State Fair (22 page)

She continued flipping through the shirts and blouses she stated moments before that she’d never considering buying. “Just curious. You know, because he was found in our exhibit and all. I heard he was into drugs.”

I scrutinized her face, looking for . . . a guilty expression? “Where did you hear that?”

She lifted one shoulder and started flipping the shirts faster. “Around. You know, people talk.”

“What people?”

She stopped flipping and looked at me, her jawline set. “I was just making conversation. It’s no big deal.” Then she smiled widely and gave a wave. I turned to see who she was greeting.

“Hey, baby,” she called to Milt, who was talking to a bearded guy stocking Farm Supply T-shirts. “Did you get my sweet feed? Sugarpie needs her sweet feed.”

He gave a cursory wave back, ignored her question and continued talking to the bearded guy.

“Great talking to you,” I said. “See you at the fair.”

She didn’t acknowledge me but continued staring at her husband, her angry expression tinged with hurt. The glimpse of her history gave her a humanity that I’d not really considered before. I thought about that as I gave the counter girl my credit card for my new shirt. If we truly knew other people’s stories, would we be so quick to judge them? We all are products of not only our choices, but the choices of the people who took care of us when were kids. Was that why she married a man so much older than her? Was she trying to replace her dead father?

I walked out the large metal double doors to where my truck was parked. Cy Johnson, of the Johnson Ranch, one of our closest neighbors, passed me on his way in.

“What’re you doing here?” I asked. Cy owned a small feed store in Morro Bay where Daddy bought some of his ranch supplies since it was closer to our ranch and he liked to support a neighbor.

“Just comin’ to shoot the breeze,” he said, giving his deep, rumbling laugh. His chestnut-colored beard always reminded me of Grizzly Adams. “Drove into town with Love. She’s got an emergency Cattlewomen’s Association meeting this morning. They’ve got some last-minute things to discuss about the Cattlemen’s Lunch.”

Every year the Cattlemen’s Association, aided by the Cattlewomen, hosted a tri-tip afternoon meal one day of the fair. The money raised went to college scholarships for students majoring in agriculture. Love Mercy Johnson and her husband, Cy, were longtime members of both associations. His father, August, had been voted the Cattleman of the Year two years ago.

“I was going to volunteer to serve,” I said. It was something I’d done at the fair every year since I could hold a platter, hand out napkins or run a cash register. “But Dove has me great-aunt sitting. I think I’ll see if Aunt Garnet wants to eat there. Maybe I’ll go as a guest for a change.”

“From what I hear we’ve got plenty of help this year. You working any calves this fall?” Cy and Love often helped us brand, tag and vaccinate our calves and we returned the favor. The bulk of those chores took place in the spring, a traditional time for roundup, but here on the Central Coast, what is often referred to as “cow heaven” because the weather was so mild, calves could actually be born any time of the year.

“Not too many, maybe twenty-five or so. We should be able to handle it.”

“Give us a call if you need some help,” he said, touching a finger to his green ball cap printed with Cy’s Feed and Seed. “Say hey to Ben for me.”

Ten feet before I reached my truck, a white dually truck suddenly pulled in front of me, causing me to stop short. I didn’t have to even look to see who the driver was. Dodge Burnside’s laugh was audible even with his windows rolled up. He pulled slowly in beside my truck, causing me to wait. He climbed out of the driver’s seat, a satisfied smirk on his face. I wondered how much his good looks had allowed him to get away with in life.

“Sorry, Mrs.
Police Chief
,” he said, tossing his keys up in the air and catching them. He strode toward the feed counter, chuckling.

The passenger door opened and Lloyd Burnside stepped out, his expression grim.

“I apologize for my son,” he said, his cheekbones flushed a bright red. “I’ll speak to him.” His voice was slightly more tenor than what you’d expect from a man who looked a little like Clint Eastwood.

I instantly felt sorry for him, even as it occurred to me that Dodge was likely the way he was because he’d been indulged by the same person who was now apologizing to me. Still, I’d known enough good, decent people who ended up with a problem kid to give Lloyd the benefit of the doubt.

“It’s okay,” I said, even though it wasn’t. I looked up into Lloyd’s face, a deeply tanned, weathered version of his son’s. Lloyd wasn’t as conventionally handsome as his son, but there was a rugged cast to his chin and deep set blue eyes that told me that he probably had no trouble finding women friends. He had to be forty or forty-one, not much older than me. He’d been a few years ahead of me in high school and had belonged to the high school rodeo team. Saddle broncs, if I remembered right.

“No, it’s not,” he said. “Janie spoiled him, though I suppose I didn’t try to stop her. We almost lost him from meningitis when he was barely born and she never got over that.” He studied the tops of his beat up cowboy boots.

I vaguely remembered the difficulty surrounding Dodge’s birth twenty years ago. Probably I’d overheard Dove talk about it to Daddy. But I would have been eighteen at the time, just starting Cal Poly, and more concerned with my new classes and my romance with Jack than the health problems a young mother and father had with their new baby.

I do remember clearly when two years ago, a day after Dodge turned eighteen, Janie Burnside ran off with a John Deere equipment salesman. According to gossip, she never looked back. It was the talk of the ag community for months. Maybe that explained some of the rage Dodge had toward women.

Still, it didn’t give him the right to be abusive. I wanted to make sure his dad knew about the incident. “Did Dodge tell you why he’s upset with me?”

Lloyd looked up and silently shook his head. I told him what happened in the fair’s parking lot yesterday.

When I finished, he said, “Did he actually hit this girl?”

I shook my head. “But he grabbed her and if I hadn’t intervened—”

“It doesn’t matter what might have happened,” he interrupted. “The fact is he didn’t actually do anything illegal.”

“No,” I said slowly. “That’s not exactly true. He
threatened
her.”

He brought a hand up to his forehead and rubbed it. “I’ll talk to him. My son isn’t a bad kid. I’ll tell him to stay away from the Clark girl. I was never happy about him seeing her in the first place. It was a mistake, plain as day. Just begging for trouble.”

“What do you mean?”

“C’mon, Benni,” he said, giving me a “just between us” smile. “They’re obviously different . . . I mean, not his type at all . . . She’s . . .” He stopped when he realized I wasn’t returning his smile. He looked surprised, then took a step backward, shoving his hands into the back pockets of his Wranglers. “I’ll talk to him about leaving her be. I doubt it will be a problem. He’s moved on, got himself a new girl.” Before I could answer, he turned and walked into the Farm Supply.

I sat in my truck for a moment, thinking about what had just taken place between Lloyd Burnside and me. My thoughts couldn’t help but drift to who sent those threatening letters to Levi. Someone who hated the idea that his only son was dating a biracial girl? Would Lloyd go that far to keep his son from being with Jazz?

Or was it the more obvious, that someone was angry that a black man was given such a prestigious job? This was 1997, for crying out loud. Hadn’t things gotten any better in the last twenty years?

It reminded me of a controversy about scholarships back when I was in college in the late seventies. Some scholarships had been allotted specifically for students of different ethnic groups and a group of the white students complained to the newspaper, threatening to bring a lawsuit against Cal Poly. The
Tribune
jumped on the controversy and ran a series of front-page stories about it despite the fact that the lawsuit never was filed. Everyone followed the debate closely. One morning Dove and I discussed it while she was making bread. I sat at the breakfast counter, the
Tribune
spread out in front of me.

“Well,” she’d said, after I read her the latest episode, “I suppose it does seem unfair to some people that there are scholarships just for blacks or Mexican people, but to be honest, there’re scholarships for all kinds of special folks—smart kids, kids good at sports or music, ones that help the physically handicapped.”

I closed the newspaper. “One of the guys at school was complaining that he was just a normal white guy, not smart enough or good enough at sports or handicapped or a minority. He says there’s nothing there for people like him.”

Dove kneaded the bread dough, her face thoughtful. “It does seem unfair. But I believe in taking what you are given with a grateful heart, whether it is a scholarship or a plate of beans and then when you can, when you are doing better, you reach back and help someone else. That’s what we’re put on this earth for, to love God and to prove that love by serving our fellow human beings.”

I cupped my chin in my hand. “What would you have said to this guy who was complaining that minorities are getting all the scholarships?”

She started kneading again. “I’d ask him if he’d trade places with any of those black or handicapped folks to get those scholarships or any other advantages they might be given. That’s all. Would he take on their burden for the rest of his life? I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts he’d turn that offer down real quick.” She flipped the bread dough over and gave it a whack. “Everyone wants the good stuff, but nobody wants the sorrow.”

She was right, I thought, inserting my key into the truck’s ignition. And I supposed it was human nature, though not always the best part of our nature. I started to turn on my truck, glancing up in the mirror. I stopped when I saw Juliette Piebald walk out of the front door of the Farm Supply. She looked from side to side, then casually—too casually—strolled over to a stack of painted clay pots. She stood staring at the pots, on sale two for ten dollars. Somehow I had a suspicion that she wasn’t shopping for her garden.

A few minutes later Lloyd Burnside wandered out from the feed-supply side of the store. He stopped at the pots, said something to Juliette, then seemed to slip her something. A note? I wanted desperately to turn around for a better view, but I was afraid even that tiny movement might tip them off that someone was watching. Smooth as sugar syrup, Juliette turned around and went back inside the store. Lloyd stood for a moment, staring out into the vacant field next to the Farm Supply. His face was too far away for me to see its expression. He turned and strolled back inside the feed department.

Holy cow, what was that all about? Was Aunt Garnet right about an affair, but wrong about which Burnside man it was with?

I started my truck and pulled out of the parking lot. Though the possibility that Juliette was cheating on Milt was an interesting piece of gossip, what did it have to do with anything?

Except . . . what if
that
was what Cal saw? Would Lloyd or Juliette kill him to keep Milt from finding out? But why wrap him in the Harriet Powers quilt? Why put him in the Piebald Family Farm exhibit? If they wanted him out of the picture, wouldn’t it make more sense to kill him and dump his body somewhere out in the desolate Carrizo Valley? Or behind a sleazy bar somewhere? Should I tell Hud what I saw or thought I saw? I could just imagine his mocking laughter.

Maybe I’d ask Aunt Garnet her opinion. It might take her mind off whatever it was she was going through, another mystery that, hopefully, would be solved soon.

I
COULDN’T BELIEVE WHAT I WAS SEEING. AUNT GARNET ON THE front porch. In
jeans.
Jeans? As far back as I could remember Aunt Garnet had always worn dresses. For every occasion. Everyday cotton calico housedresses. Tailored going-to-town dresses with matching belts and full skirts. Fancy Sunday dresses with lacy white collars. I think once I might have seen her in a pair of cotton slacks weeding her garden. Maybe. It might have been a dream.

“A proper lady always wears dresses,” she had loved saying, especially around Dove who only suffered with dresses for funerals or weddings. I came by my dislike of them honestly.

But there stood my great-aunt waiting for me in dark blue jeans; a blouse covered with royal blue and grass green daisies and new blue Keds tennis shoes. It was, no doubt, a new day and wardrobe for my now officially unpredictable aunt.

I flipped down the truck’s tailgate and started pulling out sacks of chicken feed. “You’re looking sharp. I won’t be long. Have to unload these supplies.”

“No hurry,” she answered, descending the porch steps with careful, measured steps.