August Moon (15 page)

Ida giggled. “Nobody would ever call you boring, Curtis Poling.”

They exchanged a warm look, and I took that as my signal to go. I pushed my way through the hot and thick air, Curtis’ prediction about a storm close in my mind. The thought kept my mood upbeat, as did the fruitfulness of our conversation. I tucked away the information about Les, Pastor Winter, and the town’s feelings about the new Bible Camp like it was a treasure map. I just had to figure out how to read it.

Such was my good mood that, back at the library, I walked straight up to Sarah Ruth. “Got a minute?”

She looked at me uncomfortably and then summoned a smile. “This is about the awkwardness between us, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Can you come back into my…um, the office?” I was aware that it would belong to Sarah Ruth in under a week.

“Of course.”

I turned to Mrs. Berns, who was practicing flying off a low counter in the kid’s section. “You watch the place, ’kay?”

“Up, up, and away!”

Back in the office, I chose the position of authority behind the desk. This conversation was going to be uncomfortable, and I needed all the help I could get. “I don’t know where to start.”

Sarah Ruth sat across from me, her posture straight, her hands folded in her lap. I was again struck by her brownness. It wasn’t her skin, which was as pale as bread dough, but it was in her permed hair, her clothes, her overall impression. “I think I do. Ever since you walked in on me on the phone in here, it’s been strained between us.”

“I didn’t exactly walk in on you. I didn’t know you were back here.”

“I know. And I don’t know why I lied about dialing a wrong number. I was actually calling the Bible camp.”

“You can call whoever you want.”

“It’s not that easy. I’ve had God in my life ever since I was a little girl. I’m not ashamed of it, but I’ve learned that it makes other people uncomfortable, even suspicious.” She took a deep breath and looked at me eye to eye. “I have a close and personal relationship with Jesus. I didn’t think you’d understand, so I’ve tried to keep my work life separate from my religious life, but I don’t know if I can do that any longer.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean that my love of God is an important part of who I am, and I don’t want to pretend otherwise. I don’t want to feel like I have to lie about calling my church, or hide if I see you at the Bible camp.”

I felt a little fire spark up in my rib cage. I messed up enough myself without taking on other people’s mistakes. “Those are choices you made. I didn’t tell you to lie, or hide.”

“Not in so many words, but you have to admit you’re very negative about religion. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Mira, but I have to tell you you’re incredibly close-minded when it comes to God’s love.”

The fire flared and simmered in my throat all the way to my tongue. “If by close-minded you mean I lack blind faith, you’re absolutely right. But I recognize you’re entitled to your opinion, and your religion. I just don’t happen to share it.”

“Well, we’ll have to agree to disagree.”

I hated that phrase. It was code for, “I know you’re too obtuse to ever see how I right I am, so to get any satisfaction out of this discussion, I’m going to pretend to be more reasonable than you. Oh, and get the last word in.” I stood, my fists clenched, and then sat back down. After a deep breath, I measured my words. “We can definitely agree to disagree about what is a better use of our spare time. We cannot agree to disagree about what is appropriate at work. Your religion, or any employee’s religion, doesn’t have a place in the work environment.”

“What about your gardening? That’s important to you, and you talk about it at work all the time. In fact, you’re trying to convince me to take up gardening. How is that different from me talking about religion at work?”

Jesus. I hated it when religious people used reason when it suited them. And they were so good at it. You’d think all those sermons on unquestioning faith, virgin births, and people turned into pillars of salt would have dulled their skills. “You’re right. This is a library, and if free speech isn’t welcome here, it isn’t welcome anywhere. You’re free to talk about your religion at work, and to use the phone during your break time to call whomever you want.”

She grinned like a winner. “Thank you.”

“But,” and I held up my finger, “it’s a two-way street. You need to be open to the interests of our patrons…”

“I always am.”

“I’m not finished. Free speech isn’t just about getting to say what you want. It’s also about knowing when to shut up. This library is not and will never be a conduit for any religion or person. Your job here is to make a wide array of literature available to a broad variety of people. If I ever hear that you’re doing anything else, or limiting options based on your religions beliefs, I’ll get you run out of town if it’s the last thing I do.”

Sarah Ruth’s winner grin wavered slightly, but she kept it on. “Understood.” She stood up and offered me her hand. “We have different methods, you know, but I think we have the same goals. You’re leaving this library in good hands.”

“I’d better be,” I grumbled. I took her hand, shook it limply, and brushed past her. Our discussion seemed to have done her a world of good, judging by the spring in her step and whistle on her lips as she worked throughout the day. For my part, I felt like I had just lost an important fight.

After closing up the
library, I stopped at Larry’s Grocery to pick up a veggie tray for tonight’s August Moon Festival potluck. Unfortunately, the deli had been picked over by like-minded festival-goers. I settled for a family-pack of Pringles and a bag of after-dinner mints. As I turned west on 210 for the three-mile drive to Hershod’s Corn Maze, I reached for the New Orleans Mardi Gras mask on the seat next to me. I didn’t know who had come up with the idea of wearing costumes at the Festival, but I enjoyed the tradition. Being anonymous in a small town was a rare treat and lent an air of decadence to the gathering.

I crested the hill before the maze and realized I should have taken advantage of the shuttle bus ferrying attendees from Ben’s Bait to the Festival. I ended up parking three-quarters of a mile away and schlepping my Pringles and mints.

“Ah, the breakfast of champions.” I turned to the voice. It was a family walking alongside me to the maze. The father was nodding at the white-trash food I was bringing. “Larry’s sold out of deli trays?”

“Yeah, I should have planned ahead.”

“Nothing wrong with Pringles,” the mom offered. She had her hands full with a dessert tray of bars and cookies on top of a clear salad bowl full of cole slaw, ramen noodles, and sunflower seeds. The family looked vaguely familiar, but I didn’t know anyone’s names.

“I guess not, except that I look like a freeloader next to what you’re bringing. Do you all have costumes?”

The four children, all boys ranging in size from toddler to teen, held up their masks—one ninja, a Superman, a Grim Reaper, and a Spiderman. The father grinned at his brood and threw his arm around his wife. “We’re hoping the Festival brings us some rain. Our crops are thirsty.”

“You’re farmers?”

“Back three generations. We live over by Amor.”

“Well, I hope it rains for you, too.” The crowd was growing thicker, and I threaded my way under the Hershod’s Corn Maze arches, the closeness of the crowd intensifying the heat of the afternoon. The grounds were vast. The maze itself was nearly three acres resting in the center of the grounds. Butting the east side of the corn maze was a thick, hardwood forest. Directly west was an ocean of picnic tables. North of both, out of sight on the other side of the maze, was the stage where the band would be playing later.

I slid my food onto the nearest picnic table so it wouldn’t be associated with me and took stock. I counted fourteen picnic tables laden with saran-wrapped dishes, most of these thinly disguised vehicles for Cool Whip or Miracle Whip, the Whips being a west-central Minnesota food group unto themselves. I estimated over 300 people here already, milling around the food, laughing, and making loud conversation. The ground was covered in straw as golden as liquid sunshine, and the air was rich with the smell of hotdishes, fresh-baked bread, and beer. I sidestepped the kegs and made my way to the entrance of the maze.

Corn mazes are a funny concept. You take a field of close-planted, super-high, super-fast-growing, super-tough corn, the more acres the better, and you cut a series of four-foot wide paths through it. Most are dead ends, but one of the paths leads out the other side. At Hershod’s tonight, Bad Brad’s band, Not with My Horse, would be playing at the “out” end of the maze at nine o’clock. I planned to avoid him. Run-ins with exes were bad, but run-ins with cheating exes with low IQs were worse. It meant second-guessing your ability to make sound judgments every time you saw them.

The sun was beating iron-hot on my head even though it was pushing seven o’clock. The food appeared to be all set up, so I pulled on my mask and grazed from one picnic table to another until I had tried at least one item on all fourteen tables. The beauty of the Mardi Gras mask was that it only covered my eyes, so eating was easy. Pity the Richard Nixons and Spongebob Squarepants who had to leverage their food under the plastic. As more people arrived, the combination of masks, unlimited beer provided by the Chamber of Commerce, and a white-hot summer made for a festive and raucous mood. I was just about to steal away to a quieter spot where I could people-watch when a hand grabbed my shoulder.

“Mira! I was hoping I’d see you here.”

Next to me was Weston Lippmann in his trademark black cape over a red sweater vest and short-sleeved shirt, sweating furiously. Mrs. Berns was leaning against him, all white in her superhero-support outfit. Neither had a mask on, but they were definitely in costume. “You two made it!”

“We almost didn’t.” Weston shot Mrs. Berns an odd smile, the kind you give to a host who has just served you jellied clams. It was a mixture of forced politeness and fear. “Mrs. Berns wanted me to stop at the Senior Sunset to look at her room.”

Mrs. Berns winked at me and took a chug off one of the two cups of beer she was holding.

Cripes. “You remembered what I told you about saying no, right Weston?”

“That worked at first, but it turns out running away works even better.”

Mrs. Berns cackled. “Or it would have, if I hadn’t lifted your car keys! It was just a little harmless fun, anyhow. You didn’t have to scream.”

Weston pulled on his collar like a practicing Rodney Dangerfield. “Of course not. I apologize. You caught me off guard when you put your hand in my pants.”

“Just looking for your laser beamer.”

Time for a change of subject. “What’d you bring for the potluck?” I asked brightly, indicating the pack of crackers stuffed into Mrs. Berns’ utility belt.

“Communion wafers. All Sarah Ruth’s talk of Jesus makes me hungry.”

I coughed on my own spit, and Weston just nodded weakly in agreement.

“Pastor Winter wouldn’t give me any wafers to go, even though I’ve been going to Nordland for seventy-five years, and it’s not easy to find these outside of a church,” Mrs. Berns continued, “but Larry’s has a new hippie section with all sorts of dried fruits and natural beans, like there’s any other kind. That’s where I got these glue-free Communion wafers.”

“You mean gluten-free?”

“Whatever. Want one?”

“I’ll pass. Thanks.” Weston looked like he was about to pass out, and I didn’t have many safe conversational options left. “Are you two enjoying the Festival?”

“I would be, if Party Pooper Man would start drinking.” Mrs. Berns nodded at his empty hands.

“I don’t drink.”

“That’s another thing we have in common,” I said. I kept to myself the fact that I had only been a non-drinker for three days. “We don’t like birds, and we don’t like drinking.”

“And we like to read, listen to jazz, and spend our evenings engaged in deep conversation?” Weston asked hopefully.

Mrs. Berns looked disgusted. “I think I hear someone calling my name.”

“Hunh?”

“Over there. Can’t you hear it?” She pointed toward the keg, and when both Weston and I looked that direction, she said, “Mrs. Berns! Mrs. Berns!” in a high, quiet voice. We turned back to her. “Gotta run! Thanks for the ride, Weston! If I need you, I’ll call real loud, so make sure your super hearing is tuned into my frequency.”

She strolled off, her cape hung between her legs like a flashy dog tail. Weston looked immensely relieved to see her go. “She has a lot of energy for a grandma.”

Point of fact, Mrs. Berns actually
was
a grandma. Curtis Poling at the Sunset said she had five kids and seven grandkids, and I have never met a one of them. “I warned you. Have you had a chance to eat yet?”

“I don’t have much appetite this evening. It must be this sun.”

Or fending off the advances of an octogenarian in a white velvet unitard, I thought to myself. “You must be hot. How many layers do you have on, anyhow?”

“The cape, a vest, and a shirt.” He rumbled in the back of his throat, like he had swallowed a bug. “I’m usually cold-blooded. Ever since I was a kid, I needed layers. Even growing up in the balmy South, I’d need fleece pajamas. You know the kind with feet?”

I smiled at the mental picture of a grown, gangly Weston in footie pajamas. “I do, but I can’t believe you’re not burning up. It’s pushing 100 degrees, and this is the coolest it’s been since noon. You sure you don’t want to take off the cape, at least?”

“I’m good, thank you.”

I shrugged. He didn’t look good. He looked hot. “Then you could try the corn maze. I bet if you stick to the sides, it’s cooler.”

Weston adjusted his John Lennon glasses with his pointer finger and shuffled uncomfortably. “I don’t really like crowds. I don’t suppose you’d like to take a walk in the woods with me? It looks like there’re paths. Who knows? We could find a new sub-species of wood tick!”

If words were wine, Weston Lippmann would be making Boone’s Farm. “I don’t know. I should probably stay out here, to cover the Festival for the newspaper, you know?”

“Oh, sure, I suppose,” he said, his weak flirting attempt phlooshing to the ground like a popped balloon.

I gave him a “it’s the best thing for both of us” smile and was about to make myself scarce when someone slapped me on the back. “Mira James, so pretty she gives you heart pains! How’s it going? I haven’t seen you in weeks.”

Christ on a cracker, if it weren’t for bad luck…was I emitting some sort of loser-pheromone? Had I been emitting it my whole life? I was a nice person. I held doors for old people and said my pleases and thank yous. I even considered myself fairly intelligent. Of course I loved to read, and I stayed on top of current events by perusing magazines at work. I was a little clumsy and for sure a dork, but what had I done to end up as a librarian and reporter in Battle Lake, Minnesota, mysterious-murder capital of the Midwest and home to one too many exes? I turned to glare at the body attached to the hand. “Hi, Brad.”

“You come to hear me sing? My new band is the pazizzle wadizzle! We do a techno-punk-grunge cover of ‘Proud to Be an American’ that’ll make you cry. People around here love it. Can’t get enough.”

“I can only imagine.”

“Say, who’s your friend?”

I looked reluctantly at Weston. I wanted to get away, not make introductions. “Weston, this is Brad. Brad, this is Weston. He’s in town for a couple weeks doing scientific research.”

“What’s up with the cape, dude? That’s so weird!”

This from a guy who wouldn’t eat bleu cheese the whole time we dated because he thought it would make him sad. “Don’t you have to do a sound check or something?”

“Totally! You want to come with me? It’ll be like old times.” He grinned, counting on his Jim Morrison–good looks to sway me.

“That’s a great offer, but Weston and I were just about to take a walk in the woods to search for wood ticks.”

Weston’s eyes lit up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I grabbed him by the elbow and led him away. This town was getting much too small. Ironically, that’s exactly what I was thinking as I bumped into Kennie with a fire burning in her eyes.