September Fair by Jess Lourey Page A

matter. It was the thought that counted, and Henry was a good person. I interviewed him for over a half an hour, asking about the focus of the latest book and what he was planning next. I wrote the answers on paper with a pencil, even though I had the laptop slung over my shoulder.
    At the end of the question and answer session, I slapped my notebook shut. “Thanks, Henry. That’ll make for a good article.” People were starting to crowd into the building and eye Henry with interest. “Want me to bring you some food around lunchtime?”
    He held up a bag of dried meat with red flecks in it. “Brown-bagging it.”
    “OK. See you around.”
    He waved to me before commencing to sign copies of his books for a gaggle of admirers in animal skin vests and headbands. Some people might say he had a cult following, with the emphasis on “cult,” but everyone gets to choose their own spot in the world.
    I found a wooden bench in a quiet spot in the round building, which was by now swarming with folks crowding in to check out the stalls full of Minnesota-grown apples and the Home and Garden exhibit. I could smell the black earth and growing things of the exhibit from here, about twenty backyard displays featuring exotic and native plants and flowers pruned and coaxed in every direction possible. Made me miss my garden, which is where I had spent a good chunk of the summer, tending my vegetables and generally communing with the dirt. Yanking out the computer, I fired it up, preparing to organize and e-mail the article on Henry. I almost hoped that the wireless wouldn’t work. No such luck.
    In a classic work-avoidance move, I checked my e-mail before typing the article. I had one message from Jed, my house-sitter, two from the Battle Lake library, and one from … my heart started pounding: “[email protected].” We had never emailed before. Was this advance warning of a restraining order? A request to please forget I knew him? My fingers were suddenly trembly, and I decided to read the e-mails in the order I’d received them. Johnny hadn’t emailed me until five o’clock this morning, so he’d be last.
    I clicked on Jed’s message, and like him, it was short, sweet, and vaguely troubling:
    Mir, the house is fine. Tiger Pop sure likes the catnip, doesn’t he? Luna says “hi.” Don’t ask Mrs. Berns about the bathroom wall.
    Love, His Jedness
    The first message from the library was written by Curtis Poling, whom I was surprised to see knew how to e-mail. He must be at least ninety years old and came across as an old-fashioned guy, but I should know better than to judge a book by its cover, especially when it came to Battle Lake’s elderly.
    You call this work? I sit at a desk and talk to people about books all day. You might want to worry about me taking your job for good, except it’s cutting into my fishing time. There’s a box of books came in the mail for you. We’ll leave them until you get back.
    Curtis Poling
    When I opened the second library e-mail, I saw it was also from Curtis, written a day after the first:
    Everything’s still good. Those of us from the Senior Sunset who are mobile are taking turns. We’ve extended the hours, and some of the ladies took it upon themselves to dust every book and wash every leaf on every plant. You could read by the reflection of clean surfaces here, I swear.
    You remember Janice Applet from the Sunset? Turns out she used to be a grant writer. Said she’s coming out of retirement to see what she can find for the library. I had to kick her off this computer to e-mail you. Oh, and I’m donating my collection of fly-fishing books to the library. First editions, good as new.
    We’re having the time of our lives. Don’t hurry back.
    Curtis Poling
    The Japanese had it right. Respect the elderly, for they are amazing. Feeling better since finding out my home, animals, and primary job were in order, I double-clicked on Johnny’s e-mail, immediately had second thoughts,