirt. She looked like my eighth-grade math teacher.

Strange. Very, very strange.

Charles and Mom exchanged glances and then looked at me.

“I think I'll read in my room,” I said.

“A shower would cool you down,” Mom said.

I looked at Charles. He averted his eyes. Even though I could smell myself, Mom knew I never showered with men in the house. “Maybe later.”

“As you wish.”

As you wish?
Mom had never said
as you wish
my whole life. This was getting creepy.

* * *

I PACED MY bedroom, avoiding the spots in the floor that squeaked. Mom, still glowing from her clandestine lunch with Charles, had stopped by to deliver a letter from Lauren. Truth be known, I hadn't written Lauren since she told me about her and Andy, and this was
the sixth letter I'd received from her. The other five letters had gone straight into the trash because no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't think of one thing to say that wasn't snippy or mean. And there was the whole rug issue to think about. I leaned against the bed and tore open the envelope.

Lauren deserved an answer. That didn't mean she would like what I had to say. I wrote to her explaining the utter importance of a daily quiet time and regular prayer and told her it was her Christian duty to flee from sexual immorality. Each morning she should put on the full armor of God to “stand firm against the schemes of the devil.” I wrote twenty more Scripture verses on index cards, like “For this is
the will of God, your sanctification; that is, that you abstain from sexual immorality” and “But do not let immorality or any impurity or greed even be named among you, as is proper among saints.”

I prayed for her every day.