Jess Lourey - October Fest

I didn’t know where to go after I left Kenya, so I returned to work, craving a drink more than I had since I’d quit in September. It was a physical pain, a heartache that could only be cauterized by the hot sear of liquor gliding down my throat. Watching Kenya cry, I’d been reminded of my sad, sixteen-year-old self the day I’d found out my dad had died in the car accident. My first reaction had been shock, a term that doesn’t do justice to the feeling that all of you has been shrunk to the size of an eye, with no body to hold, no legs to run away on, the world a wild spinning place, dangerous to a tiny, wet eye. All you can do is see without comprehending and remain in constant motion to stay safe.

My shock wore off before my mom’s, and I spent the next few days sitting by her bedside as people came and went with casseroles and murmured sympathy. I don’t remember crying. I recalled guilt over my relief, but no tears. I’d seen that same shock in Kenya, and while she had the humanity to sob in the face of her mother’s death, I’d also spied a flash of relief in her eyes, and I understood. I hoped she would go easier on herself than I had.

I steered past the library and all the way to the south end of town, pulling into the Municipal Liquor Store parking lot. Nobody needed to know I’d had a drink. Actually, who would care? I was an adult. I’d only be letting myself down. Stepping out of my car, I wondered whether I should be civilized and buy a bottle of red wine, or be honest and buy vodka. I chose the vodka. I almost didn’t stop at the library on my way back. Mrs. Berns knew how to close up and could do fine on her own. The vodka, on the other hand, needed me.

The yellow brick called to me as I passed, though, and reminded me that I didn’t know whether or not Mrs. Berns had actually made it in. The vodka could wait ten minutes. I twitched into the parking lot and pulled into my Reserved for Librarian space. Walking toward the library entrance, I counted six cars in the paved lot, two of them minivans. Outside, the potentilla shrubs clung to a last bit of color, but I’d need to trim them and clean the cigarette butts from the rock garden before the first snows hit. There’d be time.

A feeling of utter relaxation seeped into my bones. I knew how I’d be spending tonight, and it felt good. Just had to make sure the library was in capable hands, and I’d go home and check out for the night.

“You get laid?”

“What?”

Mrs. Berns was sitting on a rolling chair in the center of the library with her cast propped in front of her on another chair. She was painting her free toenails a hot pink. “I asked if you’d gotten some action. You’ve got a goofy look on your face, and you either got laid or you’re…” Her eyes sharpened. “Go get it.”

“Get what?” I’d already started backing toward the door.

“The bottle.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” That was the wrong answer. I always knew what she was talking about, even if I didn’t want to, and Mrs. Berns was fully aware of that fact.

“You’re going to make a crippled old lady get off this chair and fight you for a bottle of wine?”

“Vodka.”

“That bad, huh?”

“How’d you get here anyhow?”

“Well, I can tell you for sure that gravity didn’t lend a hand.” She capped the bottle of polish and blew on her toenails. “I’m trying out this color for my wedding. What do you think?”

“Looks fine.”

“From there, yeah, but come close so you can see it from my perspective.”

I strode over and peered at her toes. “A little bright, but nice.”

Smack . She whacked me across the top of the head.

“What’d you do that for?” She’d hit the same spot I’d bonked on the underside of the table when trying to spy on Wohnt and Glokkmann.

“Because you’re a dumbass. Things get tough and you go back to drinking? I never understood why you were giving it up in the first place, but since it was your choice, you’d think you’d have a little more backbone about it.”

I rubbed my head. “Sarah Glokkmann killed herself this morning.”

“I know.”

“Her daughter looked crushed.”

“You’d expect that.”

My eyes felt hot. “It’s just a lot to process, you know? That’s two deaths and a suicide this week alone. And now, there’s a girl without a mother.”

She squinted at me. “That must be tough, losing a parent.”

“Yeah.” The heat in my eyes was turning wet.

“Probably make somebody a big baby forever.”

“Most likely.”

“Come here.” And she pulled me to her and held what parts of me she could reach in a surprisingly tight hug, squeezing more tears out of me than I knew I possessed. She patted while she held me and didn’t let up until the tears stopped. “Are you better?”

“Yes.” I didn’t want her to let go. Up close, she smelled like old-fashioned lipstick and fresh bread.

“Then get off of me. Hey, Harold!”

I glanced behind to see an uncomfortable-looking Harry Lohwese trying to sneak out of the library.

“Don’t worry,” Mrs. Berns said. “The crying isn’t contagious. Mira here just found out she’s allergic to vodka, right after she bought a bottle. Do us a favor and take it off her hands. It’s the brown Toyota out there, doors are open.”

He nodded happily and walked out. I took advantage of the break to blow a pound of snot out of my nose. “Thanks.”

“You want to thank me, you find the killer.”

“Done. Glokkmann confessed to it in her suicide note. Bernard didn’t come tell you?”

She appeared momentarily flustered but covered well. “He’s his own man, not p-whipped like your Johnny. So, the representative killed the bobber after all.”

“Blogger.”

“Gesundheit.”

I sighed. “Thank you. Can I ask you something? I haven’t gotten a chance to ask Bernard, but what did he do to land in jail in the first place?”

“Bar fights, mostly, with a few DWIs thrown in for flavor. He’s got a temper on him when he drinks.”

I considered the police blotter I’d uncovered and his rude outburst at the motel today. It wasn’t just when he drank. “He drink around you?”

“Not often.”

“He’s doesn’t deserve you.” I reached into my purse and fished out the print-outs from the Daily Register. “He’s got problems.”

She scanned the paper. “You think I don’t know all about this?”

“Do you?”

Her shoulders drooped. “Well, not this exactly, but I’m not blind to his issues.” She sighed and looked me in the eye. “Fine. I didn’t tell you the whole story. We’ve got a business arrangement, Bernard and I. The plan is that he and I party together for a few weeks, get married, and Conrad loses interest in having me declared mentally incompetent. Then, Bernard and I get divorced, I pay him $5,000, and I never see him again.”

I whistled through my teeth. “So why Bernard?”

“That’s all I had time for. He and I first met in the gas station, like I told you, and we had a couple weeks of fun. Then Conrad shows up, and I have to quick-like unearth a fiancé. Bernard was convenient. He’s got poor character, it’s true, but that makes him easier to bribe and it means he knows how to keep a secret. The bobber’s death almost ruined it all, but it looks like that’s been cleared up, too.”

“I never did get a chance to ask Bernard why he and Webber didn’t get along.”

“Professional rivalry, near as I can tell. It’s just that when you’re on probation for an assault charge, and the man you’d happened to publicly threaten at a certain small-town beer festival shows up dead the next day, you like to cover your tracks.” Her toenails dry, she pulled on her sock and tennis shoe.