August Moon Read online

  “You’ll like Mrs. Berns. She’s nice.”

  “Yeah, she reminds me of my grandma.”

  “Hm. I wouldn’t go that far. She’s pretty spirited. Just remember that no means no.”

  He blanched. “I would never!”

  “No, I mean tell her that. Sometimes she forgets and gets a little too aggressive. But if you play dead, you’ll be just fine.”

  Weston looked uneasy for a moment, as if he wanted to trade in his capelet for body armor, and then he rallied gamely. “It sounds like tomorrow night will be an adventure. Can I count on seeing you there?”

  I felt a rush of fondness for the man. Anyone who was open to appreciating Mrs. Berns deserved some appreciation in turn. “You betcha. I’ll be covering it for the paper.”

  “Wonderful. Good day.” He did a little cape whisk, like a nebbish Zorro, and disappeared into the sunshine. I spent the rest of my shift cleaning and avoiding Sarah Ruth. Or, she was avoiding me. Either way, we didn’t talk much, and at closing time, the three of us went our separate ways.

  My bike ride home was not nearly as enjoyable as my trip into town. I felt like I was gliding over a dragon’s tongue, down her throat, and into her fiery gullet. My face flushed as my body fought the humid, 103-degree heat shimmering up from the pavement like a mirage. My water bottle was full of tepid liquid, so I just kept my head down and biked as fast as I could. By the time I turned into my driveway, my hair was plastered to my neck and even my toes were sweating. I bypassed the turn off into my house and cruised down to the lake.

  Luna followed, running alongside the bike down the shady driveway, her tongue lolling out the side of her mouth.

  “Last one in is a fried egg!” I jumped off the bike, tires still spinning, shed my flip-flops and plunged into the refreshing water, tank top, jean shorts, and all. I stayed close to the bottom where the lake was a good ten degrees cooler than the top. The water peeled off layers of grit and fatigue, and I popped to the surface a new woman.

  “Whooo!” Luna swam next to me, grinning. “Ever think of trying the breaststroke? That doggie-paddling is getting old.” She just kept smiling and treading water. I waded to shore, found some driftwood, and waded back out to waist-deep water. We played water fetch for a good half an hour, my lower half cool as a cucumber. When both Luna and I were bored and hungry, I walked my bike up to the house, dripping water onto the dusty road.

  I filled Luna and Tiger Pop’s water bowls with fresh water and ice cubes and got food for them and the birds before I traded my rapidly drying clothes for a loose cotton sundress. I scarfed down a bowl of Rice Twice cereal, popped some grapes into my mouth, and set to packing. My plan was to bundle up my winter clothes, my meager decorations, including the photographs on the fridge, my cat-ears lamp, and a few watercolor paintings I’d picked up at a garage sale. I’d scrub out the spare bedroom and the spare bathroom and pile my boxes in the living room. All I’d have left to do before I left town would be to pack up my summer clothes, my toiletries, my spices, my plants, and my pet, and the doublewide would be open to the next lucky occupants.

  I packed and cleaned and managed to not think about how much this doublewide felt like home. Almost. By nine o’clock, I was done. I fixed myself a pickle, provolone, and mustard sandwich on wheat, drank some bottled water, and changed into my sleuthing clothes. The summer version was black china flats, a pair of black linen pants, a black tank top, and my hair in a ponytail held with a black rubber band.

  I slid a flashlight into one pocket and slid the handle of my spider knife over my waistband. The knife was über-perilous and could be flicked open with one quick twitch of your thumb. That cocky accessibility is what made it dangerous, from my end. I had already dropped it on my thigh when I was practicing my “menacing English major” stance on a camping trip and gotten a good gash. Despite my shortcomings as a gangster, I felt safer with the knife.

  My plan was to drive out to Hancock Lake and park my car on the side of the road a half mile from the Golden Pond Road turnoff. There was no public access on Hancock, but it was full of bass so some fishers got around that by putting their boats in at a low spot in the road. It would not be unusual to have a car parked there. From that point, I would walk to where I thought Mrs. Meales’ sister’s house was, sticking to the woods on the uninhabited side of Golden Pond Road. There, I would do a little spying to see if I could catch a glimpse of the sister. If she wasn’t there, I might need to peek in some windows. My heart hammered pleasantly at the thought, and the sensation was a nice alternative to sitting at home, waiting to move, trying not to drink. As the sun set, I hopped into the car and went to meet my destiny.

  Hancock Lake was small and clean and about three miles from New Millennium Bible Camp as the crow flies. I had rarely driven past it, tucked away as it was between County Road 5 running to Clitherall and County Road 6 running from Battle Lake to 94. You couldn’t reach it on a blacktop, which was just as well. The isolation made the area beautiful, I thought, as I parked my car next to some cattails. Golden Pond Road was a one-mile elbow about four city blocks up and on my left, and the only length of Hancock’s shores that was inhabited. The air was dark but not cool, and it smelled heavy and volatile, like gunpowder.

  I strolled past what used to be Hendershot’s Snowmobile Repair. A couple from the Cities had bought the place, and they looked to have a litter of children. I had heard the couple kept to themselves, which was just as well. A walker on a warm summer night was not unusual, but I was a stranger to them, and so they would remember me if someone asked them later. Directly ahead of me, the road T-boned; if you went to the left, you’d end up at Silver Sage Riding Ranch, and if you went to the right, you’d end up at the blacktop that would take you to Inspiration Peak.

  I took the left just before the T and crunched down the gravel of Golden Pond. I smelled grilling meat and crept farther to the uninhabited side of the road. The whole lane was heavily treed. On my left were seven summer cabins and three year-round houses, each sitting back from the road on one to three acres of land. On my right was a slough the size of a small lake, a little sister to Hancock on the other side. A welcome breeze licked at my shorthairs, sending a whisper through the popple trees.

  When I was in front of the driveway to the house I thought Pastor Winter had described, the only year-round house next to the pink house, I crossed the road and melted into the woods skirting the driveway. The moon was bright enough that I could avoid stepping on sticks or rustling through leaves, and my passage was mostly silent. Ahead shone a single light through what I assumed was the kitchen window, based on the high cupboards illuminated inside. This side of the house facing the road looked like a single-story rambler with a two-car garage, but I assumed if I followed the driveway down its steep incline around the side of the house, I’d see it was really a walkout rambler.

  There was no noise except for a distant conversation carrying over the water, an occasional cow mooing from the dairy farm across the lake, and the far-off rumble of cars. I had walked as far as I could without leaving the tree cover, about twenty feet from the house. Now I could either wait it out and see if anyone passed a window inside, or I could scurry up to the house like a summer mouse and peek in the windows. Never a creature of patience, I made to break my cover when I heard heavy footsteps from inside the dwelling.

  I quickly ducked behind a tree and peeped out. The front door swung open, and a female figure stood in the doorway, backlit. A man came behind her, nuzzled her cheek, and took off down the wheelchair ramp and toward me. I concentrated on becoming one with the tree, my face pressed tight enough against the bark to leave a pattern. I dared not move, even to pull my head behind the oak, so when the man walked five feet from me on his way out the driveway, I could see his face clearly. It was Les Pastner, owner of Battle Lake’s Meat and RV, and the local, crazy-as-a-two-headed- coot militia leader.

  I stayed as still as a word on a page when Les passed, and the rustle of wind through
leaves covered my shallow breathing. This was good, because the more I tried to control my breathing, the more impossible it became to get air. My breath was coming out in horsy pants. Les continued down the driveway, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his camo pants, and headed out the way I had just come.

  When I could no longer hear his boots shuffling down the dry road, I took a deep breath and slid down the tree. If Mrs. Meales’ sister was the one I saw so empty but intense at the Creation Science Fair, and if this was her house, what was Les doing here? He had been affectionate with the owner of the house, and I knew for a firsthand fact that he was as well balanced as a triple-scoop ice cream cone based on a few memorable run-ins we had had in July. Did that make her certifiably crazy too?

  I heard a rustle behind me and spun, expecting to see an army of militia men advancing, their beady eyes glowing under greasepaint, glued-on branches sticking out of their shoulders and heads. I didn’t see anything except moonshadows and flitting leaves. It was only a squirrel, I told my cowardly heart. I’m the only person in this forest. I decided that was one person too many. I turned to creep back the way I had come, my plan being to stick deeper into the woods so I didn’t inadvertently run into Les. I made it five whole feet before my ankle was garroted in a whip-hot grip, and I was flung ass to stars, my flashlight falling from my pocket to the warm ground below.

  This booby trap had Les Pastner written all over it. I knew because the sapling the rope had been tied to didn’t have the recoil strength to lift me off the ground and dangle me in the air, like the rope traps you saw in the Tarzan movies or Looney Tunes cartoons. When I had stepped into the circle of rope, releasing whatever contraption had been putting pressure on the tree, it ricocheted upright, yanking my feet out from under and giving me one hell of a rope burn, but otherwise leaving me unharmed with my foot about two feet off the ground. I tried to undo the knot at my ankle with my hands, but it was too tight.

  I was accosted by a surprise party of panic when I couldn’t immediately find my spider knife. Had it gone flying with my flashlight? Was all the circulation getting cut off from my foot? Would I have to gnaw it off and crawl to safety? Then I found the knife, nestled warm and tight between my skin and waistband. I flicked the blade, slid it delicately underneath the ankle noose, and wiggled it until it was facing toward the rope. I sawed slowly, hyper-aware of the razor edge of the blade and the fact that I was a sitting duck if Les heard my tussling and returned. I panted anxiously, feeling my heart beat rapidly against the tourniquet on my ankle. My knife cut through the rope like it was shredded wheat, and I massaged around the hot and raw skin underneath, listening for any movement around me. The woods were quiet. On a whim, I used the rope to pull the sapling toward me, cut the rope off at the tree end, too, and threw the fifteen-foot line over my shoulder. Better Les think he had misplaced his booby trap than know someone had been caught in it.

  I limped back to my car, the journey taking twice as long because I couldn’t use the road or put all my weight on my left ankle. I didn’t spot Les, and I sincerely hoped he didn’t see me. Once in my Toyota, I breathed out the jittery weight of a near catastrophe. I was a weird mix of angry and relieved—mad because I had walked into a trap like a dumbass, and thankful because I had gotten out. As I drove home, I wondered who the trap had been set for. Les was well-known for his militia ways; had he indoctrinated his girlfriend into the lifestyle? And was his girlfriend Sissy, Naomi Meales’ sister? I wasn’t any wiser for my trip. In fact, my spying goal had been completely thwarted, and more mystery laid on top of it.

  At the home front, I tossed the rope into a shed, watered my “I think I can, I think I can” vegetable garden, dumped fresh ice cubes in Luna and Tiger Pop’s water dishes, and fell across my bed, still wearing my spy clothes. I sat up long enough to point the fan on my face to keep the hot air circulating, and I dropped into a restless sleep. It was peppered by dreams of floods, locusts, and Winnebagos driven by lasciviously grinning pork links.

  ___

  Saturday announced itself bright and hot as a klieg light. Tonight was the August Moon Festival, and I had a lot to accomplish before then. Sane or not, the Meale family had become my new obsession, replacing mourning and drinking and moping. They had marginalized my library and my friends, and had some crazy business going on at the New Millennium Bible Camp, and I didn’t want to leave the town in their hands. Where had they come from? Why had they left that place? Was that truly Naomi Meales’ sister living out on Hancock Lake, and was she the same woman I had seen at the Creation Science Fair? If so, what was the connection between her, Les, and the crazy Jesus warriors I had seen at the New Millennium? Between some Internet searching and a friendly visit to the Senior Sunset, I was confident I could pick up some leads.

  I had an unsavory task on my list, as well. I was going to talk to Sarah Ruth and squish whatever bad vibe had developed between us. That would require an open and honest discussion, which wasn’t my forte, but I would do it for the sake of the library.

  No biking for me today. It was too much work and my ankle was still sore from the rope burn. I was in the library by eight a.m. and in front of the computer. I started by Googling “Pastor Robert Meale.” The first hit was the New Millennium Bible Camp’s home page. It was a stylish page that made the camp look like a fun summer getaway for God-lovin’ kids. On its pages, groups of teens canoed on Spitzer Lake, splashing each other with paddles and laughing. They also held hands around a campfire, singing, I had to believe, “Kumbaya.” There was even a photograph of the outdoor pulpit and horseshoe seating down by the lake, but it wasn’t underwater. In fact, the lake didn’t start until several feet behind the setup in the photo. That was an oddity. Battle Lake hadn’t had a drier summer than this in half a century, and the pulpit was currently in at least six inches of lake. Had the scene been Photoshopped to make the camp look more appealing?

  I scoured the site for any other strange photos, or some indication that the camp was training Jesus’ warriors for the Apocalypse, but found nothing other than a short bio on Robert Meale. It said he had graduated from the Wisconsin Lutheran Seminary and found a home at the Our Father Lutheran Church in Statesboro, Georgia, before heeding God’s direction to start Christ’s Church of the Apocryphal Revelation outside of Clitherall the previous year.

  That he had begun as a Lutheran surprised me. I tracked down the Wisconsin Lutheran Seminary site. On the seminary’s home page, I chose the “Graduates” link, and opened up all the graduating class links starting with 1970. If Pastor Meale was around fifty or fifty-five, as I guessed, that would be around when he’d graduated. Each year’s link offered a grainy, black-and-white buffet of mustachioed white men in wide-collared suits. If I had a nickel for every thread of polyester on those men’s backs, I could buy a small island.

  I was getting bored by the time I got to the class of 1977, but I dutifully ran my fingers over the names on my screen until, voila! Robert Meale. The gray shades of the photo were unable to hide the odd mix of arrogance in his smile and insecurity in his eyes, protected behind his enormous, shop-teacher glasses, the ones he still wore today. I eyeballed the rest of the graduates, seeing only about three guys I’d trust my cat with on a long weekend, let alone my immortal soul. I was about to click out when my vision snagged on the last man on the yearbook page. His eyes were friendly, and familiar. Harvey Winter, current pastor of Nordland Lutheran in Battle Lake, Minnesota.

  I bit my lip, trying to recall our conversation word for word. Pastor Winter had been generous in his assessment of the Meales, and when I had asked if he had met them, he had said that they had introduced themselves when they first came to town. I had to give Pastor Winter props. Not only had he graduated from Wisconsin Lutheran Seminary, he had also apparently graduated from the Mira James School of Non-lying Half-truths. I didn’t know where the connection between Pastor Winter and Pastor Meale fit, but it stunk like fish guts.

  I exited the Seminary page and Google
d “Statesboro Georgia newspaper.” The Herald appeared. Their webpage was standard newspaper layout except for the “Worship” and “Worship Directory” links at the bottom. Since when had church become news? Both those links led to recent information and had no mention of Meale. I went into the news archives and searched his name. Still nothing, except for a mention of a missionary trip to Mozambique he headed in 1985. I was losing hope and grabbed for a piece of printer paper and stubby library pencil. Sometimes distracting myself with doodling allowed an idea to escape past my common sense filter.

  The air conditioner whirred, and I felt an icy draft hit my bare calves. This inspired me to sketch a picture of a cow grazing in a field, twin calves at her side. I drew cartoonish daisies and some sprigs of grass around them. All my drawings featured big oak trees that looked more like sloppy broccoli, and this picture was no exception. I was itching for crayons and so hopped off my swiveling stool, grabbed some from the children’s section of the library, and returned to color the grass green, the cows black and white, and the daisies yellow. I used the brown crayon to color in the trunk of the tree and add a fence around the field, enjoying the warm and waxy scent of Crayolas. Behind the fence, I drew a road, and on it was a pickup truck barreling toward the field. It was going to make the cows leave. Why would someone want the cows to leave?

  Duh. Of course. Leaving. Why had the Meales left Statesboro? Robert Meale had started there immediately out of the seminary and appeared to have stayed for well over two decades, according to his bio. I returned to The Herald web page, my heart skipping with anticipation. I checked the archives for local news from June, which is approximately when the Meales had moved out of Georgia, give or take a couple months. I found little of interest. I then checked the July archives, and was disappointed to find that a local $3 million lottery winner named Judah Nelson was the biggest news. I was about to give up when the August archives offered me a headline to make my heart freeze like a power line in a January sleet storm.