Scandal (2 page)

Sam had been a widower for many years, since his wife Sue had died in a hiking accident
when she was in her sixties.

We decided that instead of my bringing Sam back to the Fair, he'd stay with me for a week
or so. Dave and Connor would take his camper back to the house where it sat parked most of the
time. He'd given up his driver's license but wasn't ready yet to let go of his vehicle, and it did come
in handy for the family.

It took a while for us all to settle down. I eventually found a place on the firm bed that was
comfortable enough to allow sleep. Despite Sam's whistling noises, as he slept, it was good to hear
him.

Tomorrow we would wake up to a different reality.

We didn't see the photo until we heard the thud of the Monday morning paper on the
camper's metal steps, followed by a knock and someone saying, "You might want to have a look at
this." Connor was sitting in the front seat and he jumped out the door to retrieve the paper. He read
the front page, scowling, and then handed it across the seat to his dad, who shared it around.

The bold headline shouted COCKROACHES ESCAPE AT STATE FAIR, and the photo, in full
color, above the fold, made it impossible to not "have a look". The jumbled mess of flying books and
food was all there. The most dramatic aspect was the glazed fear in the grey eyes of the woman
sprawled on the table, her poncho askew, her forehead decorated with red watermelon smears,
grapes tangled in her hair. The luck with the eyes made the photographer in me jealous.

I laughed at the grapes, but the guys scowled as they read the short article that suggested
someone hadn't secured the cage. It stung.

Connor stood at the open door of the camper, flinging his arms about, punctuating the air
with his energy. "Hey! Is that fair? The cage popped open when it hit the floor, that's simple enough.
Why do people always have to make stuff up? They don't know why the door opened. Doesn't
matter. None of us know! Stupid people!"

He stared again at the photo of the graped woman. "At least I'm not her! That's gotta hurt,
her fifteen minutes of fame is a stupid photo of her being stupid." He walked around the trailer,
three times, fast. When he finished he was breathing deep, slow and steady. He was a speed walker
for his high school track team, and claimed it always helped him clear his mind.

"Hey! You know what?" he said as he came back in through the door. He took the paper
away from Sam, who had turned to the crossword and was inking in the answers. Connor flipped
back to the photo. "We made front page! Everybody will want to come see the hissers now!" With
that he laughed and handed the paper back. "It's all gonna work out."

That is a great thing about the kid, he has a positive nature.

"Hey, Grandpa, do you have any frozen waffles?" With that we all got busy with coffee, cold
cereal and toast, no waffles. After breakfast I went shopping for new clothes and shoes.

Dressed in my new duds, I returned to the exhibit to try to repair the damage with a photo
of my own. I wanted to show the charm of the creatures, and to display the lock. I'd been sending
my photos to venues around the state, and beyond, since high school. This was a perfect
opportunity to use my contacts. I wanted today's photo to make the front page of the Cannon Beach
paper. Though not the kind of publicity Cannon Beach High School was seeking, even bad publicity,
as they say, is better than none at all. It's a small account for me, but, in family terms, it's big.

Connor was right. The crowd was here because of the story. I saw a man pull his rolled
paper from his back pocket and quick-like place it on top of one of the cages so the headline was
prominent. I left it there, thinking perhaps it would bring more attention. At least people were
looking.

That's where I first heard of the Willamina Quilt Show, while staring at Connor's exhibit of
the Madagascar Hissing Cockroaches, and wondering if my camera could capture how weird
looking the creatures truly are. The only camera I'd brought with me was my small digital. I'd been
thinking I'd only be taking family and State Fair snaps. But the little Canon would do well. It's just
that when I am excited, I'm more comfortable with the familiar settings of my older film
camera.

I was also intrigued by the photo byline, Len Bolder. Was it he, I wondered. The name was
the same as a man I'd known long ago, but in all last night's excitement I'd not bumped into anyone
familiar.

Nah, most unlikely it was the Len Bolder I'd known.

I needed to focus. Ignoring the baby chicks in the Agricultural area, turning away from the
glaring, glass eyes of the stuffed raccoons in the Wildlife Management area--gosh, the Fair was full
of things to take my attention--I angled and zoomed at the cages, satisfied with their security. Using
the dented cage as a frame I took a clear photo of the lock, and the bugs, within. Not so many,
now.

Behind me I heard two women talking as they brushed past, caught in the crowd amassed
in front of the exhibit. One was saying, in a determined, firm tone, "It's the best little quilt show in
Oregon, maybe in the whole Northwest. Perhaps in the whole United States."

"Oh, Magda," a second unseen woman said, "Of course you'd say that, though I must agree.
Our Willamina women do up a quilt show proud." The words became less distinct as they moved
away. Probably going to the Jackman Long Hall, where quilts lined the wall, enchanting fairgoers
with fabrics from flannel to silk, patterns from colorful geometric designs to abstracts. Each one
different but each a demonstration of the love of quilts.

Several of my aunts quilted, but I didn't. I sew, but quilt? No. Too complicated for me.

Willamina? When I was an alcohol and drug counselor for the state, I'd had a client, a
logger, from Willamina, a town somewhere just in off the coast. He'd snagged a Driving Under the
Influence of Intoxicants--DUII. I do hope that poor Willamina drunk decided on a better life than the
disaster he'd been working on at the time, starting with getting rid of that fridge in his garage
stocked with quarts of cheap beer.

I'm taking a year off to assess what I want to do with myself when I grow up. The time off is
the benefit of my late husband, Roger's, insurance policy. I shuddered and let it all roll away.

Magda's strong voice rose above the crowd's chatter. "This is a quilter's paradise. I always
get lots of great ideas. I can't wait to see who wins Best of Show this year. Judy's art piece of
Haystack Rock just stunned me and I know..."

Why she was stunned and what she knows was lost to me as their voices blended into the
noise around the Unusual Bugs exhibit.

Tired of the crush and of holding myself in against the crowd, I flexed my thighs in the new
blue jeans that fit so nice after all my workouts. The quick shopping this morning had landed me the
Wranglers, red Crocs, and a red silk camp shirt. I wanted to look casual but sharp, just in case I saw
Len, who I didn't know if I even wanted to see, but if I did, I wanted to look my best, casually.

"That danged Len," Aunt Sophie had called him. I hear her voice of caution still. Many years
since I last saw him.

Boy, it felt good to be smiling in spite of that photo in this morning's paper!

The photo. I couldn't let myself be distracted.
Focus.
A quick one of that little boy
with the fuzzy yellow chick in his hands, his eyes alight. Who could resist? Back to the cages, and a
highlight of the ribbon. The blue color is nice but, I doubted it would make front page.

I wanted a photo of the way the cockroaches' feelers branch about like teeny fingers, to
show how "personable" they can be. Their value as pets.

The women's words returned to me: Haystack Rock? An art quilt of Haystack Rock? Did
they mean the Haystack Rock of Cannon Beach, or Haystack rock at Pacific City? Both mammoth
"stack" rocks were formed from boiling lava pushing up through a crack in the ocean floor to stack
up, millions of years ago.

Ouch. My head hurts with the weight of the thought of it all...the agony of researching that
paper for my college geology class. I'm seldom able to sit on the beach, peacefully sifting dry sand
through my fingers, without thinking how deceptive all this serenity is. That my lovely Oregon has
her sturdy haunches spread above the Ring of Fire; that underneath all the green trees and blue
skies bubbles a volcanic hotbed.

From the corner of the wire cage I picked off a bit of black and red checked cloth. It looked
to be a piece of Dave's shirt. Winning the blue ribbon was a Big Deal for the school, but the chaos
these skittery little critters had caused yesterday for the Fair had become the real story. I hoped my
photo, plus the ribbon, would counterbalance the drama these bugs had made in this morning's
papers.

I checked the picture I'd just taken, a clear shot of the padlock on the dented cage, and the
surviving bugs, secured within. Satisfied, I worked my way out of the crowd. My stomach growled,
talking to me.

Food.
When a person is at the State Fair she must eat something bad-for-her,
something one can only get at a fair. A deep-fried Twinkie? Maybe later, with the family. A corn dog
was my first requirement. I headed for the nearest exit, hoping it would lead to the stall that sold
the dogs.

Outside, the heat beaded up sweat on my hairline. The ground cover of dampened sawdust
reflected the glare of the sun. Wincing, I put on my sunglasses. I walked past the olives on a stick,
admired the various whirligigs turning every which way in the slight wind. All the while my ears
were being pounded by the sound of screaming people on the Atomic Rocket.

Roger had loved the dang thing--he'd been gone over two years, to a disease that just
wouldn't go away. I only had to dig my fingernails into my palm for a few seconds to short circuit
the sudden, sharp gut pain. I moved it to the
later
part of my brain.

The enticing aroma of frying onions cut through the dust and heat. I turned to the nearest
stall and saw a grill spread evenly with onions and sauerkraut for hot dogs. Beside it was a fryer for
corn dogs. Fated.

My mind tickled me back to the Authors table. Len?

Maybe?

Perhaps I should let sleeping dogs lie. That would certainly be Aunt Sophie's advice. Best to
check out the quilts back at the Jackman Long Building. Willamina Quilt Show? Maybe I'd find info
there about it.
I must see that quilt of Haystack Rock. I wonder if it is anything like the one Aunt
Sophie made?

The line for corn dogs was long; I spent the time thinking about the problem facing me, at
home, with another of Aunt Sophie's quilts.

And Len.

Aunt Sophie made many quilts but the one that the family treasured the most was the one
depicting Haystack Rock at Cannon Beach. She had used the technique called appliqué,
sewing cut-out pieces atop a base piece of cloth, to make a design. Upon a large, blue piece as
background of the Pacific Ocean, she had created, with many other pieces, the rock and its
surroundings.

Aunt Sophie's quilt, which now belongs to her son, my cousin Sam, has stood the test of
time. It's still appealing to look at and cozy to wrap up in.

"Want your dog, Lady?"

I came out of my reverie to see the vendor handing me the corn dog on a paper tray. I
fumbled for cash from my shoulder bag, took the dog. He pointed to the condiments on a small
ledge by the window. I thought about mustard and decided against it--too dicey. Yellow against red
silk would be awful.

I wandered among masses of people fanning themselves until I found the cool picnic grove
of oaks and maples. From my bag I pulled a bottle of water I'd bought earlier and a small pack of
chips.

While I ate my corndog and chips, I thought about the unfinished job waiting at home. I'd
recently begun to go through the boxes into which I'd placed Roger's model ships. After he died, I
couldn't stand looking at them. All those hours he'd spent on them, and I'd been jealous of the time.
Now I just felt guilty. Why had I been so petty?

When I packed them I'd needed soft cushioning. In the chest Aunt Sophie had left to me
when she passed, I'd found enough old blankets for the job. Ship number seven was the last one
Roger had worked on and he hadn't finished it. All that was left in the bottom of the chest was a
quilt. Aunt Sophie's last project, unfinished.

Great,
an unfinished quilt, an unfinished ship. All the people I love leave things
undone for me to take care of.
I'd wrapped myself in self-pity while folding her quilt, pins and
all, around Roger's last ship.

Now I wanted the space and didn't need to hang onto the ships anymore. A new maritime
museum in Newport had expressed interest in ship models for display, so it would be the perfect
place for them. They were all true miniatures of real ships that had sailed the seas. The completed
models were all in a box, waiting to be transported to Newport. The partial quilt remained in the
chest, wrapped around the unfinished ship.

What was I going to do with the ship? Or the quilt?

I threw away the lunch remains and walked to the Jackman Long Building, passing the
Oregon Authors Table. Giving it a quick glance, I didn't see anyone I knew and went on to the Quilt
Display.

The display dominated the whole room, with quilts hanging from all four walls, as well as
being on frames on the floor in the main fabric crafts area. On the walls the quilts were high enough
so they couldn't be touched, but low enough to read the tag attached to each one. In bold black
letters was the name of the quilt and quilt maker, and from which Oregon county it came. Blue or
white or red ribbons were attached to winners of the County Fairs around the state, and most of
them had garnered more awards in the statewide judging.