Knee High by the 4th of July (2 page)

I parked my car in the “Librarian’s Spot” behind the library and hoofed it the half block to the Chamber of Commerce office for the final planning meeting. The sun beat down on my dark hair like a blow torch, and I wondered if blondes stayed cooler in the summer. By the time I got to the Chamber, sweat droplets were tickling my lower back and gathering in the spot where my cleavage would be if there was any fairness in this world. As it was, the sweat trickled to my belly button, unimpeded by my A-cups.

The gathering was scheduled to last from eight to ten, but I would need to ditch a little early to open the library on time. The Chamber of Commerce shared a squat, one-story brick building with the post office. The main room was designed to hold up to forty people for town meetings, and today, it was full to bursting. I shook my head, amazed that so many townspeople had a stake in the events of Wenonga Days, twenty-fifth anniversary or not. Didn’t everyone know the planning wasn’t for real? A loud but calm female voice broke through the din.

“I understand that. I’m just saying that to dedicate a town and a weekend to celebrating the objectification and stereotyping of a whole race of people is a blatant exercise of hegemonic privilege, no matter how much business it brings to Battle Lake.”

The people in the crowded room murmured their affront, both at the content and length of her words. I couldn’t see the speaker, and I didn’t recognize her voice. It had a strange lilt, like she was singing the middle of the sentences. I elbowed closer to get her in view.

“We’all are
honoring
the Chief.” Kennie Rogers was not hard to find. She was at the front of the room, one hand on the podium and the other on her hip. Her clothing was muted, for her: platform flip flops, black and white calfskin capris, a white pleather fringed belt that distracted from her overspill of skin in the thigh/genital area, a suede vest over a yellow tank top not up to the challenge, a peacock-feather choker, what appeared to be teepee earrings, and I swear she wore a beaded headband. She had curled her brittle, white-blonde hair around it, sort of like a living stage starring her hairline. Her makeup reinforced the tacky Indian theme started by her clothes—nude lipstick, maroon blush troweled just under her pale cheek apples to imply stark cheekbones, the same color on each side of her nose to make it look fierce, and shades of brown eye shadow caked above her fake eyelashes.

Welcome to Battle Lake. I jostled my elbows some more, still unable to spot the woman who believed it was worth her time to argue about the objectification of American Indians with a thirty-eight-year-old Norwegian dressed like Porn Pocahontas.

“I recognize that you feel you are honoring the Ojibwe with your festival,” the voice broke in.

I finally caught sight of the speaker, standing two rows from the back. She was wearing a taupe pantsuit, strawberry blonde hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, revealing a strong-featured, make-up free face. She looked about my age, late twenties or early thirties, and gave an overall impression of capability. I could tell by the lines around her generous mouth that her normal facial expression was a smile. This morning, however, she was all grim business. She pushed back her jacket sleeves to continue, and I was surprised by the Celtic tattoos on each of her wrists belying her otherwise conservative appearance.

“However, to promulgate the stereotype of Indians as savages, to celebrate capitalism with your ‘Crazy Days’ on what used to be consecrated ground, and to disregard the historical significance of the Battle Lake conflict with a kiddie carnival and parade is disrespectful to Native Americans, and to those who respect individual human value.” Her words were clipped, and I got the impression she was dumbing down her speech for this audience.

Her points ignited a louder buzz throughout the room, but Kennie drowned it out. “What did you’all say your name was?”

“Dr. Dolores Castle. I am a professor of Native American Studies at the University of Wisconsin, and I represent the People for the Eradication of American-Indian Stereotypes.”

PEAS. I had always wondered if groups came up with the acronym and then a name to fit it, or vice versa. In this case, I assumed they thought up the name first because the green vegetable was not really associated with crusading strength. Asparagus, I could see. Peas, no.

I turned my attention from Dr. Castle to the people watching her. Most wore a Mask of Bewildered Anger, the official expression of rural Minnesotans confronted by liberal progressives. There was no way she understood the depths of institutionalized stereotyping she was up against. Battle Lake even had a tradition of substituting Indian “warriors” (basically Shriners in face paint, fake leather pants, and moccasins) for clowns at the Wenonga Days parade. I knew the town wasn’t trying to maliciously malign anyone, but I also knew how the celebration would appear to the rest of the world. It was only five years ago that Battle Lake finally replaced the high school mascot, a stereotypical Indian warrior chief they called The Battler, with a bulldog, and that change had been hotly contested.

Dr. Castle continued. “We don’t want you to stop your festival. We are just asking that you rename it and remove all Indian caricatures from your region, including Chief Wenonga.”

The whispering crowd suddenly went whip-silent.

“Remove …” My voice cracked as I went from observer to participant in light speed. Suddenly, she was hitting a little too close to home with this talk about taking my big man away, and it slapped me right off my judgmental pedestal. I raised my voice to get her attention. “You mean remove Chief Wenonga
actors
from the
parade
, right?”

“I mean remove the statue of Chief Wenonga from the town.”

My stomach plummeted and the room got a little hazy as a net of panic encircled me. Then, for a nanosecond, I saw the beauty in this idea. He could come live with me. We wouldn’t have any misunderstandings about whose job it was to take out the garbage or arguments about my emotional inaccessibility. Oh no. Just clear expectations. He’d be there when I needed him, always. And then my brain fluttered back to reality. The Chief wasn’t mine. If he left Battle Lake, I’d never see him again, and neither would anyone else. Suddenly, the audience of nearly fifty people erupted with wild talk and outraged looks. Dolores Castle held her ground, hands crossed serenely at her waist.

“Silence!” Battle Lake Head of Police Gary Wohnt pounded the podium with a gavel he got from I don’t know where. The crowd didn’t stop talking, but they hushed their voices. Gary had that effect on people. He was big like a bull, with dark eyes and hair, and his itchy silences could elicit confessions from the dead. I didn’t like him, which made sense: he was pompous, he applied Carmex like his life depended on it, and he always caught me at my worst, usually around dead or seemingly dead bodies. What I didn’t understand was why he didn’t like me.

“Are there any other general objections for the Wenonga Days Festival before we continue with the planning?”

I think Wohnt meant this as a segue and not a serious inquiry, but to his chagrin, Les Pastner stood up. Les was a card-carrying local militia guy, and he had run against Kennie in the last mayoral election on the platform of “Les Is More.” He had lost.

Les owned the Meat and RV Store right off of 210 where he sold used Winnebagos and wild game that he smoked in-house. When business was slow in the winter, he worked odd carpentry jobs around town, bitched about the government, and spread rumors that the police left him alone because they knew he was sneaky and fast. Except for running for mayor last summer, he mostly blended in. Apparently, though, Les’ activism was cyclical, and we were witnessing his annual blossoming. He stood in the center of the Chamber, a’tremble in his fatigues, all five foot two inches of him tensed. His close-set features, which had always made me feel like I was talking to the three finger holes of a bowling ball, seemed darker than usual.

“I been quiet for too long, and I ain’t gonna be quiet no more!”

I could see Les’ eyes get disorganized, and I wondered if he had missed a dose of some medication. He puffed himself up, which only served to make his face redder and his features deeper-set.

“We don’t honor the white man! Nuthin’ against the Indians, but it’s about time the white man gets some. That’s all I’m saying. You don’t see no statue of any big white man in Battle Lake. We need to get rid of Wenonga, get us a big white man, and have White Man Days in July!” And just like that, Les deflated and fell back into his seat.

The room underwent a collective headshake. Who would have thought anyone had the time to object to a once-a-year festival in a tiny town, and here we had two serious protestors, one who was even articulate? This was the last thing I had expected from the meeting. The ironic part was that Dr. Castle and Les kind of wanted to get the same thing out of this meeting—no more Wenonga. I considered, as a concession, informing Les that every day was White Man Day in Otter Tail County, but I didn’t want to lose my hair in the angry mob scene
that
would create.

I scanned the front of the room. Gary Wohnt appeared to be on an inner mental voyage, and Kennie’s mouth was opening and closing like a wide-mouth bass on land. Somebody needed to pull this meeting back on track, and soon, because I needed to open the library and didn’t want to miss the good stuff. I was about to step up when a reedy voice cut through the crowd.

“Bullshit. You two are singing in the key of crap.” Mrs. Berns, my favorite octogenarian, was pointing a bony finger each at the doctor and Les. “As long as we have Chief Wenonga, we’re having Wenonga Days, and a twenty-plus-foot statue ain’t going nowhere. So stop with the malarkey and get on with the planning. If I don’t get back to the home by 9:30, I don’t get my snack.”

Mrs. Berns had been a peripheral player in the last two adventures I had been swept up in. She had even turned out to be a pretty good informant considering she lived in the Senior Sunset, the local nursing home and not exactly what you’d think would be a hotbed for clues. Turns out the old-homers were a force to be reckoned with and had the best dirt in town. Sometime last month, Mrs. Berns had also created and then applied for an assistant librarian position at the library, and she was making me proud I had hired her. Despite a randy streak that often found her dancing suggestively and wearing see-through blouses and no bra, she was a good worker and a practical woman, which was my favorite kind.

Mrs. Berns’ interjection yanked Kennie out of her reverie and back into her Southern denial mode. “I do declare, it’s time to plan a party!” PEAS, Les, and all things unhappy were dismissed. Reality got in line behind Kennie.

That was my cue to leave—the library was waiting. Surprisingly, I enjoyed the job. If you had asked me when I was a girl what I wanted to be when I grew up, I wouldn’t have said “librarian.” Actually, I probably would have said “cat,” but I’ve always been a dreamer. Currently, I lacked the degree and the skills to ever be a real librarian, but under the circumstances, the town was happy to have me. And I was happy to be here, mostly. The library perfectly joined my love of organization and books.

I liked the job less on days like today, however. My shift was a whirlwind of clearing out paperwork, answering a mad influx of tourists’ questions (“If I like Janet Evanovich, who else would I like?” “Can I check out the magazines?” “Do you give library cards to out-of-towners?” “Where would I find that purple children’s book about the bear?”), and shelving books, leaving me no time to draft “Mira’s Musings” or write my recipe column or even to find out what came of the uproar at the pretend planning meeting. In fact, I was forced to stay late to catch up on my daily paperwork and didn’t leave the library until 8:00 pm.

When I stepped outside the air-conditioned chambers, the hot, muggy air hit me like a blast from a kiln. My hair wilted to my head like a skullcap, and the last bit of energy was broiled out of me. The tar parking lot felt soft and sticky and reeked of cooked gravel and blistering motor oil as I walked to my car. I was smart enough to pull my tank top over my hand before grabbing the metal door handle. Once in, I rolled down all four windows, moved the emergency blanket to cover the volcanic Naugahyde that was the front seat, cranked the radio, and headed for home.

When I pulled up to the mailbox at the end of my mile-long driveway seven minutes later, I realized I was too tired to eat, forget about calling around to find out what had come of the planning meeting today. I parked the car in the shade of the lilac bushes, near where both Luna and Tiger Pop were resting. Luna thumped her tail and Tiger Pop opened one eye when I petted him, but that was about all the welcome home I got.

In hand I had a bill from Lake Region Electric; a flyer for a new store called Elk Meat, Etc. opening in Clitherall, the tiny dot of a town six miles east of Battle Lake; and a birthday-card-sized white envelope. My birthday had been in May, and there was only one person I knew who sent cards two months late. My mom. There was no return address, but the post office stamp said “Paynesville.” Yep, it was from my mom. I thought about opening it, but decided I wasn’t up for it tonight. I loved my mom, but our relationship was not comfortable. We’d had a minor breakthrough since I’d moved to Battle Lake, but I was moving gingerly within the relationship. I think I was still mad at her for not divorcing my dad when she had the chance.

Instead, she stayed married to him despite his drunkenness throughout my entire elementary and middle school years, and through my first two high school years, until he was involved in a fatal car accident at the end of my sophomore year. After that, I was known as Manslaughter Mark’s daughter and fled to the Twin Cities as soon as I had my high school diploma in hand. That worked out for a while, until I started doing my best imitation of my dad, getting drunk every night and letting my life slide. Moving to Battle Lake had been designed to shake me out of following in his footsteps, and I was proud of how I had been doing since May.