Jess Lourey - October Fest

“That’s better, but it still doesn’t get you in.”

I turned the knob and stepped inside.

“ That’ll get you in,” she said. And next to her, on her double GoldenRest Adjustable bed, was the Fergus Falls Register reporter with the soup-strainer mustache who’d sneered at me in the big tent earlier today. Small world. He didn’t stand at my entrance, and Mrs. Berns didn’t introduce him.

“I need to talk to you.”

“I presume you do,” she said, employing a slight British accent to mock my serious tone.

“It’s really important.”

She dropped the accent. “It’s not about Johnny?”

“Well…”

“Ach.” She turned to the man lounging on her bed. “Bernard, I need to talk to Mira. Shouldn’t take more’n a minute.”

I stepped to the side so he could exit and leave us to our conversation, but he just loafed deeper into the bed, cranking the sound on the Discovery Channel, which was airing a show about the ancient mysteries of the Maya.

“I’ll take a cherry cola while you’re out,” he said. “Not the barbaric kind. Thanks.”

I wrinkled my nose at Mrs. Berns, but she shooed me out without making eye contact. In the hall, I asked, “Since when do you let someone kick you out of your own room? And what exactly is ‘barbaric’ soda?” That’s when I noticed that she was wearing creepily traditional grandmother clothes: a Branson T-shirt sent to her by one of her kids which she’d used as a dust rag until recently, elastic-waisted slacks sans her low-slung holster, and fuzzy slippers. She looked, well, old.

“He means ‘generic,’ and I needed to go to the cafeteria, anyways,” she said.

“Stop.” I grabbed her hand and rotated her toward me. “I’m sorry I haven’t been visiting regularly the last couple weeks. I’ve dropped the ball. I miss you. Now what is up with these clothes and that guy?”

The uncensored Mrs. Berns broke through the grandma garments. “You didn’t drop nuthin’, and frankly, I haven’t missed that mopey need-to-get-laid look in your eyes. I’ve got to appear professional for a little while, is all.”

“Why?”

“Can’t tell you.”

“Is it because your son is around? Johnny told me.”

“He’s a girl for gossiping. And it’s none of your business.”

I knit my brows. “Since when?”

“Since you should be busy worrying about whether or not you need to shave your legs for tonight.” She cackled at the expression on my face.

I didn’t want to get off topic that easily, but there was no point in pretending I wasn’t outgunned. I sighed. “Do I?”

“When it comes to being ready for lovin’, I think the Boy Scouts got it right: always be prepared.”

“I don’t think that’s what they were referring to.”

“Nevertheless.”

I crossed my arms. “You’re not going to tell me anything more, are you?”

She changed the subject as gracefully as a fish flew. “Nice T-shirt. Is that new?”

“Thank you, and no.” I blew out angry and drew in happy. It sounded like an asthma attack. “When’re you coming back to the library?”

“Don’t know that I am. Come here. I’ve got something to show you.” She detoured into the Sunset’s communications center, which she’d raised local money to outfit. It housed three desktop computers with word processing, scrapbooking, and desktop publishing software on each, plus a color printer, a fax, a scanner, and a copier. She’d talked me and a handful of others into teaching basic classes on using e-mail and “spoofing the net” as she called it, and now most of the residents were more computer-proficient than me.

All three work stations were empty, so she plopped into the nearest chair and pulled me next to her. Clickety-clack, and she pointed proudly at the screen.

“What am I looking at?” I asked.

“My registration. Check out the evidence of Alexandria Technical College’s newest student.”

“Johnny mentioned that. Good for you!”

“Jesus, he’s weak. You sure you wouldn’t rather sleep with a real man? Whoops, didn’t mean to give anything away. Anyhow, I’m going to earn a degree in Fashion Management. The college started an Elder School this fall, and they offer new online classes every four weeks. I could have my degree within a year.”

I leaned in closer to the screen and squinted to read the tiny black words. “You’re registered for one class, and it’s Human Sexuality. How does that connect to Fashion Management?”

“Only elective available this late in the game. Class starts Monday.”

I curled my lip doubtfully. “What could they possibly teach you that you don’t already know?”

She clicked again, and the syllabus popped up. “Looks like we’ll be discussing our genitalia, sexual scripts whatever the moon those are, something called fellatio”-she pronounced it with a hard “t,” no pun intended-“sexual positions…”

“Stop!” I had a lifetime membership in the club of girls who chose to believe Olivia Newton John’s “Let’s Get Physical” was about the benefits of aerobic workouts. I liked having sex; I just didn’t like talking about it. “I get the picture.”

“Besides, it’ll be a great way to expand my horizons, get to know people on a new social landscape.”

“That’s not a social landscape, that’s a mattress with textbooks,” I said, and then caught myself. I believed in the power of education. Plus, I did not want to witness her in granny pants again. What better way to kickstart the old Mrs. Berns than by putting her in an environment where she could, nay, where she’d be required to talk about copulation and hang out with young people? She’d have her own religion started before midterm. “I think it’s wonderful. I’m proud of you.”

“Don’t patronize me,” she said. “And what chickenshit Johnny Leeson question do you have, anyhow?”

She jarred me back to the dilemma that had brought me. She’d already admitted to making him send the invitation, so I cut to the chase. “Why did Johnny let you talk him into the invitation? He’s usually much more sensible. What does he want?”

“Holy Mary, girl, do you want to audit the class? I’m sure they have diagrams.”

I blushed, my head spinning from her runaround. “So that’s it? He just wants to get in my pants?”

“Ah, no, he’s too nice a boy for that, dangit. You’ll have to go yourself to find out what it is he’s after.”

“A hint?”

“Look to the boy scouts.”

Rich words of wisdom from my love mentor, the woman who saw more action in her eighties than I’d seen in my entire thirty years on the planet. I squelched the urge to pinch her and instead gave her a hug.

My workday passed quickly but not particularly pleasantly as I ran through all the potential scenarios for the evening. I could bail, and Johnny would never want to see me again. I could go to the motel, and Johnny would never want to see me again. Or, he wasn’t who I thought he was at all and had some weird night of sex in mind. Or I did know him and he was going to ask for a commitment from me, some sort of official categorizing of our relationship. Agh. None of the options were good. I was so wound up when I closed the library and pulled into my driveway that even the sight of Luna bounding out to greet me didn’t cheer me up. Nor did the saucy disdain directed at me by calico cat, Tiger Pop.

“Hi, babies,” I said, climbing out of the car. The fall air was brisk but not frosty, saturated with the earthy smell of leaves turning and far off, someone burning wood. I clutched my jacket tighter, staring down the sloping, brown front lawn to the big red barn and fenced pasture that used to hold horses when Sunny lived here as a child. On the other side was the sparkling blue-gray of Whiskey Lake. This spot was idyllic, the house and outbuildings nestled amongst wild acres of golden-grassed prairie, rolling hills, and hardwood forests. Except for the smell of wood smoke, I could have been the only person in the universe. I dragged in a deep breath, momentarily refreshed.