Too Dead To Dance (5 page)

He pumped her hand and
answered, “Please call me Ray and, yah, we’ve belonged to St.
Theresa’s since it merged with Holy Angels’ Church last year. Meet
some of the other members of the band.”

The two Catholic churches
in Hermann had merged because, although there were plenty of
Catholics, there weren’t enough priests. The upkeep on the two
properties cost the diocese more than was taken in the collections,
so the bishop had merged the two congregations. Now it didn’t
matter which side of town you lived on. If you wanted to go to
Mass, you went to St. Theresa’s, the oldest church in Maron County
and the only one without air conditioning.

Ray then introduced us to
Clara and Vic Schmidt. Both were members of the band. “Vic plays
the clarinet and saxophone. Clara, here, is our drummer and you
should hear her yodel. Sounds like she just came down from the
Alps.”

Clara waved her chubby
hands. Pink spots appeared on her cheeks.

Ray asked, “Where are Bobby
and Wes?”

“Bobby headed for the
bratwurst wagon,” Vic answered and pointed toward a long trailer
with a sign declaring its support for the local hockey team. “He
can’t get enough brats and hot German potato salad. Who knows where
Wes went?”

Clara crossed her arms
across her bosom and huffed. “Probably to do something
illegal.”

Vic patted Clara on the
back. “Now, Clara, be nice. Wes has had a tough life.”

Clara snorted. “It’s his
life. He made it what it is.”

I noticed the corners of
Bernie’s mouth turn up, just a tad, at Clara’s remark.

Ray coughed and said, “He’s
probably in one of the tents dancing with a pretty girl. He loves
to dance, that Wes.”

A second later, the cannon
boomed. Everybody in our small group at the keg cart jumped, and
then laughed. The Civil War re-enactors were a bunch of good old
boys who loved to dress up and make noise. Like all boys, little
and big, they loved speed, fire and things that go bang.

We chatted with the
musicians for a while talking about past gigs and future dates. I
kept looking around hoping to get a glimpse of this Wes character
that had been so nasty to my friend, but he never showed up.
Perhaps he saw Bernie and me with the band and kept his distance.
Finally, Bernie and I left the Fest Grounds and walked to the
parking lot.

5

On the way out of the Fest
Grounds, we stopped for one last treat, ice cream. Tomorrow I’ll
eat healthy, I promised myself.

“Let’s see, give me some
vanilla ice cream in a paper cup. Add some sprinkles,” I told the
teenager behind the counter.

“I love rainbow sherbet,”
Bernie said. “Put mine in a sugar cone. No sprinkles.”

“Sherbet in a sugar cone?
Bernie, that’s just not right.”

“What do you know? You
don’t even like Radler.”

Laughing, we strolled
through the fest grounds’ exit and into the parking lot. With the
music fading in the background and the evening sky on fire, the red
and orange horizon ablaze, I turned to tell Bernie to look at the
sunset when someone ran past us, pushing Bernie, almost knocking
her down. He zigzagged between cars through the grassy parking lot.
Bernie shrieked and grabbed my arm, her sherbet cone smashing into
my chest.

“Are you okay?” I
asked.

“Yes, did you see who it
was?” Bernie, on tiptoes looked over the top of the vehicle next to
her.

“No, sorry Bernie. I only
got a glance at him, but he didn’t look familiar. He was really
tall though.”

Bernie let out a sigh and
said, “I need to get back to the church. Sorry about the mess. See
you soon.” Bernie scurried off to her car. I wondered why she’d
left so abruptly while I brushed the pink, green and yellow goo off
my coffee, beer and now, sherbet stained shirt. I needed to buy
more Tide.

I strolled toward my Civic,
tired, hot, and not enthusiastic about roasting and packaging the
coffee I needed for tomorrow. As I reached for the door handle, I
heard my name being called from across the parking lot.

“Oh, no! Jennifer, can you
come here?”

When I got to Bernie’s car,
I saw at once why she needed me. Her new little Chevy Aveo sat
lopsided in the grassy parking lot. She stood shaking her head,
looking at the subcompact’s tires. “Well, at least they weren’t
slashed. Some bozo let the air out of two of my tires.”

I dug my cell phone from my
purse. “I’ll call the police.”

“Oh, good Lord, no, don’t
do that. Just give me a ride home and I’ll call Randy to come fix
it for me.”

Randy Vetter and Bernie had
been high school sweethearts. They had argued about everything and
broke up at least once a week. When Bernie announced she'd been
accepted and would be leaving in three weeks for the convent of the
Sisters of St. Ann, Randy began his campaign. He tried to convince
her parents to dissuade her from leaving, but they were supporting
her. He even tried to get me to come up from Illinois to “talk some
sense into her.” But Bernie wouldn’t let anything get in the way of
her vocation and her deep belief that God had called her to His
service.

Randy’s heartbreak didn’t
last long. Within a year he was married to a girl he met at
community college. Lisa is an RN and works in the Emergency Room at
Hermann Hospital.

Through all of this, Randy
and Bernie have stayed friends. She’s the Godmother to his oldest
daughter and lavishes her with gifts, mostly hand made since
Bernie’s income is limited. Randy helps Bernie by keeping her car
running.

Last fall the parishioners
bought Bernie the little Aveo to celebrate her twentieth
anniversary of taking her final vows. So, she hadn’t needed Randy’s
expertise lately. I was sure he’d be glad to help her.

“Bernie, you really should
report this.”

“No, and that’s final.” She
marched off toward my car. I took the hint. This subject was
closed.

“Arguing with you is like
pushing a boulder. I know something serious happened between you
and this Wes guy. Why won’t you tell me what’s going on? I just
want to help.”

“Jennifer, I know you mean
well, but I can’t break a confidence. You just don’t need to know
about this. I’ll handle it.”

“Okay. But remember I’m
here if you need me.”

“I know and I appreciate
it, Jennifer.”

When St. Theresa’s church
converted the convent into a parish community center five years
ago, Bernie and the three other nuns rented apartments near the
church. Now Bernie had the distinction of being the only working
nun left in town. A retired nun was living in an assisted living
high-rise across town. The other two moved to a convent in South
St. Paul.

I dropped Bernie at her
apartment on Sycamore Street. I should’ve gone back to Primo Gusto
to roast more coffee, but I was just too tired. I decided to get up
early in the morning and roast the coffee I needed before leaving
for the Fest Grounds. I convinced myself it would be even fresher
that way.

I drove down German Street
toward my new townhouse; this street meanders through Hermann.
Tourists always say the first thing they notice is how tidy the
town is. Like towns in Germany, the lawns are well groomed. There
is no trash in the yards, there’s no litter at the
curbs.

When people walk around the
business district, which is still an old-fashioned “downtown,”
German folk music plays through speakers on the
lampposts.

German Street in this part
of town is the center of our historical district. In an area of
about three square blocks, the houses here were built in the
1890’s. Big old beautiful Victorian homes, Italianate mansions and
lovely Queen Anne houses, like the one on the corner. I’d love to
see what the inside of that house looked like. It was painted a
creamy yellow. The white trim looked like the crocheted doilies in
Trudy’s booth. A turret rose up one side and a wrap-around porch
invited you to sit and rest awhile. The Hermann Historical Society
put on a History Walk each fall as part of the Oktoberfest
celebration. I’d have to see if this year’s tour included this
mansion so I could see the inside.

A few blocks further down,
I came to Minnesota Street. As soon as I turned the corner, I hit
the button on the remote to open the garage door. It shuddered and
whined but it slowly screeched open. I pulled up the short driveway
and into the garage of my townhouse.

I was still thinking about
getting a bigger car, but I didn’t want an SUV--too big and not
fuel-efficient. I’d have to do some checking and see what would fit
my needs. The door creaked and shook but finally closed. I needed
to call someone to fix that.

I entered my house through
the garage into the kitchen. I always came in this way. A kitchen
is the easiest room to furnish. Stick in a table, chairs, toaster,
and coffee pot, and it’s finished. Finished but not decorated to
show some of the character of the person who lived here. My kitchen
was so stark the only decoration was a magnet for The Pizza Parlor
in Park Rapids, Minnesota, two hundred miles north of
Hermann.

It’s not much different
from the other rooms. When I moved in five months ago, I lined up
boxes along the outside wall of my living room, thinking I’d empty
them and get settled in later. I hadn’t opened the boxes or done
anything to make it more comfortable and lived-in.

The hardwood floors were
bare, not a rug in sight. When the stiff, orange sofa was delivered
from a second hand shop, I just pushed it up against the inside
wall. It didn’t matter that it was ugly and uncomfortable. I didn’t
entertain and seldom even had visitors.

My only extravagances were
a black leather chair, with a matching ottoman, which sat in front
of my new 42” high definition television.

Since the townhouse came
with mini-blinds on the windows, I hadn’t bothered to put up any
curtains. I bought only the bare necessities. I kept telling myself
I wanted to wait until I knew how Edwin and I would be dividing our
assets before spending money on new furniture.

But there was more to it
than assets and money. What I would have loved is to move into that
beautiful Queen Anne mansion I had seen tonight. Of course, that
was ridiculous. What would one person do in such a big house? But
it fit my style. One of the things I had brought with me from my
house was an antique roll-top desk that I had retro fitted for my
computer. It was clearly mine, so Edwin didn’t fight me for it. And
he was no fan of antiques. He thought they were just old
junk.

But more than furniture and
this boring house, I still couldn’t believe my husband had left me
for another woman—a younger, beautiful woman.

Only a few months ago I
thought my marriage was as good as anyone else’s was, until the day
Edwin dropped the bomb.

The sun had been shining
through my kitchen window making the sun catcher glitter and
sparkle. I picked up the spatula and flipped over a pancake in the
frying pan. Edwin had liked me to cook for him, although it had
been difficult with my business growing so fast. Still, I had tried
to make breakfast for him most mornings.

“How do you want your
eggs?” I called up the stairs to him.

“Listen, Jennie, we need to
talk.” Edwin came bounding down the stairs, buttoning his cuffs. He
walked into the kitchen and stood by the table. Picking up a glass
of orange juice, he downed it in a couple gulps.

“Don’t call me Jennie,” I
said automatically for the thousandth time. We’d been married for
twenty-four years. You’d think he’d know by now. When I was a kid,
my classmates had teased me by calling me “Jennie Penny” in a
singsong voice. Besides, I wanted to talk to him about him about an
offer I had received for my business but he wouldn’t let me
talk.

“Jennifer, don’t interrupt
me. I have something important to say. I know this is going to be
difficult for you, but now that Beth is married and Nick has moved
to Chicago, I need my freedom.”

I shook my head and wiped
my hands on a dishcloth. “What are you talking about? Do you want
to make Nick’s room into a den?”

“No, I don’t want to move
furniture. Jennifer, I want a divorce. It’s time for me to have a
life of my own. I need to find out who I am.”

I thought I was going to
throw up. My feelings poured out of my mouth. “What? I worked every
day of this marriage, too. After I put you through college, I
raised the kids while you belonged to every club in town and spent
your evenings at meetings. I’m the one who went to PTA, piano
recitals, and scout meetings. And now you want to leave?” I had
never talked to Edwin like this in my life. “You want find out who
you are? You’re a louse, that’s who you are.”

Then it hit me. How stupid
I had been. “Who is she?”

“Now, Jennie, don’t be that
way.”

“Don’t you ‘Now, Jennie’
me, you creep. I know you. This didn’t just come to you in a dream.
Besides, you could never take care of yourself. Who would make your
breakfast?”