The Queen of Sleepy Eye (22 page)

Boy, this is a fat one,” Myron said, testing the weight of the letter in his hand.

“Does it need extra postage?” I asked.

He dropped the letter on the scale. “Say, is that your green Pontiac Tommy's been driving around town?”

“It couldn't be. The transmission hasn't come in yet.”

“Let's see,” he said, scratching his chin and looking at the ceiling. The customer behind me pretended to be interested in the Ten-Most-Wanted poster, like a bank robber could hide in Cordial. “The car I saw was mint green with dark-green on the top and along the sides, a real beauty. Brought back many a fond memory for this old man.” His eyebrows popped over his glasses. “I suppose you and your mom will be leaving us pretty soon.”

There was no sense wondering how Myron knew about the car and our travel plans. Dead men told no tales, and small towns kept no secrets. Just ask Lauren. “Does the letter need another stamp or not?” I smiled so he wouldn't think I was being rude, but I was
already rehearsing what I would say to Mom about hiding the repair of the car.

I ran the two blocks to Tommy's garage. Only his shoes stuck out from under a car. In the next bay, the Pontiac occupied its usual place. “Excuse me, Tommy, can we talk?”

“I've got fifteen minutes to get this muffler back in place. You better speak up and get to your point fast.”

“Tommy, it's me, Amy. I hate to keep bugging you, but I was wondering about the transmission. Has it come yet?”

Tommy slid out from under the car. He blocked the sun with his arm. “Hey there, Amy. I guess your mom wanted to surprise you. The new transmission's been in since early last week. Runs like a charm. All I need is a check, and you'll be on your way.”

“How much?”

“I discounted the labor as much as I could.”

“And?”

“Four hundred and seventy-five dollars. That's the lowest I can go.”

* * *

MY THINNING FLIP-FLOPS barely protected my feet from rocks on the unpaved road, so I walked on the tire tracks where the gravel had been mostly pulverized. I didn't dare spend a dime to replace the shoes since I would need every penny to travel to California, thanks to my irresponsible mother. Every penny she hadn't frittered away on decorating the funeral home, clothes, and gifts for Bruce, and yes, me, she'd spent padding the Lost Mine's till. With only the buzzing insects to hear me, I clenched my fists and screamed until my throat stung. More therapeutic was imagining her shock when she discovered my empty bed—unmade, of course—and my empty closet. I still
hadn't decided if I would leave a note. With the sun drilling me from above, informing Mom of my whereabouts seemed an undeserved courtesy.

An irrigation ditch clogged with cattails gurgled beside the road, teasing me with its refreshing lilt. Clouds tethered to the mountains like giant zephyrs withheld their cooling influence. I definitely wouldn't leave a note.

A strap of my flip-flop snapped, and I stepped out of the shoe. I growled like a mongrel and threw the worthless flip-flop into the ditch, only to look down the long road toward New Morning to reconsider my reckless decision. I dropped my purse and hopped back along the ditch bank, trying to catch up to the broken flip-flop. The shoe caught on a cattail, spun, and continued on. I jumped into the ditch. Water covered my knees, and the muddy bottom pulled at my feet with each step.

“Stop! Stop!”

I lunged, but the ditch narrowed and dropped to create a mini waterfall. The force of the water held the flip-flop under the surface while I climbed out of the ditch to lay on the bank. I used my hands as nets to trap the shoe once it escaped. The flip-flop popped out of the waterfall's watery grip several feet past my hands to float into a culvert and disappear under the road. I picked my way through the intersection, avoiding the rocks I could see but finding plenty that my haste rendered invisible. I sat at the opposite end of the culvert with my feet dangling in the water, ready to pounce on the flip-flop when it emerged. While waiting, I planned my escape from Cordial.

I'll talk H into driving me to Clearwater, that's what I'll do. I'll
apologize to him, and if I have to, I'll give him a peck on the cheek. That
wouldn't be so bad, especially if he has just showered and doused himself
with Old Spice. But then again, there might be a DQ in Clearwater.
He wouldn't turn down a butterscotch sundae with whipped cream and
nuts, not H.

A terrifying thought occurred to me. I was willing to use H as ruthlessly as my mother had manipulated, say, Mr. Cochran and countless other men before him. My heart raced.

“I'm not my mother!” I yelled at a pasture of grazing llamas. Only one llama looked up, a speckled thing with a clump of grass hanging out of its mouth. His interest proved fleeting as he bent immediately to tear at another clump of grass. “Well, I'm not!”

Mom had purposely deceived me, making me believe she'd saved money to repair the car and get us out of Cordial. And what was up with Charles? He wasn't her type. He was shorter than Mom, even before she ratted her hair or put on heels. Mom liked her men tall, good-looking in a long-time-in-the-saddle sort of way, the kind of guy who kept his eye on the horizon, scouting for hostile Indians. At the first sign of trouble or entanglement, up into the saddle he went, spurring his horse and leaving only dust to let us know he'd ever been there.

She had talked endlessly about finding me a father and someone to take care of her, but I doubted her procedural integrity. You might expect her to flirt with a pharmacist or one of my teachers, which she'd refused to do. “How boring,” she'd said. I was undeterred. I pummeled her with suggestions about smartly dressed loan officers, insurance salesmen with large fishing boats, even grocery clerks who belonged to the Optimist Club, all men anchored to society, not casual observers of all things civilized. None of them interested Mom who preferred big-rig truck drivers. She'd served them steak and eggs at the Good Buddy Restaurant on the highway. They drove back and forth between Chicago and the Gulf Coast states, only staying in Gilbertsville overnight and returning on their homeward
run. She would drop everything, including me, to dance and drink with them at the tavern. Had it ever dawned on her that her modus operandi wasn't working? A parade of men marched through my memories, from Roger the two-timer to Bruce the unfaithful. The longer I sat there waiting for my flip-flop to appear, the angrier I became.

“This isn't helping.”

I squeezed what water I could from my shorts and the hem of the peasant blouse, one of Mom's recovery projects in her quest to get over Bruce, which made me wonder, who was my mother, really? Was she Suzie Homemaker or Madame Bovary? Unlike Madame Bovary's daughter, I wasn't about to end up working in a cotton mill to support myself.

I yelled at the llama, the only available witness. “You can bet money on that, you grass-gnashing sorry excuse for a mammal!”

A flash of pink caught my eye. I snagged the flip-flop with a stick, attached it to my foot with two hair bands, and slumped toward New Morning.

* * *

FRANK STEPPED OUT of the barn's shadows to smile and wave as I climbed the gate. “Did you bring any of them cookies with you?” he asked.

I reached into my purse for a handful of lavadores. “You better eat these fast before the kids discover what you have.”

He pocketed the cookies. “I learned that, by golly.” I hated to think how long it had been since he'd washed his overalls. My nose registered more than a week. More like two weeks. Or more.

A tumble-haired boy with chestnut skin called out my new given name. “Cookie!” Children ran out of teepees and jumped from trees,
echoing the boy. Frank receded into the barn. Hands with dirt-caked fingernails reached into the bag I held.

A round-faced boy with winsome eyes looked up at me. “What do you calls these things again?” he asked, pulling a fistful of cookies out of the bag.

“Lavadores. It means ‘washboard' in Portuguese.” But the boy had already disappeared around the barn with a scarecrow of a girl in chase.

“We have a washboard,” said a girl.

“So do we.”

“My mom uses a wringer washer. She calls it The Beast.”

An earnest boy, wearing a straw cowboy hat and boots with his cutoffs, held out his hand. “Could I have an extra cookie for my little sister, ma'am?”

“Sure enough, little pilgrim,” I said, à la John Wayne.

The boy's request reminded the circle of children of their siblings, real or imagined. In a matter of seconds the bag was empty. “I promise, I'll bake more next time,” I said to the latecomers. A chorus of thank-you's trailed the lucky ones as they returned to their activities.

Coming to New Morning most weekdays was like sidestepping into another era, not necessarily the past but definitely not a time or place congenial to the present or the future. The residents were archaic in the sense that they lived tribally, avoiding contact with industrialization as much as possible. Electrical service was barely tolerated, and frequently the line was cut by a resident with strict ideological beliefs about abandoning the grid. The plumbing in the house proved less dependable than the outhouse, which confirmed their mistrust of anything linked to the government or large business. For the pragmatists of New Morning, the constant electrical repairs proved incredibly frustrating, so the rules of communal living were constantly revised. Residents
called meetings to discuss everything from entrance requirements for newcomers to mandatory farm responsibilities, which translated into arguing over those who considered their cooperation voluntary. Being on the farm was watching a new form of society emerge. Labor and delivery proved painful.

New Morning presented challenges to every facet of my cultural and spiritual beliefs. Talking philosophy and belief systems was the preferred pastime of the residents. They genuinely wanted to know what I believed about everything, depending on their particular bent, which led to intense debates. At first, I took the conservative side of any debate, but I lacked their experience on topics like Vietnam, Watergate, DDT, Wounded Knee, and Kent State. And Christianity? Well, how do you talk about God to people who mistrust the Bible? Feeling freakishly trite after a debate on consumerism and democracy, I became a listener, but doing so didn't make my visits any less vexing. These people practically worshipped the produce they grew. I winced when they praised Gaia, or the Earth Mother, for a bountiful harvest of green beans, or spoke about their transitory relationships with the fathers of their children or the unity of vision they experienced while tripping communally on LSD. Part of me wanted to flee. The other part of me, the part of me that reveled in the questions and passion of New Morning, compelled me to return whenever possible.

Needless to say, my motives for being at New Morning blurred. One minute I was there to fulfill Leoti's dream to replace the broken sashes. In a breath, I morphed into a missionary to the children, gaining their trust with cookies and awaiting that perfect moment to share the love of God. If I was honest, I was there to be with Falcon, which required more farfetched mental, spiritual, and philosophical gymnastics than I cared to justify. He had a hold on me I couldn't express or understand. I tasted the metallic sting of danger, but once
I stepped inside Falcon's studio, the second-guessing and rationalizations stopped. The sounds of children playing and dogs barking normalized New Morning. The acidic smell of solder and the crates of glass made the studio a place of industry and purpose. Nothing made a Midwesterner like me happier. Falcon bent over a work table, scoring the glass or soldering a joint. On this day, he was foiling the edges of green glass with a ribbon of copper.

“I can do that,” I said.

Falcon looked up, smiled. “Amelia, I'd given up on you.”

I showed him my makeshift flip-flop and told him of its heroic rescue.

“Maybe Sasha has something you can wear home.”

I' d rather chew gum off of Stinky Webster's shoe.
“The hair bands work great,” I said.

One question remained. It shattered any imaginings I tried to construct of a world that included me and Falcon as a couple. Please note that these imaginings were purely academic in nature. I never expected my reality to include us as a couple, but a lonely girl had to dream. No perfect segue had materialized for my question, so I took the Custer approach and charged recklessly ahead. “How long have you and Sasha been married?”

“What makes you think we're married?”

“Well …”

Falcon followed my gaze to the rumpled bedding of the van. “Marriage is a piece of paper. People change, Amelia. There's a time to move on, expand your possibilities.” He said this like he was telling me to expect afternoon thunderstorms.

“Marriage has been around for a long time,” I said, centering a piece of glass on a ribbon of copper.

“So has malaria.”

“Yes, but malaria makes people sick, some to the point of death. In areas susceptible to malaria, productivity is reduced, keeping people steeped in poverty. On the other hand, marriage stabilizes society by providing consistent, long-term relationships for adults and children.” I was on home turf now.

“You sound like a
National Geographic.
” He gently squeezed the running pliers and a piece of glass fell onto the table. “Marriage is a big fat lie.”

I thought of Leoti's tender longing for Arthur. “You're such a skeptic. Believe it or not, there are people in this very valley who are happily married.”

“And how would you know that, Amelia? Anyone observing my parents saw love and fidelity. Mom and Dad put on a pretty good show when his congregation was watching, but good ol' Dad couldn't keep his hands off the women he counseled. Eventually, my mom always found out, and we'd move before a month was up. I attended five elementary schools. I think that's where I got my zest for travel.” He smiled, but there was no mirth in his eyes. “The whole gruesome charade was resurrected every time an attractive wife of an alcoholic, or gambler, or scoundrel of any ilk came begging Dad for help.”