September Fair (11 page)

The sun was ending
its arc, sending shadows across the streets, when I finally returned to the trailer after time spent wandering the corners of the fair, weighted by the puzzle of Ashley’s death. I wasn’t able to find joy walking past the twinkle lights or seeing the neon of the Midway reflect off the dusky sky, and I was looking forward to some relaxed, mindless reading in the Silver Suppository.

“Where have you been?” Mrs. Berns stood outside the trailer, bony arms crossed in front of her and her eyes accusing. She was wearing the same outfit she’d arrived at the fair in—Neil Diamond shirt with 3D chest hair, elastic-waisted shorts, tennies, sword at her waist. I’d managed to mostly avoid both Mrs. Berns and Kennie since Friday, and it appeared as though I hadn’t missed a thing.

“Talking to a Milkfed Mary, eating some fried rice over at the International Bazaar, checking out the baby animal exhibit, cruising on the River Raft Ride, taking …”

“It was one of those metaphorical questions. You’re not supposed to answer it. You’re supposed to apologize for not getting here sooner. I almost left without you!”

“For where?”

She grabbed my hand and yanked me into the trailer. Over the door she had hung a banner proclaiming tonight, “Neil Diamond Rocks My World Night.” “Didn’t you see the sign on the way out this morning?”

“It was early when I left,” I mumbled. Truth be told, I’d forgotten about the concert entirely. “You sure you don’t want to take Kennie? I need to do some follow-up work on my Ashley article.” I decided against filling her in on Christine’s escapades.

“No, I do not want to take Kennie, and I forgive you for asking only because you’re like the village idiot when it comes to Neil Diamond. You have no idea what you’ve been missing, girl. Once you get a taste of the Neil, you’ll eternally hunger for more.”

“Then maybe I shouldn’t go. I don’t want to set myself up for an addiction that I can’t feed.”

“Shush, and come along.”

I followed her out and to the Grandstand, trailing a few steps and acting like I didn’t know her when the security guards at the entrance to the outdoor stadium confiscated her epée. She attempted to persuade them that it was a cane, but nobody was buying. Then she pretended to cry, and the head guard promised her she could pick it up after the show.

When we strode through the gate and into the amphitheater after this little drama, I was floored by the massive crowd displayed before me, thousands of people of all ages coming together for the open-air Neil Diamond concert. The seventeen-thousand occupancy concert arena was set up so you entered at the top, looking down toward the far-off stage. The general admission seats came first, hundreds of rows of cushioned, drop-front chairs underneath a simple roof supported by metal girders. Below, plaza seating ringed the stage like a half circle. All those chairs had been removed to make standing room only near the stage, which was a massive rectangle structure dead center, surrounded by huge lights.

The crowd appeared predominantly female and aged fifty or older, and all around the amphitheater their eyes glittered with fanaticism, reflecting the stage lights. I heard ladies excitedly chattering about following Neil Diamond around the country, and I noticed more than a few fans with tears streaming down their faces, staring at the stage as if waiting for the second coming of Christ. As we made our way through the general admission area and down toward the stage, we passed an impromptu poetry recital, women and men overcome by their love for Neil and driven to compose sonnets in his honor.

“Neil, Neil,” one woman in a short-sleeved concert T-shirt was intoning, “you make me feel, special when you sing a tune, and I know, this girl’s gonna be a woman soon.” She’d been a woman for at least six decades judging by the skin hanging off her chicken wings, but I had to admit there was a certain girlish glow in her face as she waxed poetic. I didn’t get to hear the entire poem of the stooped man she passed the torch to, but it started out, “To America, you bade us come, and I’m sayin’ yes, to a night of fun.”

People were crazy excited to see Neil Diamond perform, and for the life of me, I couldn’t think of the name of even one of his tunes. “Mrs. Berns,” I whispered, feeling conspicuous. “Name me a Neil Diamond song.”

She pressed her lips into a firm line and looked away. “The shame. Now come on. We’re right up front.” She pinned an “All Access” badge to my sundress and stuck her elbows out to launch us through the crowd. I was amazed as we passed level after level, descending lower and closer to the front, until we ended up in the plaza area, center stage, standing room only. These were the best concert seats I’d ever scored, and I couldn’t hum a single song by the star of the show. Jeez Louise. Around me, people chattered like magpies on speed, and their anticipation was contagious.

“Sweet Caroline!” I said, grabbing Mrs. Berns’ shoulder.

“It’s a start. Now shut up. I think he’s coming out.”

Sure enough, there was some commotion stage left. The crowd dialed it down to an intense hum, doing their best impression of a gigantic electric generator. Overhead, the moon had punched in, and the night was absolutely gorgeous, warm with a light breeze. I smelled hotdogs and popcorn and the spicy cologne of the man next to me. Although I was warm, goose bumps speckled my arms as I got caught up in the charge of sharing an experience with fifteen thousand other people.

In a short while, the band trickled out, followed by a sexy older guy wearing a tight black, button-down shirt with a head of beautiful, thick and graying hair. “That him?” I asked. My gaze walked him up and down as I tugged at Mrs. Berns to get her attention. “Is that Neil Diamond?” I looked over in time to see her bent double and wrestling something out of her shorts. “For god’s sake, what’re you doing?”

One good yank, and she was holding a pair of authentic granny panties—white, elastic-hemmed, and approximately the size of a bedsheet. She whooped triumphantly and chucked them at the stage. They fell short, landing on the shoulder of a security guard with his back to the stage. He grimaced and batted them away.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I got plenty more where that came from. I sewed them into the lining of my clothes this morning. Even have a couple bras up here.” She patted her lumpy shorts.

Good lord. “Glad to hear you came prepared.” A change of subject seemed in order. I nodded toward the stage. “You know, you weren’t lying about him. He’s one silver fox.”

“Wait until he opens his mouth.”

As if on cue, he picked up a microphone. “Hello.” His voice was impossibly deep and mellow. It made me shiver a little in my down below. “I’m thrilled to be back in Minnesota, one of my favorite states in the world. How’re you all doing?” Screams filled the outdoor arena, wild, lingerie-laced, sexual-fantasy screams. He chuckled. “I’m doing good, too. How about I sing for you? This is one of my favorites. I call it ‘September Morn.’”

His voice filled the Grandstand and soared to the stars and back. He wasn’t flashy—no costume changes or dance moves—but he put on a great show. Ten songs in, I asked Mrs. Berns if I could throw a pair of her underwear onstage.

“Sure,” she agreed amiably, if a little smugly. She was reaching down to pluck me a pair when I spotted something very bad out of the corner of my eye.

“Mrs. Berns.”

“I’m trying. Hold on. This one’s sewed up good.”

“Mrs. Berns.”

“I think it’s one of the super-reinforced undies. It feels like it’s made out of burlap.”

“Mrs. Berns, is that Kennie?”

She looked up just in time to see Battle Lake’s mayor, in full groupie regalia, rushing the stage, wiping out security guards as if they were bowling pins. She was a little old and a lot buxom to be wearing the black bustier over a spandex skirt. She looked like a human tube of toothpaste that someone had squeezed in the middle and then dressed in fishnet stockings and five-inch heels, and topped with hooker makeup and an Alaska updo. “I love you, Neil! It’s me, Kennie Rogers! Remember me? It’s me, Neil!”

Neil strolled to the opposite end of the stage, belting out “Solitary Man” without breaking stride. I tried to elbow through to Kennie, who was about twenty feet to my right, but there was no moving, so I stayed in my spot, watching the unfolding tableau. I don’t know what I’d have done if I caught her. Probably toss a pair of Mrs. Berns’ underwear over her to cover her up and calm her down.

She made it all the way to the thin wall separating the crowd from the stage. Behind that barricade was a line of security guards. The one nearest Kennie whispered something to her, and she smiled ecstatically. When he hoisted her on his shoulders, she pumped her bespangled arms in the air and cheered. The guards began to pass her down the line on their shoulders, like she was a sandbag and it was imperative they stop a flood. They were moving her closer and closer to Neil, and a thought struck me: maybe Kennie actually did know him. Maybe for once she hadn’t been stretching the truth, and she was now going to be on stage with him in front of thousands. Next to me, Mrs. Berns watched, her open-mouthed expression mirroring my own.

When Kennie was directly beneath the superstar, on her back and resting on the broad shoulders of four security guards, she reached up as if to welcome Neil into her arms. Time stood still. A stage camera turned to her, projecting her face fifty feet high on both of the immense concert screens. Her smile curved beatifically as she reached for the music man, but alas, it wasn’t to be. The guards didn’t stop. They kept passing her down the line, farther and farther from her idol, until she was out of sight, and, presumably, out of the Grandstand. Neil’s face replaced hers on the concert screens, and the moment was gone.

“Well, that’s one way to get kicked out of a concert. I prefer toking on the wacky tobacky myself, but no way am I going to risk it—the show isn’t even half over.”

“You smoke pot?” I asked, wondering what plan Kennie was currently hatching to sneak back into the Grandstand. She wasn’t a woman who gave up.

“Helps my glaucoma. There’s a great many advantages to getting old, but we don’t like to tell you pups too much. Gotta have a few surprises when you grow up.”

I smiled, putting Kennie’s mini-drama behind me to enjoy the rest of the concert. For the record, though, I’d be thrilled to grow up into a Mrs. Berns. We swayed to the music, danced to the numbers that rocked, and generally partied like it was 1999. The concert was off the charts, and when it was time to go backstage, I was surprised to find myself as excited as if I were going to meet a real rock star. “What should I say to him?” I said.

“Lemme do the talking. Always let me do the talking.”

As we were ushered past the security and toward the backstage, the bustle was more intense than front stage as people rushed about with equipment and instructions. Our badges were checked again and we were ushered into a large room replete with bottles of icy champagne and trays of fruit, cheeses, prosciutto, and other meats they couldn’t pronounce in Battle Lake. Mrs. Berns took out a Tupperware container from her purse and began filling it. “No use having this all go to waste,” she said to no one in particular.

I sniffed at the food but was too excited to eat. The room was filled with other people who wore badges similar to ours, presumably also radio contest winners. Many of them held posters and T-shirts in their shaking hands, or autograph books, and most were dressed in their best—dresses, heels, ties. The few people my age or younger were not quite as spiffy, but they looked as awestruck and out of place as I felt. We all shuffled around trying to appear as though we’d spent most of our lives backstage.
No biggie. I’m with the band.
The only person I recognized besides Mrs. Berns was the woman from the press conference—Kate Lewis, president of the State Fair Corporation. She looked as rumpled and mad-scientisty as she had at the press conference, and if anything, seemed more pale and distracted than she had then. A man broke away from the buffet line and joined her. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t immediately place him.

I sidled up to the two of them, wanting to share my joy at the concert. “Hi, I’m Mira James. I’m a reporter for the
Battle Lake Recall
, and I was at the press conference the other day.”

She reacted as if I’d offered her a blanket with smallpox. “I’m here on my own free time,” she said, backing up toward a wall. “I don’t have to answer any questions.”

“Oh no. I just came over to say hello. A friend of mine won backstage passes, which is why I’m here. She’s over by the door.” I pointed toward where Mrs. Berns was hitting up an uncomfortable-looking security guard, her last pair of sewed-in underwear dangling from the rear waistband of her shorts. At least I hoped they were her sewn-in underwear. “Did you enjoy the show? I couldn’t believe how awesome it was! I wish I had brought my camera. I haven’t had it out since the first day of the fair, when I was covering the butter-sculpting. I was right up front for that, too, but this show was way better. Of course it was. No one got hurt here.” I clamped my mouth shut. Have I mentioned I gush when I’m excited? That’s another good reason to avoid emotions.