The Queen of Sleepy Eye (13 page)

That's exactly what August feels like.” Feather lifted the book from my lap where I'd let it settle to absorb the author's true words. “Keep reading,” she said.

“I'm here to help
you
read. That's what I promised Butter, so you have to try.”

“I will,” she said, burying her face into the ginger-colored feathers of a hen.

Clearly, Feather had no intentions of reading in front of me, but that suited me fine. I loved to read and she loved to listen. I'd declared the henhouse too hot for reading or thinking, so we sat along Terry Creek, nothing but a trickle, really, that watered the stand of trees and provided drinks for the deer that roamed the mesa at dawn and dusk. Feather had propped two faded sofa cushions against a cottonwood.

Honestly, I didn't have a clue how to teach anyone to read, so I held Feather's finger to follow under the words as I read. If I felt her hand tense, I stopped until she relaxed and the seizure passed. This happened less and less the longer I read.

To get dibs on new books at the library, I'd volunteered to shelve books after the summer reading program. Each week elementary-aged children returned a hundred or so books, only to check out a hundred more. The children flitted from shelf to shelf, like honeybees hunting nectar. When they found a new book by Maurice Sendak or Madeleine L'Engle or Richard Scarry, they hugged the books to their chests and buzzed about for another treasure.

The children reflected the divergent population of Cordial. The ranch boys came with snowy-white foreheads from wearing their cowboy hats. The ranch girls dressed in Wranglers and boots, just like the boys. The coal miners' children wore striped T-shirts with cutoffs, while the townies wore coordinating outfits—the girls in Good & Plenty colors, the boys in blue and brown. The hippie children dressed in secondhand T-shirts and pants that seldom matched. Boxes of shoes were kept under the check-out counter for the children who showed up barefooted.

One urchin noticed me looking at her patched jeans. She said, “It's foolish to pay full price for clothes. The markup is obscene.” Her tie-dyed T-shirt made her a colorful parrot of her parents' ideology. Even so, I squirmed in my matching Woolworth's shorts and T-shirt.

It didn't matter what they wore or what they said. None of the children returned all of the books they'd borrowed, and all of them read with sticky fingers. Dealing with self-righteous nine-year-olds and rough-and-tumble boys was a small price to pay for reading
Tuck Everlasting
with Feather.

I closed the book.

“You can't stop there,” she said. “How can a woman look the same for eighty-seven years? And her husband is so unhappy. Do you think there's magic in that spring?”

I dropped the book in my bag. “You'll know in a couple days.”

“I won't know until Monday. You're stuck at that stupid funeral home.” Feather clasped her hands to plead. “Please, one more chapter. They're awfully short.”

I flipped through the pages of chapter three. “Okay, but this is the last one.” When I finished reading, Feather said, “I've thought of running away like Winnie.”

“Where would you go?”

“Somewhere without brothers.”

I laughed, but I'd settled on my own plans to run away from Cordial. Mom's new boyfriend, Bruce, hadn't taken my warning. He came for Mom most nights. They went dancing in Clearwater or played cards with Bonnie and her boyfriend, Louie, at her place, never at the funeral home. I called Bonnie's boyfriend Louie the lobster because his eyes were small and black and his claws explored her constantly.

I'd begun to worry a new transmission would never arrive for the Pontiac, and truthfully, I wasn't sure Mom would drive away from Cordial if it did, so I'd made a call to the Greyhound Bus Depot in Clearwater. My plan included H driving me to Clearwater for a two-day trip to Santa Barbara, California. If that required me to kiss H, I would. Getting to Westmont from the bus station was the problem. I supposed a large place like Santa Barbara would have buses, but that meant managing my luggage on my own—one suitcase, a book bag, and a guitar.

A man in overalls jumped from behind the tree with a ferocious growl. Feather and I shrilled. He tilted his head back, hands on hips, and laughed. His sun-bleached beard and hair fanned out from his face like an unkempt mane. Butter had been right. There was no better name for him than Straw.

Feather jumped up to scold him. “You almost scared us to death.”

“I'm so very sorry,” he said, crossing his fingers.

“You're not one bit sorry, or you'd stop doing it.”

“Like I've promised you, daughter of mine, I'll stop scaring you when you stop squawking like your chickens. Until then, it's too much fun.”

Feather stomped her foot. “My chickens don't squawk.”

“Really?”

“You know they don't.”

Although I'd never seen Straw and Feather together, this surely was a common exchange between the father and daughter. The glint each held in their eyes gave them away.

“You better introduce me to your friend.”

“You know who she is.”

I introduced myself anyway. His hand smothered mine.

He said to Feather, “Butter sent me down here to get you. The laundry's about ready to be hung on the line. The sooner you show up, the sweeter her disposition will be. You know how your mother loves laundry day.” And having heard Butter curse over the grease-stained and mud-encrusted overalls Straw usually wore, I feared her disposition would only sink further.

“Don't forget where we left off,” she said, running toward the cabin.

Straw eyed the cushions. “I don't think Butter's going to appreciate her cushions being down here.”

I jumped up. “Let me brush them off.”

Straw laughed again. “I've never seen those cushions before. Feather probably traded eggs for what somebody was going to toss out. She's quite a wheeler-dealer.”

I promised myself to be more skeptical around Straw.

“So, Amy, I hear you're headed for college.” He shook his head at a memory as we walked toward the cabin. “You're headed for the adventure of a lifetime, but I wish somebody had told me to be careful who you listen to. There's a lot of wackos out there who'd love to sell you a bill of goods.”

Was this the stove calling the kettle black? “How so?”

“You head off to school thinking,
I'm going to show my old man
and my old lady how to live.
You picture yourself in a big ol' brick house overlooking the river and a fancy-dancy car in the driveway. Then you graduate and get that job that's going to pay for all this luxury, only it's bone-crushing boredom from sunup to sundown. You go home, check out what the neighbor has parked in his driveway, you kiss your kids goodnight, and then you get up to do it all again the next day, just so some fat cat at the top of the heap can jet off to his villa somewhere.

“Butter and I looked down a long road to our future and asked,
Do we want to be sitting at a desk all of our lives, worried about keepin'
up with the neighbors, and attending Christmas parties year after year
with people we don't like because we owe a monstrous mortgage on a house
we can't really afford?

“The minute we stepped away from our jobs, the freedom bell started tolling. We're no longer slaves to fourteen-percent inflation and waiting in line for gas. Out here, it's man—and beautiful woman—against nature. That's pure, real pure. No phone. No television. No radio. And we aren't missing a thing. The world can go to hell in a handbasket, and we'd never know it. We have our own little piece of heaven right here at Underhill Manor. I see my kids all through the day, and they're learning to cooperate and help out the family.”

We crested the hill to find Butter and Feather shaking a sheet so hard it snapped before hanging it on the clothesline. Straw stopped to admire the scene. “And I like the spontaneity of living on the land. No one has phones, so our friends drop by when they want to borrow something or need help. That's friendship based on meeting needs, not on competition. When it came to setting the purlins for the roof of the cabin, I rounded up six men to help me, right on the spot, no questions asked. I couldn't get anyone to help load up the moving trailer back in Kansas City.”

Butter scooped a squalling Vernon off a blanket to hand to Straw. “If you're going to make the biggest mess of your clothes,” she said, “the least you can do is change the baby.”

With her glasses perched on the end of her nose, Mrs. Clancy inspected my work. “I didn't expect you'd finish so quickly.” She scratched at a dot of paint on the woodwork. “You'll have to remove this spot with mineral spirits. Is there any left?”

“Almost the whole can.”

“That's excellent. You've been frugal with your supplies. The room looks very nice, Amy. I've ordered some of those open-weave draperies and two crushed-velvet swivel rockers from Penney's. My sister-in-law, who fancies herself an interior decorator, insists they're what everyone's buying these days. I'm sick to death of avocado green, so I ordered the harvest gold. Everything will be in by the end of next week. Then the room will be ready for clients.”

I filled my arms with drop cloths and rollers to store in the garage, but Mrs. Clancy kept talking. “The Founder's Day celebration is taking place in the park today. I met the gals there for breakfast this morning. The Optimists served up pancakes, ham, and eggs.” Mrs. Clancy looked like she'd eaten a worm. “Since
Hector Langston took over the Founder's Day committee, they've been using those powdered eggs, and I can tell. I have an extremely delicate palate.”

“I read about Founder's Day in the paper,” I said, but I'd known about the craft fair for several weeks. Feather's family considered Founder's Day the kickoff to their craft season, and a good craft season meant mortgage payments through the long winter.

“It's mostly stuff the hippies make,” she said, not bothering to hide her disdain, “but a few ladies from church are selling crocheted work for their mission circles.”

Typical. Something festive was happening in Cordial, and I was a prisoner of the dead. I would have to remember to write that down in my journal.
Prisoner of the Dead
would make a great title for a book.

“I suppose your mother has plans for the day,” said Mrs. Clancy.

“She's gone to Orchard City with Bonnie to the drag races.” Actually, it was a double date with Bruce and some burly guy Bonnie mooned over like a teenager, but Mrs. Clancy didn't have to know that. At least Mom didn't seem to think so.

“I'm not surprised one bit that your mother has paired up with Bonnie Luptovic, that silly girl. Her mother died of a broken heart, I'm sure of it.”

Adults were sure of everything. Mrs. Clancy opened her wallet. “They have food booths at the park.” She pulled out a five, changed her mind, and took out three crisp one-dollar bills. And then she did the last thing on earth I expected of her. She handed the money to me.

“Do you need something at the store?” I asked.

“No, this is for you. A treat, you know, for doing a good job. You never can tell. You might find something nice for your dorm room and help missions.”

I was all for African children learning about Jesus, but I'd seen a preview of the mission circle's crocheted poodles. No thanks. “I have to stay—”

“Fiddlesticks. You've finished your work for the day. I have some paperwork to do, orders for Charles, things like that. Clean yourself up. Spend an hour … or two at the park. Being out in the fresh air will do you good.” She lowered her voice and put her hands on her hips. I hadn't known Mrs. Clancy all that long, but I knew this stance. It meant,
This may sound like a friendly suggestion, but it's meant to be
the eleventh commandment.
“I wouldn't have anything to do with the arts and crafts fair. A group of hippies started that whole affair a few years back. They should call it Sodom and Gomorrah for all the free this-and-that and the contempt they have for the law. You might as well walk through a pigpen on a hot summer day.”

She thought I was hesitating, but I was measuring the cost of telling her what I'd learned of the so-called hippies and their hospitality. From the set of her bristly chin, nothing I could say would change her mind. Mrs. Clancy stepped around the paint cans and ladder. She stopped at the door. “I fancy the pink poodle toilet paper covers Alice Frank crochets.”

* * *

BACK IN GILBERTSVILLE, I had played guitar with the Basement Beacons, a folk-bluegrass-gospel group. Don't go picturing me on
Hee Haw
or the
Grand Ole Opry
playing frenetic renditions of hymns and singing with a vinegar voice. I sang as an alto, thank you very much. We were invited to perform at all kinds of events in Gilbert County. We opened the Walleye Weekend and entertained folks before the fireworks on the Fourth of July. When my church held a baptism at the river, I sang “Nothing but the Blood of Jesus” until
every sinner got dunked. I was the youngest member until Bud, the fiddle player, invited Lauren to play the tambourine.

Betty Jane Cope, an ant of a woman with the intensity of a bulldog, was our dulcimer player. Although the instrument looked like a stretched peanut, the dulcimer sounded like a harp and a banjo with a bit of mandolin thrown in and served as the true voice of our group. While the rest of us chimed in on our guitars, fiddles, and basses, Betty Jane sang lead on her dulcimer with her strong, swift fingers.

I followed the song of a dulcimer at the Founder's Day celebration to a booth where a man with a black tumble of hair played “Amazing Grace.” When he finished, he stroked the dulcimer like a sleeping cat while he answered questions from the gathered crowd. To explain how he'd come to be a dulcimer maker, he said, “I found me some used books from the 1900s, so these little darlin's are the real thing. I use walnut and cherry mostly, and I guarantee this will be the loudest instrument at the party or your money back.”

“Now I'm not saying I'm ready to buy one today,” said a man with his arms folded over his chest and his chin tucked in like he was looking to haggle for the man's prized heifer, not buy a piece of art that sang like an angel, “but just supposing I ordered one of your instruments today. How long would it be until I held one in my hands?”

“I'm a one-horse operation. During the summer, I'm on the road a lot, selling and playing, going to these little backwater shows. That's where I find my customers. Anywho, you could expect your dulcimer by the first of September or there 'bouts.”

The husband exchanged a look with a woman I assumed was his wife.

The dulcimer man sat with his instrument across his lap. “Let me play fer ya a little more while you make up your mind.” He picked and strummed “Just a Closer Walk with Thee.” I almost swooned.
All he needed was the strum of my guitar to lay a thick blanket of harmony beneath his melody. My fingers itched to play. Before the man finished his song, I left the booth. If the couple decided against the dulcimer, I would be embarrassed for the maker for missing a sale and embarrassed for the couple for not knowing real quality when they heard it.

The broad canopy of trees mottled the jumble of booths in John Kretlow Park. Canvas awnings heaved a sigh with every gust of the breeze. Craftspeople competed for the attention of shoppers strolling between the booths with free samples of fragrant oils and fresh-baked breads. Incense sweetened the air along with cotton candy and the hot dogs grilled by the Rotarians. I admired the needlework of a young woman until I recognized the marijuana leaves sewn onto everything from scarves to bandanas to baby bibs. I refused a flier she offered about legalizing pot and moved on. Leather and suede—purses, belts, hair clips, and hats—clogged every other booth, which reminded me to look for Feather and her family.

As usual, Feather found me. “Where have you been? I've been looking for you all day. Come see our booth.”

She dragged me past a smoothie booth with whirring blenders and the ambrosial scent of strawberries and bananas. I promised myself to return with the money Mrs. Clancy had given me. Straw and Butter sat under a pitched tent of orange, green, blue, and purple. On one side, belly dancers gyrated for money tossed into a hat. On the other side, women bent over a velvet-covered table full of handmade jewelry. Their husbands stood several paces back, shifting their weight from one leg to the other. I thanked Jesus that Lauren wasn't there. All those trinkets would have been way too tempting for her.

“Let me braid your hair,” offered Butter after she had hugged me to her bosom. “Customers are bolder if they see me working on
someone else.” She gestured to a board covered with photographs of braided hair. “Choose the style you like.” She charged five dollars.

“I only have three dollars.”

“Silly girl, there's no charge for friends and family.”

My chest warmed. I pointed to the picture I liked, small braids that began at the hairline and attached like hands over a flow of loose hair down the back. She told Feather, “Go find the twins. They're probably terrorizing the toymaker from Telluride.”

Feather turned to run off.

Butter called after her. “Wait! Pick some of those purple flowers we saw by Carolyn's booth for Amy's hair.”

Butter's brush stopped mid-stroke. Her breath warmed my ear. “I don't know what you're doing with Feather, but she won't leave me alone about going to the library every other day. She reads to her chickens and swears they lay more eggs.”

A woman stopped to watch Butter work my hair. “Oh my, your hands just fly through her hair. My mother braided my hair every morning before school. We sat in front of the stove in the kitchen. It was the warmest place in the house.”

“I could braid your hair,” said Butter.

“Really?” The woman touched her head. “It's not too short?”

“I can braid hair of any length.”

“I'll be right back. I just have to tell my friend where I am.”

Butter patted my shoulder. “See what I mean?”

* * *

I STOOD IN line for a smoothie, trying to decide on mango, which I'd never tasted, or sticking with my all-time favorite, pineapple. A tap on my shoulder made me jump.

“I owe you an apology,” Falcon said.

“You do?”

“I wasn't very nice to you the other day. I made some assumptions about you. Anyway, I hear you've been helping Feather.”

The smoothie woman bent over the counter of her booth. Her hair was almost as unruly as mine. A hairnet would have been nice. I regretted choosing a smoothie over a falafel pita. The guy cooking falafels was bald.

“Definitely go with the mango,” Falcon said.

The woman peeled the mango with easy strokes of her knife and added a banana and apple cider she declared
organic
and
unfiltered
, both terms I'd heard repeatedly since landing in Cordial but didn't have a clue to their meaning. I could have asked, but I figured once I escaped Hippieville, as Mom had come to call Cordial, I would never hear the words again.

Although I kept my eyes on the woman making my smoothie, Falcon's presence made my skin hum. I liked the way he looked at me, approving and welcoming. He touched my shoulder and spoke in my ear to be heard over the whirling blades of the blender. “I need to get back to my booth. I have an extra chair if you'd like to sit in the shade while you drink your smoothie,” he said and left.

When I'd been left alone while Mom had worked or gone out with one of her zillion boyfriends, I had entertained myself blowing out the pilot light on the stovetop and relighting it with various flammable objects, starting with matches and moving on to rolled-up papers and shish-kabob skewers. From numerous visits by firemen to my classrooms, I had known the game to be dangerous, but I couldn't—and I still can't—explain the trill of excitement that pulsed just below my heart when the flame
whumphed
to life. And now there was this invitation from Falcon. The same trill resounded within me. Red flags waved. Whistles blew. Bells sounded alarms. But I followed him anyway.

To display his wares, Falcon had hinged glassless French doors together. A stained-glass sun catcher hung inside each mullion. Their beveled frames split the sun's light into prisms that swept over the crowd of people sauntering by. A purple columbine. A cabin in the woods. Snowy mountain peaks. My art class attempt at stained glass had resulted in blobby mounds of solder and an amoeba-like sun. So precise were the joints of Falcon's stained glass that the lead cames disappeared, leaving only the movement of the watery glass.

“They're beautiful. Just beautiful,” I gushed, and my face warmed.

“It would seem from the surprise in your voice that you've been making some assumptions yourself.”

“I … uh …”

He waved my response away. “Don't worry about it.”

Falcon helped a woman looking for a hostess gift. When a couple wearing his-and-hers navy windbreakers with white jeans came to his booth, he asked me to help them. They stood opposite me behind a wall of Falcon's sun catchers, puzzling over which one to purchase for each of their children left for a week at Grandma's house. They wanted something that represented Colorado and the things they had seen on their second honeymoon.

“Do both of you make the sun catchers,” the woman asked.

I shook my head, because my mouth went dry at the idea of being associated with Falcon. For all the couple knew, I was his girlfriend—or his wife.

I worked up enough spit in my mouth to ask: “Are you buying for girls or boys?”

“One girl, thirteen, and two boys, eleven and nine.”

I pointed out the columbine for the girl, a rainbow trout for the older boy, and the brown bear for the youngest. With their purchases
wrapped in newspaper for safe travel back to Ohio, the couple left the booth satisfied with their purchases.

Falcon kissed my cheek. “Thanks.”

While he helped a middle-aged woman decide between a dragonfly and a bumblebee, the place where his lips touched my cheek tingled. I feared that touching the spot would douse the heat of his kiss. I went deaf, dumb, and blind. The warmth swirled in my stomach and ignited a new and surprising place.