Early Summer, page 4
There she goes again. From hot weather worries to immediate death from cluttered bedrooms. I often wondered if my mother was the source of my anxiety. Many times she would make dire predictions of normal childhood activities. You will break your neck if you fall off the monkey bars—so no monkey bars. Candy will give you diabetes—so no trick-or-treating. You could drown—so no swimming. Fortunately, Dad tempered her worries, so we were able to do most of the normal kid things. But those little worries still niggled at the back of my mind.
“I thought you were going to teach me how to make pasta,” I said, though I had planned this day to get onto the dark web. People made it sound so scary, but there were lots of sites out there that said it was okay, especially if you were just reading other posts. I needed some place to find more information about the missing girls. That would be the place. Helene Denny would just be an anonymous onlooker.
“Yes, I want to make pasta,” Mom said. “After lunch we’ll go to Larry’s and buy that pasta maker. But, I want to tidy the house this morning.”
With our house clean, we drove to the hardware store. Mom was excited to use the gift card Grandpa had given her for Christmas.
The door jingled when we entered the bright store. Strips of florescent lights fit between the rows of metal framing the ceiling. I covered my nose from the strong paint and oil smells. Larry stood at the register handing change back to a customer.
When Larry bought the store five years ago, I had not figured him to be a hardware store owner. Thick gel held his black hair in place, his shirts and pants were fastidiously clean and pressed, and cologne seemed to emanate from his pores. A car salesman, yes; hardware man, no.
“Hey, Denny fam, what’s up?” His cologne added to the noxious odors.
Mom approached Larry and asked, “Do you still have those pasta makers in stock?”
“Yeah, they’re right here.” We followed him to aisle eight. “Helene, when are you going to apply for a job here? We’re really short staffed.” He smiled, his teeth unnaturally white.
“That’s terrible,” Mom said. “Helene, this would be a great place to work.”
I stifled a groan. Hardware store? The varnish fumes would kill me. “I’m pretty busy with school and filling out scholarship applications.”
Mom snorted. “Right.”
Larry picked up the box. “Is this the one?”
“Is it on sale?”
“For you, yes.” He walked toward the front of the store. “Connie’s quite the basketball player, isn’t she? Fourth grade but she already has the moves of a college player. I’d keep an eye on her if I were you.”
Mom smiled politely. “Larry, we’re not those kind of parents who force their kids to practice all the time and join club teams just so they get college scholarships. Connie enjoys basketball but doesn’t love it.”
Forks of jealousy poked me. With her brains alone, Connie would probably get a free ride to college, but now people were talking about her basketball skills. Why would I feel so envious if I didn’t even want to go to college?
“Helene?” Larry’s voice cut in. “Where are you going to school?”
I shrugged. “Maybe Ripon. I’m not sure.” I reached in my jacket pocket and grabbed a Tums and quickly popped it into my mouth.
“You Denny girls are both beautiful and smart, like your mother. You can do anything you want.”
Right. Then why can’t I fly out to Hollywood and become an actor? Why couldn’t I apply to work for the FBI without a college degree?
With the pasta maker cleaned and fastened to a kitchen counter, we began making the dough. The flour went in first with the salt, then we created a well in the center for the eggs and olive oil. I was breaking up the eggs when I said, “We’re not even Italian, how did you learn to do this?”
Mom laughed, “Helene, you can learn anything from YouTube.”
“Mom, you and Dad are rarely on the computer or your phones.”
She winked, “You’re right. Way back when, Mrs. Marpula taught us one Saturday at church. We were going to make our own noodles for the spaghetti dinner the next day.”
“That must have been a lot of pasta.”
“Sure was. We even made enough for us to take some home. You would not stop eating those noodles. Of course, that was after I boiled them and coated them with butter.”
Connie crept into the kitchen holding something behind her back. “I know something that will get Helene in heaps of trouble.”
“Get back upstairs and clean your room,” Mom said.
“It’s clean. I went into Helene’s room and…”
I dropped the ball of dough into the stainless bowl. “What were you doing in my bedroom?”
“I was returning your book when I discovered something. Mom and Dad won’t be happy. Bye!” She scurried out the back door. I followed her out into the bright sunshine and squinted as I watched her throw a folder, my serial killer folder, into the air, all my research flying. Goodbye paper trail, hello dark web.
One of the papers floated downin front of Mom’s feet. She picked it up. “Helene, explain.”
It was my Fred Thompkins flow chart. Arrogant. Loner. Serial killer.
Mom ripped it up. “The only reason you haven’t been in to see Doctor Deborah is she’s scheduling out into March. I might call back to put you on an emergency list.”
She sighed. My parents had always said they would take a child with a disability, but sometimes I think they regretted having a daughter with anxiety.
I looked over at smug Connie, the feeling of violation strong. First Connie went into my room and pried through my secret stash, then Mom ripped it up as if it was a piece of trash. So much for our special moment together. It always seemed as if someone or something tried to ruin my happiness.
“Connie, I hate you so much! I wish Fred Thompkins was a serial killer and…”
“Helene!” Mom shouted above my voice. “Go to your room. Now!”
“I’m almost eighteen. Really, my room?”
“Oh, you’re too old to be disciplined, huh? Then maybe you should move out.”
I was pushing it when I asked, “Is that even legal? If so, then I’ll fly out to Hollywood. Once I’m famous you’ll never see me again.”
“Yes we will if you’re in movies.” Connie and her common sense.
“Girls.” Mom slowly closed her eyes. “Just get lost, for now, not forever.” Mom was a bit superstitious. Telling her child to get lost meant something bad and permanent was going to happen. Adding, “not forever,” was her way of preventing it.
“Can I go for a drive?”
“Nope. You’re too angry.” She looked up at me, unsure and maybe a bit apologetic. “Could we go back to making pasta? I need some peace.” She scratched her eyebrow.
We went back to the kitchen and pushed the rolled-out dough through the machine to produce noodles on the other end. After an hour or so, the kitchen was filled with ropes draping like snakes on broom handles and yardsticks. I imagined we were living in an Italian countryside. Our nerves calmed. Connie called the noodles Peace Pasta. We joked. We laughed. For a while my anxious thoughts were far away when our doorbell rang.
Connie ran to open the door. We followed, our aprons full of flour, to see Larry, holding some papers.
“Hey, I forgot to give you the rebate forms. You’ll get another five dollars if you fill this out online.” His bright teeth shined at Connie.
She stepped away.
Mom took the papers. “How thoughtful you are, Larry. You probably spent five dollars in gas just to drive out here.”
“No bother at all. I needed a break! Hey, Connie, you’re quite the basketball star.”
She shrugged.
“Do you think you’ll play in college?”
How come that word had the power to increase my pulse rate?
“I’m not going to college,” she said. “I’m going to follow Helene’s footsteps and become an actor.”
Mom looked at me then rolled her eyes.
Larry stepped into the house, uninvited. “I see you have flour everywhere. Do you mind if I check out your pasta maker and take some pictures to post on our Facebook page? You’re the only ones who bought the machine. Maybe if people see how it works, they’ll come and buy one.”
He stuck around for a half hour. It was hard to concentrate on our pasta when he kept asking questions. When Dad arrived from work, Larry took it as his cue to leave.
I figured Larry was lonely.
When the front door shut behind him, Connie said, “He wears too much cologne.”
Six
We were eating dinner one night when I broached a topic different from serial killers and college. I was sure my parents would approve, so I asked, “Dad, my current events teacher suggested we attend a city council or fair board meeting. Since you’re on the fair board, can I go with you to a meeting?”
“Yeah, they’re open to the public.”
“Are they boring?”
“Makes D.C. politics look like a tea party. This next meeting we’ll be discussing buildings and ticket prices.”
Sounded riveting.
The following week Dad and I drove to the county fairgrounds. Mom’s early summer had faded, and when we entered the Tenable Building, February’s fingers gripped me. It was an unheated cinder block structure named after the people who donated the property. In the summer the building was used for livestock auctions. I shivered and lifted my scarf over my nose to escape the stench of animals. Most people assumed that since I lived on a dairy farm, I was used to all the odors that came with it. Wrong. That was one of the reasons I planned to move away from farming.
A ten-foot table, covered with a red and white checked cloth, stood at one end of the wall. I recognized most of the adults there except for a young man and woman who looked not much older than me. Wayne Sherwood, president of the fair board, sat in what I called the “throne chair.” Dad’s chair was at his left and Mr. Heckert was to Dad’s left. On Wayne’s right sat Beverly Carlisle.
My teacher, Mr. Herman, who was also the fourth-grade girls’ basketball coach, sat on the other side of the building. I signed the attendance sheet fastened on a clipboard. He looked more like a mannequin in a history museum than a twenty-first century current events teacher. Without fail, he wore a camel-colored vest over a yellowed shirt. His round metal glasses were so thick they almost looked opaque. His thinning brown hair rested neatly on either side of his middle part.
He looked like the classic Hollywood serial killer—nerdy, but not every man I encountered became a suspect. There was no logic to my reasoning. Any person could be a serial killer. Mr. Herman just didn’t feel like one to me.
“Make sure you stay for the entire time and take notes. I will ask questions tomorrow. If you don’t, I’ll dock your grade.” He sniffled and swiped his red nose with a tissue. Mr. Herman suffered from year-long allergies.
“I thought this was extra credit.”
“If you and your friend over there,” he pointed to Sam at the other corner, “hadn’t decided to attend, I wouldn’t have to be here. So, yes, I’ll still dock points off.”
I needed to look deeper into Mr. Herman’s background. It was his idea that students attended the meetings. Maybe he had a sinister reason—meeting us after, then doing us in.
But currently the four missing girls were all from Minnesota. He, however, was the fourth-grade basketball coach. Fourth-graders were about the same age as the kidnapped girls. Back and forth my mind went. Mr. Herman was guilty. Mr. Herman wasn’t guilty.
What induced me to come here in the first place? Oh yeah, Sam. She needed the extra credit but whined about having to go alone. Trying to get my mind off college and serial killers, I agreed to attend. So much for not thinking about the latter.
“Thank you, Mr. Herman.” I smiled weakly heading toward Sam.
Mr. Herman piped up, “No classmates together. This is work not play.”
I found an empty seat near the front surrounded by old people.
A door behind the table squeaked opened, and Mr. Fred Thompkins, our new mayor, sauntered in, waving as if he was in a parade.
His election shocked the city of Rhodes. First, there were claims he had only been in the city for a few months. He brought forth paperwork that he was living in the Rhodes Apartments for a year. Other people wondered if he had filed all the paperwork. He had that information, too.
To me, it all made Fred Thompkins a dangerous man.
Did he just come from a killing?
Stop it, Helene. Concentrate.
Why is he wearing a three-piece suit?
My phone buzzed.
How many extra points do you think we’ll get? Sam texted.
None if we don’t pay attention.
I stared at my phone waiting for a response, then looked up to see Mr. Herman shaking his head.
Fred gave my father the “You’re in my seat” glare. Dad stared back but lost the contest. He stood up and moved to Mr. Heckert’s other side.
Wayne Sherwood, the board president, spoke into a microphone. “Let’s get this meeting started.”
For hours, it seemed, I doodled as they bickered over ticket prices, what bands to hire, and what to do with the old pig barn. There were kids dying from suicide. Bullies and war everywhere. Homelessness. Opioid deaths. Not to mention serial killers. And we were in this smelly building discussing the condition of a pig barn?
“That edifice has been a part of the Awape Fair since its inception!” Mr. Heckert stood up and held the strap of his bib coveralls like a great politician holding his suit lapel. He was a pig farmer, so I guessed he had a special affection for all things swine. “History has been made and more history will be made in that structure.”
He made it sound like the Lincoln Memorial. That prompted me to draw a pig with a beard. I called it Abraham Pig. “A barn divided against itself cannot stand,” Abraham Pig quoted in a speech bubble. I giggled.
My phone buzzed again.What’s so funny?
Abraham Pig.
Who would think a stupid barn would cause so much trouble?
“It’s history,” Mr. Heckert’s voice ripped through the room. “That building was forged from trees that were probably thousands of years old. Now we just want to demolish it?”
“Daniel, it’s rotting on the north side,” Wayne replied. “It’s a regular liability if it caves in during the fair.”
“Let’s replace the wood,” Dad suggested. “This would be the seventh building we’ve torn down in the last two years. We keep raising ticket prices to cover our costs. Let’s fix instead of replacing.”
I drew more pigs as more comments flew back and forth, but resolution evaded the members. After what felt like hours, they tabled the swine building discussion until the next meeting. In the meantime, Dad would look into the cost of replacing the wood and report back.
“Please welcome our new mayor.” Wayne shouted above the din.
Fred stood up. It was already 10:25. The meeting usually ended at ten. People were studying their phones or watches. “Well, well, lots of discussions about money. Ain’t a whole lot of it out there, you know, with the economy the way it is. Wayne and I have been exploring different ways to make this the best fair in Wisconsin.”
Mr. Heckert popped up. “It’s the best fair in the state, best fair in the country, if you ask me.” The bib on his overalls was missing its right brass button, leaving the unsecured fabric to flap back and forth as he spoke. Now I understood why he was holding it up earlier.
“But attendance has been dwindling,” Fred replied.
I went from drawing pigs to nooses, guillotines, and the Grim Reaper. Under the image I wrote, “Fred Thompkins.” This would go in the trash before Mom ever got ahold of it. I managed to catch the occasional comment shooting back and forth.
It was Beverly’s turn to stand. Her contralto voice rose strong and loud as if giving a commencement address. “It’s because of those damn cellphones everyone is in love with. Last year, kids kept bumping into me because they couldn’t put down their phones.” She spoke as if all the world’s problems stemmed from technology.
Buzz.
They bumped into you because you’re too busy talking to notice anyone around you.
I responded, Be nice.
I set the phone down on my lap.
Fred glowered at me. “Beverly, I understand your concern with kids and cellphones,” he turned toward her, “but they aren’t the devil’s work.”
“They certainly ain’t from the angels.” Beverly had to have the last word. Her hands rested on her hips.
Buzz.
Let’s end this meeting, now.
I smiled until I looked back at my Grim Reaper. I never considered myself artistic, but I had captured Fred’s likeness.
Wayne stood up. “There’s no easy way to approach this topic, so I’ll get right to it. All the other fairs in Wisconsin and other states offer beer.”
“I know where you’re heading. You want to desecrate the Awape County Fair with the sins of man! Next year you’ll want girlie shows, and then who knows what? You won’t get my vote.” Beverly’s arms flailed so hard she looked ready to fly and crash out of the ceiling.
Buzz.
What are girlie shows?
Google it.
For some strange reason, Fred faced me when he said, “No need to bring your religion into this, Mrs. Carlisle.”
I flipped my notebook over. Maybe he could see himself.
“Ain’t bringing in anything. Alcohol destroys people, families, entire communities.” It was another stirring speech in the county fair building. Did these people think of anything else besides the fair?
