Fiction, Emily Rinkema

Lou

The day before the Dairy Princess finals at the State Fair, Lou sits in a refrigerated room for six hours while a sculptor carves her shoulders, her neck, her chin, her cheeks, her ears, her hair out of a 90 pound block of Grade A Minnesota butter. 

Her mom promised this would be it, that if she just did this one last pageant, she’d never ask her to wear a dress again, and yes, fine, she could even cut off her hair. But Lou won her county last weekend, a surprise to everyone except her mother and Judge Mackey, her mom’s high school boyfriend, and now here she was, one of ten Dairy Princess finalists having their busts carved out of butter. 

After, Lou waits in the cold room for her mother to pick her up. She stares at her butter self, at the smooth skin, at the gentle curve of the nose, at the high, feminine cheeks. She wonders if this is what others see when they look at her, if her own image of herself could be this far off. She runs her finger down the cheek. The sculptor had left off the scar on her forehead. The inch-long half moon above her right eyebrow is her favorite thing about her face. With her thumbnail, she cuts the scar into the butter. 

*

The next afternoon, Lou stands in the kitchen holding her Runner Up sash while she watches her father make room in the refrigerator for the sculpture of her head. She’d gone straight to her room to change into shorts and a t-shirt when they got home, and then she’d practiced what she would say when she handed the sash to her mom. But now that she’s here, sash in hand, she can’t do it. 

Lou’s dad stacks tupperware on the counter in order to make space. He works quickly because it’s 90 degrees in the kitchen and already the butter is starting to soften. They’d driven it home in the back of the air conditioned van, but moving it from the refrigerated room at the state fair to the van and then from the van to the kitchen in this summer heat has caused the left cheek to droop. 

“You’re lucky,” her mom says, staring at the sculpture. “When I won Dairy Princess only the winner got to take home her bust. All the others were donated to Craymore’s for the pigs,” she laughs. “Those were some happy pigs!”

Lou’s dad lifts the head into the refrigerator. She notices he doesn’t look at it while he’s moving it. He hadn’t been at the judging this afternoon, said he had to help out at the calf barn because they were short handed. She wonders if he knew she was going to lose, if he didn’t want to be there with all the other fathers when her name wasn’t called. 

“Done,” he says, and walks out of the kitchen. The screen door slams shut behind him as Lou’s mom turns the pale yellow sculpture a little bit to the right, and then back. She squints at the face, lit by the fridge light, the up-do that had been so carefully carved into hundreds of distinct strands now melted together into a helmet and the left eye slightly lower than the right. “So pretty, Louisa,” she says, and sighs. 

“That’s not my name,” Lou says, which is as close to honesty as she can get. 

Her mom shuts the refrigerator door. “Remember this moment,” she says, but all Lou can think about is the face in the fridge, stuck between the iced tea and a tupperware full of chicken broth. 

*

Lou can’t sleep thinking about the head so she sneaks into the kitchen and opens the refrigerator. It’s late and the house is silent. It’s heavier than she imagined, and she knocks over the mayonnaise as she tries to lift it off the shelf. 

“Need some help?” her dad says from behind her. He must have been sleeping in the living room again. He says it’s cooler. He doesn’t wait for her to answer, just reaches his hands in next to hers, and after a moment, they have the head on the table.

“It looks nothing like you,” he says. 

“It melted some,” Lou replies. 

“Even before,” he says, and then gestures at the head. “What next?” 

“I hadn’t thought it that far through,” Lou says. 

*

Lou’s dad cradles the head in his arms like a newborn calf. They stand by the creek, her favorite place on the farm. She used to fantasize about building a tiny house right on the bank with a porch that hung out over the water, but now all she can imagine is getting as far away from this town as she can, from people who will never see her. 

“Sure you want to do this?” Her dad asks, and she nods. They take a step towards the water.

“I don’t know what to tell mom,” she says. 

“I’ll take care of your mom,” he says. “She’ll get there, Lou.” 

He passes her the head. The butter feels cool against her skin and she looks down at her face, at the girl looking up at her.

“I hate it so much,” she says. She waits for her father to say something, but he clears his throat and turns away.

Lou steps forward and drops the head into the water. She wants it to float away, to be carried swiftly by the current, but it just bobs for a moment and then floats into the bank, where it wedges against the exposed root of a tree. Her father takes off his boots and steps into the water. He leans over and gently pulls the head away from the bank. He guides it into the middle of the creek and lets go.