Knee High by the 4th of July (7 page)

The Fourth of July
dawned hot and bright. The air was thick, and out my front windows the sun sparkled off the serene surface of Whiskey Lake. It was going to be another breeze-free scorcher. I stood under an ice cold shower, wrapped my hair in a bun off my neck, and donned a cotton baby doll sundress that let the air flow freely on my back and legs. Before I poured fresh water for Luna and Tiger Pop, I packed their bowls with ice cubes so their water wouldn’t boil while I was gone. I even retrieved two oranges from the crisper drawer of the fridge, sliced them in half, and nailed them to the birdhouse in the shade of the large oak tree in my yard so the orioles could chill a little. Birds and I didn’t get along, and since they had the aerial advantage, I went out of my way to be nice to them. They were the avian equivalents of playground bullies, as far as I was concerned.

My bird aversion probably had something to do with misplaced guilt. When I was four and a half, my cousin Heather and I found a robin’s nest in our climbing tree. There were three newly hatched babies inside, their featherless skin translucent. Heather warned me not to touch them because then their mom wouldn’t come back. I pretended to listen to her, but deep inside, I knew that I was meant to take care of one of those robins. It would grow up believing I was its mom, and it would sing on my shoulder just like in a Disney movie. We would be tight.

Later, when I was supposed to be napping, I returned to the nest and snatched the weak little thing, I concealed it in the very back of my sock drawer, which was little-used in the summer. I also pilfered a pound of raw hamburger from the pile in the freezer and set it next to the baby. My attention span being what it was, I quickly forgot both baby and burger until the smell became thick like air vomit. I found the bird, five days after I placed it in there, tiny eyes closed forever behind see-through lids. The hamburger was greenish and flirting with maggots. I tossed the burger in the woods and buried the bird in a shallow grave next to my Barbie doll whose head I had accidentally popped off.

I knew I was the reason the baby bird had died, and if I had only listened to my cousin, it would still be alive and maybe raising some babies of its own. Since that day, I figured the birds knew me for what I was, and I avoided them at all costs. I pretended it was because I didn’t like them, but the truth was, they had every reason not to like me. I was always on guard for the retributive poop missiles, and this sizzling day would be no exception.

My community ed class with Johnny Leeson was scheduled for 10:00, with the Wenonga Days parade right on its heels at eleven, followed by some Les-hunting at noon. That plan of attack allowed me enough time to wash some clothes, compose a shopping list, and write a postcard to my friend Sunny, whose house I was sitting. As far as I knew, she was still on a fishing boat in Alaska with her mono-browed lover, Rodney, but she had given me the address of the company’s central office, so I had some place to send mail to. I mulled over what to tell her about the current Wenonga situation. I didn’t like to lie, at least to my friends, but I didn’t want her to accuse me of keeping anything from her should all this have a bad ending. I needed to word it just so:

Hey, Sunshine! It is so frickin’ hot in Battle Lake that my freckles have melted. Luna is doing fine, though I think she might be getting a little pudgy—I’m going to start taking her on more walks. As Chief Wenonga Days approaches, I can’t help but notice something is missing. Isn’t this the first time in your life you haven’t been at a Wenonga Days parade? Big love! Mira

I was covered. Hopefully, by the time Sunny phoned, which she did every two weeks or so, this would all be solved, the Chief would be back in place, and I’d only have good news to report. I washed, dried, folded, and put away two loads of clothes, realized that I didn’t need anything from the grocery store besides bagels, cream cheese, and orange juice, and let the animals outside with their ice water placed in the shade. I slid gingerly into my dragon’s mouth of a car. I tuned my radio to the rock station out of Fergus Falls, rolled down the windows, and drove as fast as the gravel would allow to move some air.

It wasn’t until I passed a police car on the north side of Battle Lake, parked amid the traffic of the weekend flea market, that I remembered that driving my car wasn’t a smart move. On a bike, I could blend in. In my 1982 champagne brown Toyota Corolla hatchback, I was a fish in a barrel. I hunched down into my seat, trying to tighten my ear skin so the anticipated police sirens wouldn’t sound so shrieking harsh as Wohnt hunted me down like a dog. When the air stayed blessedly silent, minus the nasal twang of CCR floating out of my radio, I dared a glance in my rearview mirror. The police car was empty, its occupant likely patrolling in the mayhem of the flea market.

Four blocks ahead, another police rig was parked, and I could just make out Gary Wohnt steering cars away from the marked-off parade route. It was too early in the day to be dumb twice, so I lurched a sharp right and purred down the back streets of Battle Lake. If I brought my car home, I’d never make it back in time for the parade, so I pulled into an alley and left the Toyota in the rear driveway of my friend Gina’s house. A quick knock at her door told me she wasn’t home, but when I tried her doorknob, it turned. I went inside, grabbed a red, white, and blue Minnesota Twins baseball cap off the rack next to the door, left a quick note, and headed toward the high school where Johnny’s gardening class was being held.

In most parts of the United States, community education classes aren’t held on national holidays. In Battle Lake, a local ladies’ gardening club had started a petition to have Johnny’s classes held every Saturday morning, come holidays, hell, or high water. Their reasoning was that he was providing an important service to the community and that many of his students were tourists, who were the thickest on the weekend holidays. This was true and true, if you agreed that looking hot at a chalkboard is an important service and that the out-of-town friends and family of the ladies’ gardening club count as tourists.

I had debated not coming to today’s class, but then I would have had to admit to myself that I really liked Johnny. Inside the classroom, I slid into the back row, next to two chirpy women in their early twenties. They both had golden hair, and the fluorescent lighting picked up their perfect honey highlights. Their skin was tawny, their breasts impossibly full yet perky, and I bet I couldn’t have found an inch of cellulite on them even if I tweaked them head to toe in a vise grip, one inch at a time. I’d attended enough of Johnny’s classes to know that they were the young groupies.

They scooched their chairs over slightly as I sat down and whispered between themselves, glancing cattily at me. I was in a suddenly foul mood, so I decided to play with them.

“Hi. I’m Mira.”

They both studied me for a beat or two and decided I wasn’t competition. “I’m Heaven, and this is Brittany.”

I nodded at both of them. I knew the type—fresh out of high school, sure of their place in the world but ultimately lacking confidence in anything other than their immaculate makeup and hairless bodies. If they didn’t wise up in the near future, they’d be married and pregnant within two years. Meanwhile, they looked like they had just stepped out of a J. Crew catalog, and it was cheesing me off.

“You guys like to garden?”

This sent them into peals of laughter. Heaven caught her breath first. “No, chick. We don’t come for the gardening.”

I chafed at the condescension in her voice and was gearing up for a verbal smackdown, but just then Johnny walked in, thick hair spilling around his sun-browned face. He scanned the room, stopping tentatively when he spotted me, and walked to the front of the classroom. My dirt-grimed fingernails from last night’s gardening suddenly seemed conspicuous, so I sat on my hands.

“Hello, everyone. Thanks for coming. Today, we’re going to talk about the second sowings of beets and lettuce—when to do it, what types of seeds to use, and where and how to plant them. I’m glad you’re here, and I want you to know that in this class, there’s no such thing as a dumb question.”

Heaven raised her hand. “What do you consider a dumb question?”

I rolled my eyes under the bill of the Twins cap. I’d be surprised if this one was smart enough to turn left, yet here she was, pretty pretty pretty and making me feel like a dirt clump next to her.

“Heaven, right? Don’t worry about it. Just ask any questions you have.” He smiled encouragingly and turned to the chalkboard. His arm muscles, lean from outdoor work, rippled as he made notes.

We all had three tight packages of Seeds of Change organic seeds on our desks—one Detroit Dark Red beet, a depiction of lusciously maroon beets like pirate’s jewels amid deep-green leaves on the front of the packet; one Buttercrunch lettuce with a picture of a thick and tender head of greens on its front; and one Emerald Oak Looseleaf lettuce with bright green leaves as delicate and whorled as a baby’s ears gracing the packet. I slid off my right hand and shook the Buttercrunch packet, enjoying the grainy sound of the seeds falling all over one another.

Despite my best intentions to remain crabby and distant, I became lost in Johnny’s smooth, deep voice as he explained that it was probably best to sow beets every two weeks for the first two thirds of the summer to keep up a regular supply. I was a sucker for earth-friendly guys, and by the end of class, I had almost forgotten that he was no longer mine. When he stopped at the end to take questions, Brittany shot her hand into the air, wafting a fruity dose of Baby Phat perfume my way.

When she caught Johnny’s attention, she tossed her golden hair over her shoulder and leaned forward, showing the world her front butt as it spilled out of her tank top.

“Do you prefer to garden with gloves, or without?”

The class listened anxiously, all eighteen women eager to learn what Johnny wore when he gardened.

Johnny answered with his characteristic honesty, oblivious to the adulation he was garnering. “I like to feel the dirt on my hands. I garden bare.”

A soft groan swept through his audience.

“Any other questions?”

“Do you give home gardening seminars? Like at someone’s house?”

This second question came from Heaven, who was tracing a finger around the edges of her pink-glossed lips.

“Sure. Why don’t you stay after class and I can give you more information.”

Heaven and Brittany squirmed in their seats at the invite, and that was the end of class. I scooped up my seeds and bolted toward the door.

“Mira? Can you hang on a second?”

Johnny was walking toward me as the rest of the class gathered their belongings and broke off into clumps to say their see ya’ laters.

Johnny gently tugged my elbow and guided me toward the hall, and I couldn’t remember if he’d ever intentionally touched me before. I was acutely aware of my dirty nails and the beat of my heart. Certain that Johnny was going to ask me why in the hell an industrial jazz rocker had serenaded me last night, I looked everywhere but into his face.

He was silent for a few seconds, then asked quietly, “Is something wrong?”

I shook my head no and kept studying my sandals, my blue-painted toenails peeking out.

“You were really quiet in class today.”

I sighed, resigned, and looked up into his disarming, cobalt-blue eyes, trying to keep my voice light and pleasant. “I’ve got a lot going on. What can I do for you?”

Just then, Heaven walked into the hall. “Can we talk, Johnny?”

“Sure,” he said, waving her back into the classroom. “Give me a second.” His hand still gripped my elbow, and it felt warm and strong.

When Heaven was out of earshot, he turned back to me. “I want to talk to you, but it might take awhile. Are you free tonight?”

My heart seriously skipped a beat. Was he asking me out on a date? All thoughts of Dolly and self-pity melted away, and with them, my newfound distant-cool attitude around Johnny. “I really like you!”

Johnny gave me a puzzled look. “You really like me?”

“No. I mean, I meant to say that I’d really like
to
… um, do something with you later. If I’m free, you know, but I think I am.” I guess a gal never gets too old to be stupid
and
easy.

My sudden wave of uncool still had Johnny thrown. He dropped his hand from my elbow. “Good. Yeah, good. I’ll pick you up at 6:00, and we can go out for supper.”

I wanted to say something that would linger with him until tonight, but all that came out was, “I love supper!”