The Queen of Sleepy Eye (15 page)

I sang “Rocky Mountain High” as I strode toward the gaping hole of the quarry. I stopped several feet away from a rusted chain that served as a safety rail. Whereas the marble blocks left in the sunshine had made my eyes ache with their brilliance, gray smudged the walls of the quarry that settled into black pools on the bottom. Very disappointing. Empty. A great gaping hole. Dead. I backed away. As a
tourist attraction, the abandoned quarry proved the journey made the destination inconsequential. I turned to follow the trail back to where Bruce and Mom smoked their cigarettes.

Nuts to that.

I sat on a low boulder beyond the mine's gapping entrance, a front-row seat to take in the bold landscape. Jutting mountains. Singing rivers. Angel-hair clouds stretched across a jubilant sky. Insects hummed and jays called. I hugged my knees to my chest. Only a thousand miles and a range of mountains separated me from California. My chest ached. A breeze as welcomed as a kiss lifted my hair.

The story of David came to mind. Mountains had separated him from his destiny when he asked, “I will lift my eyes to the mountains; from whence shall my help come?” David made it to the throne of Israel despite the machinations of Saul, treachery and arrows, betrayal and spears. All that menaced me was my hopelessly lovesick and easily sidetracked mother.

My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.

“Lord, you made heaven and earth. Please make a transmission for a 1958 Pontiac Bonneville Sport Coupe Jubilee Edition show up in Cordial. I'd be much obliged.”

Feeling fortified, I tromped down the trail to find Mom and Bruce making out.

“I'll wait by the truck,” I said.

I emptied gewgaws, mortuary science books, journals, and ledgers from a bookcase in Mrs. Clancy's office to spray the shelves with lemon-fresh Pledge. She answered the telephone. “Clancy and Sons Funeral Home serving the North Fork Valley sin—”

I turned to listen, like I could see who dared to interrupt Mrs. Clancy's greeting. She hummed her agreement to the person on the other end of the telephone. With a flip of her wrist, she shooed me back to work.

“Yes, they brought your mother here yesterday,” she said. “We can certainly take care of all that for …”

I stole a peek at Mrs. Clancy. Her eyebrows came together as she wrapped the phone cord around her finger.

“As you like, yes, that's all included.”

I spread the polish over the wood in apathetic circles.

Mrs. Clancy flipped through a stenographer's pad until she found a clean page. “You'll want an obituary at least. Let me—

“Are you sure, dear?

“How long has your mother lived in this area?

“Really?

“No, I can't say I ever had the pleasure.”

Mrs. Clancy swiveled her chair to look out the window. I held the dust rag in my lap. Her voice took on a quality I'd never heard from her. “Funerals aren't for the … they're for the living. Your mother may have had friends you know nothing about. Not having a service is like coming to the end of a good book and finding the last chapter has been ripped out—it's terribly unsatisfying. A funeral would give her friends a chance to say their good-byes.

“I see. Yes, I see.” She turned back to her desk to massage a temple as she listened. “Please don't take what I'm about to say as prying. I'm an old woman, my dear. I've been providing funeral services most of my life. My father and grandfather were morticians, and I grew up in this very house with my two brothers. In fact, my ties to this place and my profession are so strong, I reverted to the family name when my husband passed away. So you can see, I've seen every imaginable scenario, more than one like what you're describing.” She sighed heavily. “Please understand that I will not make one cent more than what I've quoted you for basic funeral services, but I think you and your sisters may want to reconsider a service for your mother. In fact, you should consider the service a gift you give each other. It sounds like you girls have a lot to talk about, and more than a mother to bury to get on with your lives. If you change your mind, call back by Friday. That will give us plenty of time to make arrangements.”

Mrs. Clancy thrummed her fingers on the desk. I replaced the books and gewgaws.

“Hello?” Mrs. Clancy asked. “Are you still there?

“That's a good plan. I'll be waiting to hear from you.”

Mrs. Clancy leaned back in her chair, cradling the receiver to her chest. I let the figurines clank together to remind her I was in the room. She pulled a hanky out of her belt to blow her nose and dab her eyes. “Amy, do I smell Mr. Moberly's meatloaf burning?”

I'd put the meatloaf in the oven twenty minutes earlier. “I better go check.”

Mrs. Clancy called me back. “Would you sing a hymn for this woman's service? I don't expect too many people to attend, and Pearl can be so heavy-handed with the organ. The strumming of a guitar would be quite nice.”

Everyone eats a hot dog at the drive-in,” H said.

“Do you know what they put in those things?”

“Okay, okay. One small popcorn and one small Coke.” H turned toward the concession stand.

“Wait!” I called to him.

“What is it now?”

I tilted my purse and shook loose change into my hand. “You're not paying for the refreshments. You already paid for the admission.”

H rested his arms on the truck's door and heaved a sigh. “You can pay for everything next time. Does that make you happy?” Clearly, H wasn't. I'd taken the whole we're-just-friends thing too far, and now he was hurt. I knew this would happen.

“I'm sorry,” I said.

He shrugged off my apology. “Are you sure you don't want a hot dog? How about some ice cream?”

“Just some popcorn and—”

“I know, a Coke.” And he was gone.

Over the speaker hooked on H's window, the Beach Boys sang about California girls.
Oh brother.
H had convinced me that the Big Chief drive-in was Cordial's hottest cultural event, that summer wasn't complete without at least one night at the drive-in. To be there, I banked on the consistency of Mom's schedule—out at six, back by midnight—which meant skipping the second movie,
Herbie Rides
Again!
I wasn't one bit sorry to miss it. But I was also playing the odds. Two people had required the services of the funeral home that week—a rest home resident with no near relatives and a woman who had come home to be buried by her husband and infant son. Based on the seven weeks I'd been in Cordial, my chances were better than even that no one would die that weekend.

Gravel popped and pinged as drivers doused their headlights to stalk the aisles for the perfect parking spot. As twilight slid into night, kids played on the swings and slide under the screen.

A family—dad, mom, and two small daughters—sat in their station wagon next to H's truck. The younger sister, dressed in her pajamas, climbed over the seat to be with her parents, then returned to the backseat to annoy her sister. “Ruthie, wherever you are when the movie starts, that's where you're sitting.” Her father's warning started the game in earnest. Where would Ruthie be when the movie started? Ruthie wiggled over the seat head first, her feet kicking the air beside her dad's head.

“I can stand on my head, Daddy.”

The mother turned toward the passenger window to stifle a laugh. The dad flipped Ruthie upright and drew her into the crook of his arm. I watched Ruthie's silky curls out of the corner of my eye, waiting for her to restart her game of seat hopping. Ruthie nestled into her dad's chest and stayed put. The scene warmed and pierced me.

From the back of the drive-in, girls screamed and boys yelled, “Fight! A fight!” Dust floated in the beams of headlights, and a crowd gathered. I ran toward the concession stand, stooping under the speaker wires as I ran up and down the parking humps. Inside the cinder-block building, wide-eyed customers turned toward the growing commotion but stayed in line. No H in sight.

Outside, I stood with my back to the concession stand. Two men with flashlights hurried toward a cluster of onlookers and pushed their way into the circle. “That's enough! Go back to your cars!” The onlookers fell away. Three boys plowed punches into a boy on the ground. My heart sank when H's sensible boots flailed to make contact with his attackers. Their taunts continued.

“Boo-hoo, little baby. Did you leave your doggie at home?”

“Go back to fairyland, fag boy!”

The boys stopped mid-punch when the flashlights lit their faces.

“You heard what I said,” the man in a blue vest shouted. “Get back to your cars, Tom! Mark! You don't want me calling your dad, do you, Jim?” The last boy standing over H hesitated, looked down at him and tapped H's shoulder with his fist.

Counting coup?

The thick-necked goon strutted toward the back of the parking area where a welcoming crowd high-fived him into the darkness. The man in the vest offered H a hand up, but H stood on his own. Empty cups and spilled popcorn lay at his feet. When H started to pick up the containers, the man said, “Leave it. I'll get you some more, on the house.”

The lights on the concession stand winked and darkened as the projector rattled from its room on top of the building. From a hundred speakers, the Looney Tunes theme played. H strode toward the exit. I ran to catch him.

“Are you all right?” I asked, trotting to keep up with him. “Who were those guys?”

He walked faster, his head down and turned slightly away.

“Your elbow's bleeding. H, stop and talk to me. Shouldn't we get your truck?”

We walked past the twin box offices. A few stragglers waited as a boy in a cap and T-shirt opened the trunk of his car for the box office attendant. “Well, look what we've got here. That'll be another $1.50, young man.”

As we reached the street, the toe plug of my flip-flops popped loose. “H, can you slow down? I have a shoe problem here.”

He stopped. “This was a really bad idea.” He swiped at his eyes with the sleeves of his T-shirt.

I kept my head down, like putting a flip-flop together required the same concentration as brain surgery. I didn't want to make H feel any worse, but I sure didn't want him bullied by those creeps either. “Those are the guys you want for friends?”

He continued walking. “You don't get it.”

“You've got that right,” I yelled after him. I slid my foot in the flip-flop and quick stepped to catch up with him. “My friends don't throw me to the ground—”

“I was tripped.”

Lauren had lied and stolen for me, but she had never tripped me. “Friends don't trip each other, either.”

H threw his arms up and kept walking.

“H!”

“What?”

“You deserve better.”

“Talking doesn't help.”

That couldn't be true. I'd been the captain of the debate team for
two years. All I needed was one counterexample to disprove the fallacy that silence solved problems. Let's see, although the Gettysburg Address expressed the urgency and divine necessity of a strong union, battle weariness and the collapse of the Southern war machine ended the Civil War at Appomattox. The negotiators at the Paris Peace Talks took months to agree on the shape of the conference table and another five years to end American involvement in the war. And just a couple months earlier, I'd debated for continued American involvement in Vietnam the very week Saigon fell. I lost. My heart wasn't in it.

H and I walked in silence along Main Street and turned on Second Street toward the funeral home. A car shot out of the alley to straddle the sidewalk just feet in front of us. The driver was the thick-necked goon from the drive-in.

H swore.

“Hey, dork face,” the driver called, flicking cigarette ash on H's shoes. “You left before the cartoon. Did Porky Pig scare you?”

I pulled on H's arm. “Come on, H. Let's go.”

H stood his ground.

The power of the boy's car engine rumbled against my chest. His chunky bicep rested on the opened window. It was bigger than my thigh. Too bad. I was the voice of reason in this otherwise Neanderthal match of wits. I took a tentative step toward the car. “Excuse me.”

H held the crook of my elbow. “Amy … don't.”

“It's okay. I can handle this,” I said. “You're Jim, right?”

His passenger, a girl, with smooth blonde hair parted as straight as the Nebraska highway, leaned around the hunk of a boy with mild curiosity. Two tiny barrettes held her hair in place. “His name is Jim, all right,” she said.

“Okay, Jim, you owe my friend an apology.”

The driver's door flew open, and Jim the giant stood glaring down at me. His finger hit my sternum. “Look, bi—”

H pushed against Jim's shoulder and landed a punch to the side of his nose. Jim collapsed to his knees. The girl screamed. Blood oozed between Jim's fingers.

H grabbed my hand. “Run!”

We ran down the hill and cut across a lawn, up a driveway, past a garage, and into another alley. We leaned against the back of a garage. “Where are we going?” I asked.

“As far away as possible.”

My hand ached in H's grip. “You can let go of my hand now.” I kneaded the blood back into my fingers. “What a—”

H stopped me with a raised hand. “Listen,” he whispered. The engine of Jim's car throbbed nearby. “Let's go.” We ran between two houses and crossed a road. H held the strands of a barbed-wire fence as I squeezed through the opening into a field of waist-high hay. We hadn't run very far when an engine revved nearby.

H pushed me to the ground. “Don't move.”

“My feet are killing me,” I whispered.

“Shh.”

We lay there, listening to Jim's car trolling for us down the streets and alleys of Cordial. Lightning flashed over Logan Mountain, but over us the sky was polished ebony, sparkling with stars.

“Do you know how many galaxies there are?” H asked.

“Shouldn't we be quiet?”

“From the sound of the engine, Jim is on Ninth Street. He can't hear us, but I'm impressed that he thinks I can run that far.”

“You're hopeless.”

“No I'm not. I'm full of hope. I hope to travel among those stars
someday, probably driving a huge telescope on top of a mountain instead of a rocket, but I'm cool with that.”

“So you've settled on being an astronomer?”

“I've settled on being anything that will take me away from here.”

“But you're determined to be on the football team just to fit in. That doesn't make sense.”

“It's a man thing. I'm sure you wouldn't understand.”

He was right about that. I didn't understand. We lay in silence for a long while. The stars seemed to multiply as the night deepened. I shivered.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

“No, just remembering a movie I saw about the universe in eighth grade. We weren't even studying space at the time.”

“Maybe your teacher had papers to grade. My American Lit teacher did that all the time. He made us watch
A Raisin in the Sun
and write a paper about it, which I never got back.”

“Nah, I think Mr. Anderson just needed fifty minutes of peace. A group of boys in class made life difficult for him, and he really was a nice man. Probably too nice to teach junior high. For whatever reason he showed the movie, it scared me to death.” I turned toward H. “At the beginning of the movie, the camera is focused on a man's pupil, and then it pulls back to show the man lying on a beach. The beach became a cove, and the cove became Florida, and Florida was nothing but a finger of land on Earth, and then the earth was a blue button hanging in space. I felt like I was being pulled from Earth as the camera flew past the moon and Mars and Jupiter. And then, the solar system became points of light indiscernible from the stars. Other galaxies, like purple and fuchsia cotton candy churned as I whizzed
by. Seeing how small I was in the infinite blackness made my heart pound in my chest. I was never so glad to hear the passing bell ring.”

“That sounds cool,” H said with awe in his voice.

“I sneaked out of the house that night to look at the sky. Even from my backyard, despite the stars and a fingernail moon, the universe seemed empty. It scared me to death. I've never told anyone.”

“You think too much.”

“Maybe. Do
you
believe God made it all, made you and me, that on the edge of this sea of matter there is a loving God who gives a hoot?”

“Sure.”

“Why?”

“Because he said he did. God's no liar.”

We lay there a long time. A shooting star—which H quickly pointed out wasn't a star at all but a meteorite flaming out as it traveled through the atmosphere—flashed across the sky. So much for that romantic notion. A shadowy pair of hawks glided over us.

“Night hawks,” H said. “They mostly eat bugs, so don't look like a moth, whatever you do.” He snorted a laugh at his own joke.

I smiled to myself, and the connection with H warmed me. If he asked me for a kiss, I think I would have given him one. Faster than the idea had come to me, I repressed it. Kiss H?
I don't think
so.
Instead, I asked him, “So how's Sunday school going? Has John cleaned up his act?”

H groaned. “Just when I thought we had us a romantic moment, you have to bring up Sunday school.”

“Let me set you straight on this one. Hiding from a sadistic football player isn't romantic.”

“What? You've got the stars and the sound of rustling hay. What else could you possibly want?”

I thought of Falcon, but I didn't want to hear H cry. It was better to steer the conversation to something neutral, something not related to romance. For neutrality, you couldn't beat a conversation about Sunday school. “Come on, tell me what's going on in Sunday school.”

“If you must know—first of all, it's just me and John. And, you know, he's an okay guy once you get to know him. He's feeling his way around. I think it was his parents who wanted him to be a youth pastor.”

“Which means?”

“We're reading
Jonathan Livingston Seagull.
”

Who hadn't? “So you're studying talking seagulls during the Sunday school hour?”

“Hey, there's some pretty deep stuff in there.”

“Like?”

H spoke with an English accent. “‘The gull sees farthest who flies highest,'” and he snorted again.

“That's deep, all right,” I said, but rewarded H by laughing.

“There isn't one new idea in that stupid book,” he said, “but because a seagull is doing all the talking, the book is selling like hot cakes.”

“Maybe you could write a book about a crime-fighting dog.”