September Fair

by Jess Lourey

  When I neared, two short-haired women in comfortable shoes were inviting them to a parade later that night. “It does sound like a happy parade,” Mrs. Berns was saying earnestly, “but we have plans with our friend Mira here. Maybe another time.”

  The women nodded and left, stealing glances over their shoulders at the two Battle Lake cowgirls. I tsked, ignoring the cat-who-cornered-the-mouse look they were giving me. “Why are you both dressed like that?”

  “You’ll see,” they said and giggled in unison. It was an alarming sound. “Now come on,” Mrs. Berns said, grabbing my hand. “Before our memorable evening begins, let’s get that spicy food I promised you.”

  She led me and Kennie toward the ethnic restaurants edging the Bazaar. We strode past the International Grill, Island Noodles, and West Indies Soul Food before stopping in front of the Caribbean Shack, and I sorrowfully realized that I wasn’t going to get my fire fix tonight. “Thanks, Mrs. Berns, but I’ve been here. Their food is only Minnesota spicy.”

  “At the front here, maybe, but we’ve got a special seat in back.” She winked at the lean man behind the counter and squeezed the top of her arms together in the universal, saucy “see my cleavage” gesture. Unfortunately, her girls were closer to her knees than her shoulders and had no way of responding to the command. The counter guy smiled broadly, and his beautiful white teeth lit up his face like a beacon. He chuckled as he waved us inside his workspace, through a side door that led behind the customer counter and toward the rear. Two women took his place out front.

  The back room was spic-and-span, like the laboratory I’d visited earlier, only with soul, and delicious, hearty smells. Here, the stainless steel counters held pots of rice and dried red beans, spices arranged in alphabetical order, and sealed pots of homemade jerk sauce. I also smelled some spicy heat in the air, the promise of a raucous chili pepper, something that’d clear my nose and jumpstart my heart.

  “Welcome back, Mrs. Berns,” he said, indicating three chairs for us. His voice was melodic, rising and falling like the sea in the middle of each word. “You’ll have the usual, then?”

  “Three of ’em.”

  Kennie fanned herself with her hand as she watched him work, and I had to admit it was a thing of beauty. He looked carved out of stone, every muscle clearly defined in his tank top, his legs strong. He yanked out three plates, lifted a steaming lid off a pot on the stove, and scooped out three servings of red beans and rice. It smelled as comforting as hot tea on a cold night. Replacing that lid, he opened another, and every corner of the back room was filled with the tangy scent of jerk seasoning. The smell was both sweet and peppery and made my nose tingle like I needed to sneeze. He handed us each a steaming plate, which we balanced on our knees.

  “Thank you,” I said, accepting a fork. In my experience, jerk wasn’t overly spicy, but the food looked delicious, and I was starving.

  “Not yet,” he said, and reached into the refrigerator. He pulled out a gallon jar of what looked like chopped onions laced with bits of carrot, both floating in a brine. When he removed the lid, I stood, drawn to the piquant, vinegary smell.

  “What is it?”

  “Onion relish.” He smiled his gorgeous grin. “It’s not for little boys.”

  “Then you’ll be happy to know you’ve got three real women here,” Mrs. Berns said around a mouthful of rice.

  “Make that two.” Kennie took off her neckerchief and mopped her brow, which was dripping makeup-colored sweat. “This here is hot enough as is.”

  “Lots, please.” I held out my plate and didn’t take it back until it was generously covered with the white and orange relish. I sat back down and took a bite. The soft and warm rice and beans hit my tongue first, with the cool onion relish tickling the top of my mouth. I moved it all around and bit in. The first taste sensation was the zip of the vinegar as I sunk my teeth into a surprisingly mild onion. The second was the soothing earthiness of the beans. The last, coming out of left field, was a flash so hot it made my eyes smoke. “What’s in here?”

  He laughed. “Red Savina habaneros. The spiciest pepper known to man, and now, to woman.”

  “Is it in the beans and rice?” I asked. The heat in my head made it difficult to talk. Little bundles of dynamite were going off, starting in my nose and working their way to my brain, clearing one area before blasting another.

  “See here?” He indicated the orangish-red bits in the onion relish. “This is the pepper.”

  Tears ran down my cheeks as the heat rush began to subside, leaving euphoria in its wake. I felt alert and alive, like I could see in the dark and read people’s minds. “Give me more.”

  He looked at Mrs. Berns in mock sadness. “Ah. She is as bad as you said.”

  “I warned you.”

  He spooned a second layer of onion relish on my plate and cracked us each a can of diet cola. I rarely drank soda, but the combination of fiery food and sweet carbonation was too much of a treat to pass up.

  “Can I get some ice?” Kennie asked. Most of her foundation had melted into her collar, but her eyes glowed unusually bright. What a pepper wuss. She hadn’t even tried the onion relish and was sweating her face off.

  Taking a cooling chug off my can, I had a sudden vision of Ashley drinking her last diet cola, the only food or drink anyone saw her partake of during the window of time in which she had been poisoned. Lana had seen Ashley open her can, just as I had seen mine opened right in front of me, and then pour it over ice. Could the cyanide have been in the cubes? The thought was revelatory, and if I was right, who had supplied the ice? I made a mental note to look into that, turning back to my homemade, soul-cleansing food.

  Later, bellies full and heads completely cleared, the three of us made our way to the west end of the fair. We passed the Haunted House on our way, something I had taken pains to steer clear of since I’d arrived. Avoiding it was hard, since it was situated right next to the International Bazaar, but with a map and a little creativity, it had been possible. I didn’t want to freak out Kennie and Mrs. Berns by exposing my neuroses, though, so I simply looked away as we walked in front of the gray Victorian mansion and pretended I couldn’t hear the screams, though my palms grew wet and my stomach bubbled. Delayed reaction to the spicy food, I told myself.

  Mrs. Berns was eying me suspiciously, so I took control of the conversation. “So where’re we going now? You’ll have to tell me sooner or later.”

  “First, put this on.” Mrs. Berns, easily distracted, fished in her purse and pulled out a Care Bear pin. Funshine Bear, if I wasn’t mistaken, and he was about an inch-and-a-half tall, yellow, with a smiling sunshine on his belly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You gotta wear it to get in, dummy,” Mrs. Berns said.

  Too many questions. Head full. Play dead.

  “Here, I’ll do it.” Kennie took the pin from Mrs. Berns, inserted the pointy end into the strap of my sundress, and snapped it tight. “Perfect, though I still think Grumpy Bear would have been a better fit for her.” Again, that shared snicker that turned my blood cold.

  “You have to tell me something about where we’re going, or I’m not taking another step.” I stood firm in front of the Sheep and Poultry building.

  Mrs. Berns nodded at it. “It has something to do with what you see up there, Mary.”

  Mary? Was she becoming senile? I looked up where she was indicating, at the green, blue, and white sign that said, “Sheep and Poultry.” Because I knew Mrs. Berns so well, I made a leap from sheep to Mary, who had a little lamb. “Sheep and lambs aren’t the same thing.”

  “Close enough. And I told you something, like you asked, and that’s all I’m gonna say. Besides, we’re almost at our destination.”

  My head spinning, we navigated two more blocks through the crowds and then past what I thought was the westernmost edge of the fair—the Swine Barn. When we kept walking, I said, “I don’t think there’s anything back here.”

  They didn’t
answer. Instead, they kept moving forward as the crowds thinned. It’d be another two hours before the sun set, but the night was still hot and the road was dusty from animals crossing it. I wished I had brought some water. We turned sharp to the right and walked another four hundred yards to stop in front of a pole barn colored a dull brown. Few people were around, yet both Mrs. Berns and Kennie instantly tensed up, scanning the perimeters as if we were about to exchange top secret spy information.

  “What is it?” I whispered. They shushed me and slipped between the metal doors of the pole barn, tugging me in behind them and closing the doors tightly.

  “Fair Bear badges?” A gruff voice asked. This anteroom was close and dark except for a slit of light peeking through the doors opposite the entrance. The buzz of a crowd leaked through the slit, and the air smelled like manure and close-packed bodies.

  Mrs. Berns and Kennie produced Care Bear pins from their oversized purses, so I flashed Funshine. The doorman ushered us in, through a sealed door, and then between metal gates, down some sort of animal run, and out into an amazingly well-lit barn. The smell was stronger in here, musky and pungent. Platform benches ringed the interior, cascading down to the middle where they encircled a large corral with half a dozen sheep milling around. The benches were packed full of men, women, and children, most of them wearing blue jeans and snapfront western shirts, and more than a few in cowboy hats and boots, just like Mrs. Berns and Kennie. The crowd was rumbling as if something exciting was about to happen.

  “What is this?”

  “Welcome to the Mutton Busting competition!” Kennie whooped.

  I looked down past the bleachers at the sweet little fluffy balls of sheep in the corral and back at the audience, staring avidly at them. “Is that like cockfighting?”

  “Not at all,” Mrs. Berns said. “We just ride ’em. We don’t make them fight each other.”

  “We?”

  “Well, not technically.” Mrs. Berns eyeballed Kennie. “The mayor here exceeds the weight limit, and why the hell would I want to ride a sheep? Fortunately, Kennie’s just the right size to be a Mutton Busting clown. I’m her manager. Turns out I like her just fine when I can tell her what to do.” Mrs. Berns smiled broadly.

  I began piecing together odd, unconnected observations I’d made the last few days. Kennie and Mrs. Berns getting along. Kennie complaining about soreness, and then giggling conspiratorially with Mrs. Berns. Both of them smelling like beer and wool when they stumbled in late at night. “And the Care Bears?”

  “Fair Bears,” Kennie corrected. “This here is a secret operation under the radar of the State Fair Corporation. Only Fair Bears know about it, among other fair secrets.”

  I glanced around at the be-Wranglered audience, most of them looking like hardworking farmers in their thirties and forties, all of them leaning forward eagerly to watch as petite men and women walked among the little white puffs of sheep on the floor, deciding which one they’d ride. Everyone had a Care Bear pin on their shirt. “I’m in.”

  “Thought so. Go save us a seat while I get Kennie’s clown makeup on.” Mrs. Berns and I exchanged an insider smile when Kennie wasn’t looking. Clown makeup was all Kennie ever wore.

  I found a spot toward the front, too close to the action to be considered a choice location. The air was ripe with the smell of agitated livestock, and the air was dusty. The sheep all wore twelve-inch numbers on canvas squares tied to their backs and appeared completely oblivious to the infamy that was about to be visited on them. Probably for the best.

  When one of the riders chose a sheep, she or he pasted a number on their back that matched the canvas number on the sheep. Then, they moved to the sidelines to await the beginning of the competition. No sheep could be chosen more than once, and when they were all claimed, “We Will Rock You,” blared over the speakers.

  I wondered how an event this large and noisy could ever be a secret. People walking past the building had to hear the hubbub, though muted, emanating from the walls. As if in answer to my question, Kate Lewis appeared across the floor. She wore a brown hoodie and was hunched over, but she was still recognizable. She got the attention of and then whispered fiercely to a young cowboy, who leaned against the ring and generally ignored her until she slipped him something. He looked at his hand, nodded once without looking at her, and she took off. I couldn’t see what they had exchanged, but I had a hunch.

  When Mrs. Berns returned, her beautiful, wrinkled face flushed, I asked her if people gambled on the Mutton Busting.

  “Of course. We’re Minnesotans, not Mormons.”

  Gambling. It made sense that Kate would be betting on the show if she were in serious debt, as implied by her embezzling. That was one mystery solved. I turned to watch the action. An emcee strolled to the middle of the ring, microphone in hand. Just then, I had a second thought which cancelled out the first. “Mrs. Berns, do the sheepboys here have access to bulls, too?”

  “You betcha. Rodeos, mutton busting, cow-roping. All that good stuff goes together.”

  I knew that I had never been the target of the escaped beast today. Wild, charging bulls weren’t exactly precision instruments, and there were easier ways to hurt someone. Besides, I couldn’t think of a single reason for anyone at the fair to want to attack me. So why was the bull released? It could have been an accident, but could Kate have had a hand in the “accidental” releasing of the bull? It would bring more attention to the fair, and as Chaz had told me, there was no such thing as bad attention when you were trying to make money.

  If my hunch was correct, I hadn’t just seen Kate place a bet on a sheep. I’d just seen her pay off the guy who’d released the bull. On impulse, I asked Mrs. Berns to save my seat and hurried over to the cowboy Kate had just spoken with. “Hi.”

  He didn’t look up. He took his laconic, lone rider image very seriously. “Who’s your money on?”

  “Number 23,” he said, indicating a little man with blue cowboy boots and a matching hat who was circling his sheep. “He’s won the last two competitions.”

  “Thanks for the tip. Say, if I wanted to release a bull into the State Fair and make it look like an accident, who would I talk to?” His eyes, visited by fear and then settled by anger, gave me all the answer I needed. He pulled his hat low and marched off, never having looked me full in the face. I returned to my seat next to Mrs. Berns, feeling satisfaction at having solved one small mystery. And my discovery established that Kate was a desperate woman, one willing to go to extreme measures to attract attention to the fair. I’d need to track her down and ask her some questions.

  But no time for that now. The mutton busting was about to begin, and Kennie was prancing into the ring in all her clown glory. The crowd went wild.

  In the end, I decided one Mutton Busting event a lifetime was more than enough. Turns out sheep don’t really like to have people on their backs, no matter how skinny they are. It scares them, and they poop when they’re scared. The longest anyone stayed on a sheep was thirty-three seconds, and it wasn’t number 23, who got bucked and indignantly bleated at three seconds into his ride. Kennie was magnificent though, working the audience like a natural. Because the sheep weren’t dangerous, she didn’t need to distract them as real rodeo clowns did with bulls. Instead, she spent most of her time flirting with the men in the front row and circumventing poop piles. The crowd, thinking she was hamming it up for their entertainment, loved her, and she loved the attention.

  Throughout the event, Mrs. Berns was making all sorts of backdoor deals as Kennie’s manager and appeared to be in her element. I had no doubt Battle Lake’s mayor and resident geriatric spitfire had found their calling. I expected the town would be feeling the ripple effects of this discovery when the fair ended.

  They both had business to attend to after the event, so I ambled back to the trailer on my own. Since no one was around I settled for firing up my computer and researching one Aeon Hopkins, cow rights activist. I couldn’t help but wonder how anyb
ody knew anything before Google as I sorted through the 323,000 hits displayed after punching in his first and last name. I narrowed the search, slapping a pair of quotation marks around his name, and was rewarded with a manageable twenty-four hits.

  The first site pulled up was the home page of Mad Cows, Mad People (MCMP). The page layout and graphics were rudimentary, bright and garish colors competing against horrific animations of tottering, terminally ill cows being led to slaughter. I clicked the “About Us” link and was brought to a description of an organization which opposed everything Bovine Productivity Management represented:

  “The goal of MCMP is to fight to have animals and the earth treated with respect. We believe that allowing animals to live natural lives in protected areas is their right, and that animals have worth in and of themselves and are not on the earth for human gain. MCMP believes civil disobedience, protests, referendums, and force are all acceptable means of spreading our message.”

  According to the staff page, Aeon Hopkins was the director. I returned to the Google search page and discovered that the next three hits were far less flattering. All of them linked Aeon’s name with ecoterrorism, the first tying him to the bombing of a California lab that experimented on monkeys, the second covering a trial where Aeon was charged with breaking windows and spray painting “Puppy Killers” all over a college building that housed beagles used for invasive testing, and the third connecting him to the liberation of calves being raised for veal, though that escapade apparently backfired as the calves were too weak to walk once they were sprung from their narrow stalls. Only one article delved into Aeon’s past.