The Queen of Sleepy Eye (29 page)

A shaft of light fell across the bed when Mom opened the bedroom door. I rose to one elbow. “Is everything all right?” I asked, trying to sound compliant and cooperative.

“Goodnight,
querida,
” she said, closing the door.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

Nothing squeaked louder than the hinges of my bedroom door. “It's really hot in here with the window closed. Would you mind leaving the door open? I can hardly breathe.”

“Would you like me to bring in the fan?”

“It's too loud. Really, I'm cooler already with the door open.”

She walked toward the bed. I fought to keep from groaning. I feared the full-moon jam session would be over before I got to New Morning.

“You seem a little better,
fofa,
not so sad. That's good. I'm proud of you.” She hesitated.

“I am better.”
Now, please go away.

“It helps to talk when you're sad.”

“I'm tired, mostly. I think a good night's sleep will be the best thing for me right now.”

“You're sure?”

Yes!
“Could we go window shopping in Clearwater this weekend? A change of scenery would be nice. Maybe Bonnie could drive us.”

“I'll ask her tomorrow.” She turned and hesitated again, only to return to the bedside. “In light of all that's happened, it's silly for you to be grounded.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

To help the time pass faster, I dove under the covers with a book and a flashlight. After reading the same paragraph five times, I listened instead to Mom's nightly ritual, ticking off each step. Removed makeup. Brushed teeth. Gargled. Brushed hair one hundred times. Slathered feet and hands with petroleum jelly and slid into cotton gloves and socks. Mumbled a few Hail Marys. Punched the pillow. Thrashed about. Punched the pillow again. Settled into the pillow and snored.

I dressed with the clothes I'd stashed under the bed and wrapped my guitar case in a blanket. All that day, I'd walked the house, noting where the floor creaked or groaned. I lifted the trapdoor in the hall. Charles's padded bumper gave the guitar a soundless landing. I waited, listened for stirring from Mom's room. I used a rolled towel as a doorstop to keep the trapdoor from slamming shut. I felt my way down the sloping chute with my feet. With my toes pressed against the bumper, I supported the door with one hand while I removed the towel with the other. My arm quivered under the weight of the door. I left the towel and the blanket on the chute where I could find them on my return.

Once outside, I strapped my guitar to my back and jogged the whole way to New Morning. I stopped only once to catch my breath. My shadow walked before me, but I didn't turn my face to welcome the moon's light. I pressed on to the farm.

* * *

I FOLLOWED TWO women wrapped in shawls to the pasture beyond the garden. My plan was to stand in the shadows to observe the other musicians before joining the jam session. If they were too good, I'd leave my guitar by the zucchini and meld into the crowd. The musicians tuned their instruments while parents gathered their children. A fire blazed in a ring of stones. Gretel, one of the farm's urchins with cat eyes and a sunny disposition, spotted me. She called out, “Cookie!” and left the warmth of her mother's lap to embrace me. A herd of children with open hands followed close behind.

“I'm so sorry. I didn't bring any cookies,” I said, touching their open hands. “I didn't want to spoil your dinners.”

“We already ate,” they said as a chorus.

Falcon pushed his way through the throng. “Leave the poor lady alone.”

Still, they beseeched me with hungry eyes.

“Honest, I don't have any cookies. Not one.”

They groaned and skittered away to their families.

Falcon took my hand to lead me toward the circle of musicians and New Morning residents. The campfire flickered in his eyes. “I didn't think you were coming.”

The gourd player, a red-headed man with a sparse beard, offered me a seat by another guitar player. “I'm Greg. I try to keep this ragtag group going in the same direction. Just follow ol' Fergus, and you won't get too lost.”

The guitar player, Fergus, I presumed, nodded once.

Falcon bent to whisper in my ear. “Have fun.”

While I tuned my guitar, mothers swayed to soothe their babies and issued warnings to the older children to stay within the firelight. The ladies I knew from the kitchen welcomed me before they settled onto a blanket or log.

“Are we ready, then?” asked Greg.

The children called out. “‘Pigtown Fling!'”

“‘Pigtown Fling' it is. Okay, one … two … one, two, three, four!”

Within a measure, I recognized the folk song as “Hop Along Sally” and strummed along, enjoying the voice of the fiddle and the strong melody of the dulcimer. I relaxed. If I didn't recognize the song by the title called out, I knew it by the melody and another name, such was the colloquial nature of folk music. A man wearing a flannel shirt without cuffs played and sang “The Curragh of Kildare,” a melancholy song about a distant love. Greg livened the mood by selecting a toe-tapper, followed by “The Water Is Wide” and “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.”

He hooked his suspenders and talked to the audience. “I read in
Mother
about the meaning of the herbs in ‘Scarborough Fair.' Let's see if I can get this straight. Parsley takes away bitterness and aids digestion, so if we sing really bad, or you ate more of my lovely wife's spicy enchiladas than you should have, parsley is for you. Sage symbolizes strength; rosemary stands for faithfulness, love, and remembrance, which seems like an awful lot for one plant to do; and thyme is courage, something every married man needs.”

After “Scarborough Fair,” we played an Eagles song, “Take It Easy.” Our instruments blended easily, and those of us who sang found a niche in the harmonies.

“As is our tradition here at the full-moon jams, guest jammers are expected to play and sing a solo. Amy, you're destined to be a hundred times better than that fella who passed through here last month. We'd tell you not to play the same song, but honestly, we couldn't tell ya what that was. Whenever you're ready.”

I looked to Falcon, and he shrugged. He couldn't save me. The people I knew around the fire were seekers who dabbled with meaning like a child played with a toy until it becomes familiar and went seeking something else. A strong gospel song should've come to mind. It didn't. Instead, I looked at Falcon and sang “Desperado,” only not like the gentle plodding of an old gray mare. No, I closed my eyes and sang the song as an invitation, not knowing what I was inviting.

The crowd hooted and hollered and clapped enthusiastically. Babies cried. Dogs barked. I bowed my head.

Greg yelled above the cheering. “I can't see how any of us are going to top that. Let's take a break, get the kids to bed, and come back for some mellow tunes when you get around to it.”

A slow, satisfied grin spread across Falcon's face. “That was amazing.” He offered his hand and pulled me to my feet. He unhooked my guitar strap. A swell of warmth filled my belly.

“Come on,” he said, taking my hand.

“Where are we going? Should I take my guitar?”

“We'll be back.”

I grabbed my purse anyway. We ran down a hill into an apple orchard. The moon through the trees dappled the ground black and silver. Grasses slashed at my shins. Behind us, the laughs of people around the fire softened and floated on an invisible river of mountain air, sluicing the valley with its refreshing wash. The branches laden
with fruit swayed on the air's currents. A fiddler serenaded the night with “Annie's Song.”

Falcon twirled me to a stop. “Shall we dance?”

“I don't know how.”

“It's easy.” He looked up. The moon hung over us. “The spotlight is on us.” He pulled me closer. I rested my hand on his shoulder, and he lifted my other hand to his lips to kiss my palm. “Let's just sway with the music. That's right. Very good.”

“We're just like Bobby and Cissy.”

He laughed. “I'm going to step forward; you step back.”

“Ouch!”

“My fault. I should have told you which foot.”

“Maybe we should keep swaying.”

The fire's flame that had warmed his eyes now reflected the cool orb of the moon. As we moved to the music, he eased closer and closer until he bent to touch his cheek to mine. His breath warmed my ear. “You've been holding out on me,” he said. “You're good, real good. My desperado days are behind me. I would jump off the Great Wall of China for you.”

“Can you feel my heart beating?”

He laughed and held me tighter.

I was a plump pigeon punched from the sky by a falcon's coiled talons, panting her last breaths, waiting to be pounced with a delicious inevitability. But Falcon wasn't going to eat me.

“Hold me, Amelia. Hold me.”

I obeyed, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and burying my face in his neck. He smelled of metallic heat and hay and bitter sweat. “I'm going to kiss you, Amelia, but I won't apologize, not again, not ever. Is that okay with you?”

John 3:16 … For God so …

I nodded.

His lips covered mine.

John 3 …

His hands ran under my blouse over the bare skin of my back.

I stepped back. Our eyes met.

J … ohn …

“Amelia? Are you okay with this?”

What was
this
that both satiated and awakened a ravenous hunger, that made light of promises, that focused the attention of the universe on one moment in time and fogged reason with desire? I wanted to know the answers more than I wanted to breathe.

I stepped into his embrace.

* * *

I PUT MY blouse on backwards. “I have to go.”

“Did I hurt you?”

I let my hair fall around my face and shook my head. “I just have to go.” I took a few steps, but Falcon caught me in an embrace. I pushed at his chest. And still he held me. “Let me go. Please, just let me go.”

“Amelia, we didn't do anything wrong. Relax. Stay awhile. Let me hold you.”

“I want to go,” I said, pressing harder against his chest.

“I'll let go of you, but we should talk. Okay? Let me know that you're okay with that. We're going to talk calmly, right?” He dropped his arms to his side. Down the long row of trees lay my escape. “I asked you if you were okay with what we were doing. You said yes. Do you remember that?”

My stomach cramped, bile burned the back of my throat, and my dinner sprayed Falcon's feet. He spewed expletives that revealed his misunderstanding of anything holy. I turned away from him.

“Amelia, I need to know—”

“What?” I asked, my hands balled into fists. “What exactly do you need to know?”

“Lower your voice, Amelia.”

“Then ask your question and let me go.”

“You're young, maybe too young. What happened here was beautiful and spontaneous. You'll remember what we shared here your whole life.”

“But you
know
what I believe.”

“I didn't put a gun to your head.”

I saw my fingers pulling at his shirt, and a fresh wave of shame washed over me. “If you're worried that I'll tell my mom, forget about it. I'm not telling anyone, ever.” I ran through the trees, pushing back branches and side-stepping orchard ladders until I reached the road. When I was sure Falcon hadn't followed me, I slumped to the ground and pounded the grassy ledge of the drainage ditch. Bile burned my throat, and I threw up again. I wiped my mouth on my blouse and backed away, staying low in the ditch, low where I belonged.

“Oh God, I'm so sorry, so very, very sorry.” The letter to Lauren came to mind, complete with memory verses about fleeing sexual immorality and a five-point sermon on purity and heavenly reward.

Oh God, I'm so stupid.

Feet crunched on the graveled road, and voices moved into range. I drew myself into the fetal position. As they walked by, they praised a peach pie and made plans to cooperate with the next day's laundry. One girl said, “I look back to my days of lugging the laundry to the Laundromat with longing. May the Sierra Club dance on my grave, but I lust for a washer-dryer combo, avocado green with a heavy-duty cycle and a tub as big as a swimming pool. Is that too
much to ask?” The night rang with their laughter. Before another group happened by, I trotted toward DeCrane Road and the long walk home.

Instead, I turned toward the cemetery.

* * *

I LEANED AGAINST Barbara Louise's headstone and rifled through my purse for the birth control pills. I pushed them through the foil backing into my hand—about fifteen of them. I worked up a mouthful of spit and popped the pills into my mouth. Swallowing cotton balls would have been easier. I knew taking the pills was futile. It took three months for them to work. Besides, what would an overdose of birth control pills do to me? I'd read the dire warnings when Mom had first given me the pills. Back then, words like
bleeding
and
nausea
and
stroke
had convinced me doubly that taking the pills for no good reason was a crazy idea. I spat out the pills that remained in my mouth. My primed gag reflex released the pills easily with what remained in my stomach.

“I'm sorry, Barbara Louise.”

No matter how enticing the breeze or compelling the silvery light, I pressed my face to the hard ground. I wanted to cease to exist like Barbara Louise McCulloh, to fade to a vapor and blow away.

“I'm ruined. Oh, God in heaven, I'm ruined. I didn't mean for this to happen.”