May Day

by Jess Lourey

  “Have a good day, then,” I said, sliding into my best Minnesota accent. On the way out the door, I popped a Lemonhead in my mouth. If I just pierced the coating with the tip of my eyetooth, I could ration the sour bursts for nearly ten minutes.

  “Hey, Bev,” I said, turning as I remembered one last question. “What number was on Jeff’s football jersey?”

  “That I can’t tell ya. If you stop over at the high school, though, it’d be easy enough to find out. They have his jersey framed in glass in the trophy case up front. You can see a bunch of pictures of the team, too, if you’re interested.”

  The sun was shining down on my car when I got outside, and I smelled a loud hint of summer despite the late frost this morning. It was going to be a warm day, warm enough to start my farmer’s tan if I had lunch outside. I felt pretty good as I drove the half mile to the library. Some pieces had fallen into place, and everything I knew was pointing at the class of ’82. This party tonight was going to be very

  illuminating.

  I pulled into the library parking lot, ready to devote my day to the reading arts and starting the article on Jeff. I had some backed-up paperwork and shelving that needed my attention. Plus, the library needed cleaning and the plants needed watering. Lartel had a thing for plants, as I had seen at his house, and he especially liked the high-maintenance ones that needed regular attention. I didn’t mind watering them.

  I unlocked the door and strode straight to the windows, pulling up the shades with a zip. I returned to the door and flipped the sign to Open. I walked toward the computer and nearly tripped over a doll on the floor. I shook my head. The magazine inserts were bad enough, but now kids were leaving their dolls. I picked it up and turned it over, then dropped it like a burning book. It was the cheerleader doll from Lartel’s dark room, her expression bland and her hair impeccable. I backed up to a wall and surveyed the library. I couldn’t see down any of the book rows, and the back room was dark.

  I could smell my sandalwood-laced sweat, and one word raced through my head: Lartel.

  When the library door donged open, I squealed like a pig. Kennie Rogers strode in and chuckled. “Did I catch y’all playin’ with dolls?” She walked over and took the cheerleader from the floor. “Well, isn’t that the sweetest thing. Y’all takin’ up arts and crafts? These ain’t easy to sew, these little outfits. I am plum impressed with you, Mira.” She laughed again. The good-looking get a lot of slack in our society, and though Kennie’s looks had faded, the air of privilege they had given her had not.

  I was sure my eyes looked like two fried eggs, sunny-side up, and my back was still pressed against the wall. “Some kid left it.” I willed myself to relax, which at this point consisted of breathing again and releasing the wall from the vise grip my ass had on it.

  It didn’t matter, because Kennie didn’t seem to be paying attention. She sauntered behind the front counter and flipped the computer on. “Whoo, y’all got a bad smell gone worse down here. You might want to empty your garbage.”

  She walked back around to the front of the counter, halfway between the children’s area and me. She stretched dramatically, her arms reaching toward the ceiling and her back to me. I eyed the wolf’s head airbrushed on the back of her denim jacket. Her wide behind was stuffed into Chic jeans, which were in turn stuffed into fringed white ankle boots covered in faux-southwestern metal studs. It reminded me of a cascading pork sausage in tight casing, and when she turned around, I was sure the front of her jeans would display a perfect camel-toe. I returned my eyes to shoulder level before I was called upon to verify that.

  “I used to work here, you know, Mira. Used to be the head librarian back about a coon’s age. That was before y’all came to town, even before Lartel came back. Of course, I’ve moved on to bigger and better things.” She turned back to face me with a dramatic flip to her hair. “I will just be skinned alive, Mira, you look like you seen a ghost! You keep starin’ at me like that, I’m inclined to get the wrong message from y’all.”

  I closed my mouth with a snap and went behind the counter to put some physical space between Kennie and myself. I set the doll on the counter. “You know anything about these dolls, Kennie?”

  She strolled back to the counter like the aged beauty queen she was. “I know you can buy ’em at the five and dime. A kid’s toy.” Her eyes glittered at me.

  “I suppose. I’ll put it in the lost and found.” I feigned nonchalance and tossed the girl-Chuckie into the cardboard box overflowing with widowed mittens and ratty hats. “What can I do for you, anyhow?”

  “Not much, honey chile. I heard Lartel may be comin’ back early is all, and I wanted to welcome him home.”

  My blood turned cold like leech water, and I swallowed some of my own bile. Liquid burp, we used to call them in my partying days. “When did you hear that?”

  Kennie smiled and shrugged her shoulders innocently, looking for all the world like Little Orphan Annie would if she had grown up in a luxury trailer park and dyed her hair platinum. I could tell she was playing with me, but I didn’t know the game. “Coulda been today, coulda been yesterday.”

  I was feeling cornered, and the metamorphosis into bitchy Incredible Hulk began. “Well, you know what I heard, Kennie? I heard that you and Lartel used to date. I heard that after Jeff dumped you back in high school, you went straight into the arms of the coach and stayed there. Then he left town, too, just like all your boyfriends, and next anybody sees of him, he’s a crazy librarian. So maybe if we’re going to talk about what we heard, we should talk about that.”

  Kennie’s color drained from her skin, making her peach-toned foundation and deep red blusher stand out like clown’s makeup. “Or maybe,” she purred, “we could talk about how you screwed Jeff his first night in town, you little slut.”

  Shit. I was way out of my league here. I consciously relaxed my body language and changed my voice to what I hoped was a soothing tone. “I can’t help what you heard, Kennie.”

  “Hmm. Does that mean you also can’t help what I heard about a Mr. Mark James, suicidal murderer and your dear, departed father?”

  There is a space, after the click of the camera and before the flash dissipates, when every sight, sound, and smell is suspended. I now found myself in that space, but there was no relief coming. Mark James. Manslaughter Mark. My father. The spring of my sixteenth year, he fell asleep at the wheel driving home from grocery shopping and veered into another car. He killed himself and the driver of the other car, along with her infant son, in the head-on collision. His body had been mangled beyond identification; the autopsy revealed that he had been driving very, very drunk.

  The accident happened on Highway 23, the main road through Paynesville, and it was weeks before the black tire marks and sparkling windshield glass completely disappeared from the shoulder. Shortly after, the driving instructor at the high school landed the now-mangled car my dad had been driving, our ’73 Chevy Cordova, and installed it in the shop as a warning of what happens when people drive drunk.

  My mom and I really didn’t talk about it much. We didn’t talk much, period. The overriding emotion I remember from that time is relief that school was almost out for the summer so I wouldn’t have to face my classmates. The irony was that after the accident, I no longer had a face in Paynesville. I became the countenance of a series of unfortunate events instead of a person. And now, I was at risk of that happening to me in Battle Lake. I didn’t want to be erased again.

  “Is it true? Are you the daughter of a killer? Maybe the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  “Fuck you, Kennie.” There was no strength in my words. I was suddenly bone tired. “It’s none of your business. And it really doesn’t matter anymore. My dad is dead. Jeff is dead.”

  “Maybe your dad is dead, little Mira the Murderer’s Daughter. Or maybe he’s like Elvis, and he faked his death. Could be he killed Jeff to protect his virginal daughter?”

  Kennie was way out there, talking
crazy, but like a child in a tantrum, she was oblivious to the pain she was inflicting. She tried to stare me down, alpha female to alpha female. “Did you sleep with him? Did you and Jeff sleep together?”

  I shook my head and turned my face to the front door, using the time away from her stare to put my dad back in his cage. His life and death were not going to follow me to Battle Lake. It was bad enough they had chased me out of Paynesville. My voice came out neutral, that icy quiet of bridled fury. “All I care about now is finding out who killed Jeff. If you have any information on that, then we can talk.” I forced myself to pick up the returned books and walk past her. I swear she had to stop herself from sniffing my butt and growling. I started to put the books away, making surreptitious glances down each aisle as I passed it, on the alert for a sinister doll-leaver.

  Kennie stood up at the front with her back to me for the whole time I put books away. I took advantage of her presence to make a quick run through the back room. All clear. Kennie and I were the only two people in the library. I returned to the front counter, bracing myself for more venom, and picked up on the bad smell Kennie had caught earlier. I turned to her, ready to defend myself. To my surprise, Kennie looked like she had been crying, her face even puffier than normal, her eyes rimmed in crimson. Maybe she was just trying not to sneeze.

  “I loved that boy, you know,” she said softly, her southern accent rubbed out. “I was going to marry him, have his kids, settle down to a nice life in Battle Lake after college. That one night with Lartel was a mistake. I was just a girl, really, trying to get back at my boyfriend for letting me down in the big game, but Jeff caught us and turned Lartel in. It’s bad form for coaches to sleep with cheerleaders. Jeff left for college shortly after. He never returned one phone call, not one letter. When I heard he was back in town, it was my happiest day since high school.”

  She wiped at her eyes and looked at me. “You don’t care. You didn’t even know him. I’ll give you a little bit of advice, though.” She leaned toward me, her eyes bright but her mouth slack. “I’d steer clear of Lartel if I were you. Just ask your friend Karl at the bank about him. Lartel has a ‘special’ relationship with Karl.” She turned abruptly and walked out of the library, her shoulders and head so straight I could have balanced a book on her.

  I watched her walk out, surprised to feel sorry for her. That woman was one emotional roller coaster. “That’s what you get for living in the past,” I said to no one in particular.

  I sighed and checked out the garbage. There was a whole but unidentifiable fish in the bottom of the canister, happily decomposing. The doll-leaver was apparently into creating a multisensory fear experience. I pulled the bag out and looked up pensively as the door chimed again.

  In walked Mrs. Berns. “Whew, girl, that smells worser than week-old garbage! What do you have in that bag?”

  “Somebody left a dead fish as a prank, Mrs. Berns.” I tied a knot in the top of the bag and held it at arm’s length.

  “You know what’ll get rid of that smell? A bag of shit. Works every time.” Mrs. Berns cackled and walked to the magazine rack.

  I smiled shakily at the back of her head. These old people were beginning to seem like the only sane ones in this whole town.

  I slid across the booth from Karl, grateful he had agreed to meet me for lunch. I was surprised at how hungry I was. Fear and confusion must burn a lot of calories. There was some consolation in that. If I was going to be a stupid chicken, I was at least going to look good in a swimsuit this summer.

  “You don’t look so good, Mira,” Karl said.

  “Thanks, Karl.”

  “Really, Mira. Have you been sleeping lately?”

  “I guess so, as well as a person can sleep with one eye open. Jeff’s murder just has me walking on eggshells.”

  “You two got to be pretty close over that interview.” It was a statement, not a question, and I was grateful that I wasn’t going to have to explain my unflagging interest in solving his murder.

  “That, and Ron’s asked me to write a story on it. So far all I have is some high school gossip on Kennie, Jeff, and Gary Wohnt. Oh, and let’s not forget Lartel.”

  Karl snapped his menu closed and leaned close to my face. “Mira, if I can give you any advice, it’s to steer clear of Lartel. He’s not a good person.”

  “Well, it’s kind of hard to avoid your boss,” I said. “Anyways, he’s still in Mexico.” I thought about what Kennie had said about Karl’s “special relationship” with Lartel. “How well do you know Lartel,

  exactly?”

  “Back in high school, I was the football team gofer. I got to know him as well as anybody. Now, I’m his banker.”

  “Why haven’t you ever brought him up before? You know I work with him.”

  “Nothing to be done about that, Mira. I didn’t want to worry you unnecessarily. He seems to be fine in the public eye. It’s when he’s alone that the problems start.”

  “What have you heard?”

  “Things that I wouldn’t repeat, ever. But enough to tell me he’s not a person you want to associate with. I do business with him because I have to, but if it were up to me, he never would have come back to town. And I’m not the only one who feels that way.”

  “Why did he come back to town?”

  Karl rubbed his thumb on an imaginary spot on the table. “People say he didn’t really have anyplace else to go. I suppose he figured the scandal he caused back in the old days had blown over. He hadn’t done anything illegal, so why not come back to the town he had grown up in, the town where he had once been a hero?”

  I didn’t buy it. There was more to the Lartel story. “Have you heard if he’s coming back from vacation early?”

  “No, nothing like that. And it’d be around pretty quick if he was.”

  I studied Karl. He looked the same as always—bland and kind. Kennie must have exaggerated his relationship with Lartel. It wouldn’t be the first freaky thing she’d ever done, that’s for sure. “He’s not the only wacko in this town, you know. Kennie stopped by the library today and gave me the third degree about Jeff. I’m starting to wonder what everyone thinks I know.”

  “Kennie’s harmless, Mira. Like I told you before, she’s just harboring some jealousy.”

  “You might be right.” I shook my head. “So how’s the sale of the Jorgensen land coming without Jeff in the picture?”

  “It’s coming. They’re going to send someone out next week to sign the papers, and it should be a done deal. This time next year, we’ll have a new attraction at Battle Lake.” Karl didn’t sound any more excited about it than me. “You know,” he said, “people are saying that Jeff was killed by a homeless man. They’re holding him in Otter Tail County Jail.”

  “What? Why haven’t I heard this?”

  “He hasn’t been charged yet. But he had the right kind of gun on him, and he has no alibi.”

  I shook my head. No. No, it wasn’t a homeless man who had killed Jeff. It made no sense. Why would a homeless man kill him and put his body in the library? This couldn’t all be over so quickly, could it?

  Before I could speak, our waitress sidled up to the table. “What can I get you, Karl?”

  Karl smiled up at her. “Hi, Chrissy. I’ll take a patty melt and a salad, and twenty dollars worth of pull-tabs. What’re you hungry for, Mira?”

  I found my voice, and with it, my appetite. “I’ll take a grilled chicken sandwich with fries, and what’s your soup?”

  “We have chili, navy bean and ham, or Wisconsin cheese.”

  “A cup of navy bean and ham, please, right away.”

  Karl laughed quietly. “You’re not eating for two, are you?”

  I gagged on my own spit. Talk about being dragged from one emotion to another. “I better not be. That’s all I need right now. Nope, I’m a good eater, always have been. I’m going to the bathroom—be right back.” I scurried to the restroom. Once in there, I felt my boobs and my stomach. They felt normal, b
oth sticking out about equally far from my body. I splashed water on my face and walked out.

  I took my time getting back to the table. On the way, I overhead snatches of conversation: “. . . the blackest beaver I ever seen. I never skun a beaver before, but it was easy as pie until I got to the feet . . .”

  “. . . you betcha, that’s the last time I ever let a Watermeller girl babysit my kids . . .” “. . . really hot last night . . .”

  I was starting to feel faint. When I got back, my soup was waiting, and I dug into it as a distraction. Karl and I visited about this and that and managed to stay away from the equally toxic topics of murder, pregnancy, and high school. He bought for us, I left the tip, and we both headed back toward work.

  When he was out of sight, I ducked into the Apothecary. I was hot, dizzy, and ill, and I recognized the symptoms—I-might-be-pregnantitis. Thanks for putting it in my head, Karl. That would explain why people were being so weird to me, though. They could smell a breeder in the herd. I shuddered. It would take more than both hands to count the number of pregnancy tests I’d bought in my life. I was mostly really good about using protection, but I heard on some morning news show that an alarming number of condoms have pinholes in them. All it takes is one tenacious sperm.

  Since that show, I usually ended up taking the pregnancy test right in the Kmart, Wal-Mart, Target—you name it—bathroom the next day. This obsessiveness was certainly a sign of a mental illness. How many women peed on a pregnancy stick in a store bathroom? Multiple times? It’s always a humbling experience, but so far I was batting a hundred, and I figured a little self-respect was a small price to pay for immediate peace of mind.

  I wasn’t too excited about buying an EPT at the Apothecary since certainly I would see someone I knew in there, and the whole town would be buzzing with the news by the end of the day. “Jeff Wilson lives on!” But once I had it in my head that I was pregnant, it was best just to take the test and turn off the voices before they really got to me.