Land of a Hundred Wonders

by Lesley Kagen

  Sneaky

  Half the time my guts are up around my jaw and my bottom around my ankles when Grampa speeds around in this battered truck of his. Chrome hair smoothed back by the breeze. One hand jaunty on the wheel. “Ya got the egg order?” he asks, coming to a stop at the bottom of Miz Jessie Tanner’s drive-up.

  I slide the napkin out of my pedal-pusher pocket and read out loud, “Six doz.” If he’d let me, I’d do nothing all day long but investigate and write my stories or ride through the woods stuffing my mouth with wild berries as I go, but Grampa says chores build character.

  “Try to get Jessie to give you a coupla of those brown ones that ole Henrietta squeezes out, all right?” he says, hooking my bangs behind my ear.

  “Knock on wood,” I say, giving his fake leg that got stabbed in the war with a dirty bayonet a good whack. The army had to saw it off way back when so now he’s gotta strap this one on every morning. Don’t feel bad for him. The leg’s got an attached black tie shoe and a sock with gray diamonds that he never has to wash, which I’d call a pretty good deal.

  “Time’s a wastin’, Gib,” Grampa says, anxious to get out on the water.

  Snappin’ shut my leather-like, I get out and wait for Keeper to join me. I don’t go hardly anywhere without my dog.

  Grampa shouts out the truck window as he takes off toward the cottage, “See ya at supper.”

  “Not if I see you later, you big baboon,” I shout back.

  As you can probably tell, I’m already busy working on improving my joking ability. (All part of the getting Quite Right plan, Mama.)

  Tanner Farm is one of the spots in life that make it hard for me to see and breathe at the same time, it’s that gorgeous. Once you get past the plumpy woods that run along the drive, the sky opens up to reveal paddock after paddock full of Thoroughbred horses chewing on the finest of bluegrass. That’s what we call it in Kentucky for some unknown reason. But make no mistake, this grass is dollar green.

  Halfway up the drive, I shout out, “Keeper?” ’cause he’s taken off into the woods, probably sniffing for a spot to answer his call to duty, which he takes awfully to heart. “Finish up now, please. Miss Jessie is waitin’ on us and we have bunches to do today.”

  “Hey,” Billy calls, his voice wafting out of the treetops.

  “Hey, you,” I holler back.

  You ever paged through one of those puzzles they put in the Highlights for Children magazine? They have them in all the doctors’ offices. The artists of that magazine conceal foreign objects in a picture, like a candle in a curtain or a key snuggled up in a sofa cushion, and you’re supposed to find it. You know it’s there, but where oh where? Well, ditto with William “Billy” Brown, Junior, previously well known as “Little Billy.” (After he got back home from the war, Billy wouldn’t answer to that name anymore, but that’s what he used to be called on account of his daddy being called Big Bill Brown.)

  I don’t remember a lot of details about Billy from before the crash ’cept that we used to run with the same crowd and when the stars came out we’d tell stories around a crackling fire. But one of the things Grampa has told me about Billy is that he used to possess his father’s Arrogance: Overbearing pride. “The war has taught that boy, like it’s taught many before him, that life is a delicate web, Gib. A thread is what we all hang by. That can be humblin’. And scary as hell.”

  I set my briefcase down so I got my hands free to retrieve the present Billy’s left for me today. When he doesn’t take his tranquilizing medicine like he should, he can’t go into town. Billy says the pills make him feel numb and tired. Dry his lips out, too. But on the days he’s able to swallow those pills down, he runs, and I mean legpumpin’ runs, into Cray Ridge to buy me a little something and remains nearly calm. Sometimes I’ll find a sack of chocolate-covered cherries lying in the scooped-out bottom of our secret stump. (My absolute favorites!) Other times, he’ll leave me a story that has a snoopy reporter for the main character. Or a shiny ring, he’s real fond of those. Once Billy left me a jar full of rice.

  “Ya find it?” he asks, somewhere closer now.

  “Got it.” I bend down and draw a heart-shaped locket out of the stump, the sun making it glitter so. “Goodness! It’s absolutely the prettiest . . . ,” I start to say, but the sound of rustling and someone relieving himself in the trees shuts me up quick. It’s not Billy I’m talking about here. Keeper neither. No. The both of them are much too mannerly to tinkle in the vicinity of a lady. I’ll tell you who it is that’s unzipped himself not ten feet away from me. It’s the devil’s right-hand man and the absolute scourge of me—Sneaky Tim Ray Holloway. (He tinkles a lot ’cause he drinks a lot. And is just about always waitin’ on me.)

  Hope he didn’t hear me.

  “Talkin’ to yerself again, darlin’?” Holloway asks, clawing outta the thicket.

  Shoot.

  Just by the look of him you’d never guess that Sneaky Tim Ray’s strong as hell. He’s some years older than me with those kinda eyelids that can fool you into thinking he’s taking a catnap when he’s doing nothing of the sort. And then there’s that glass eyeball that he’ll tell ya he picked up in a bar fight, which if you ask me is not sanitary at all. But when he grins at me, like he’s doing right this minute, it’s with teeth that are curiously even and gloriously white. All in all, Miss Jessie herself has confessed to me that even though he is her cousin by marriage and has those real nice choppers, “The boy looks like he was rode hard and put away wet.”

  “Whatcha got there?” Holloway gives growling Keep the boot and grabs for my new locket, first one way, then the other. “You is standin’ on my property so tha’s mine, what ya found is mine. Give it to me.”

  “I will not,” I say quite firmly, despite feeling quite shaky. The hooch smell coming off him is making my stomach flip. “And it isn’t your property neither. It’s Miz Tanner’s. If you don’t quit this sort of fibbin’, ya do realize you’ll be headin’ to hell in a hand casket, correct?”

  Holloway doesn’t answer right off, too busy cleaning out his ear with his vibrating pinky finger. “Ya know, maybe you’s right, darlin’,” he finally says, swiping what he’s mined through his slicked-back hair. “Maybe I could use some repentin’.”

  “Hallelujah,” I say, because, boy oh boy, he really could. Not only is he a liar and a thief, he rubs on my chest when I’m up at the barn helping muck out the stalls in exchange for riding Peaches. He’s warned me time and time again not to tell a soul. And I haven’t. Not my best friend, Clever. Or even Miss Jessie. And especially not Grampa, who keeps me on a short enough lead line as it is. If he ever found out about Sneaky Tim Ray, well, he’s still got one of his old Circle Bar B branding irons that he wouldn’t at all mind putting to use on somebody’s hide. And I can’t let that happen. Sneaky Tim Ray has made it clear that if I tell on him, my Keeper might get run over by a tractor “accidentally on purpose.” Or trampled by a horse. Maybe rat poisoned. “Let me put it to ya in a way that any idiot could understand,” he’s threatened over and over. “Lessin’ ya wanna find that mutt on your back porch one mornin’ stiffer than my pecker, ya better keep them luscious lips shut.”

  Giggling, Sneaky Tim Ray bows his head to commence his repentin’. “Dear Heavenly Father, please forgive me. I know I ain’t been the best of your flock and I promise ya that—”

  “Amen,” I say, shoving my new locket deep into my pocket. “Well, best be on my way.”

  “Hol’ up there a minute,” he says, getting ahold of my shoulder and spinning me rough. “As ya jus’ lay witness to, I’ve . . . wha’s that, Lord?” He cups his ear heavenward. “Uh-huh . . . uh-huh . . . sure enuf.” He takes my hands into his, real gently, like we’re about to do the box step. “Ya know what He jus’ tol’ me, darlin’?”

  I’m simply awful at guessing games so I can’t come up with one thing the Almighty would have to say to this black sheep on the loveliest of days. The air’s hanging heavy with the smell of cut hay a
nd the aspen leaves are spinning. It’s a cicada year. “I give up. What’d the Lord tell ya?”

  “He told me to remind ya that it’s your Christian duty to share these real nice titties with your brothers.”

  “The Lord knows damn well I’m an orphan and don’t have any brothers,” I say, batting off his fingers that’ve begun tiptoeing over the swell of my double D ninnies. “You’re lyin’ again.”

  “Why ya always got to be like this?” Sneaky Tim Ray whines. “A retard like you . . . who else is gonna wantcha? Ya should feel flattered I hanker for ya like I do.”

  The treetops are trembling.

  “Let go of me. I ain’t got time for this now,” I yell, pretzling in his grip. “I gotta get those eggs for Grampa and ride and . . .”

  “Maybe you’s not the only one wantin’ to go for a ride,” he says, thick in the throat. And then real fast, for he is quick as only a small man can be, Sneaky Tim Ray shoves me to the ground and paws at my white blouse.

  Don’t worry. I’m not afraid. I know exactly what’s about to happen.

  A Friend Indeed

  Billy comes rushing out of the trees in his camouflage outfit, his arms spinning like egg beaters and wham! Sneaky Tim Ray Holloway has been outsnuck. Billy is not only an expert at concealment, he’s got some fancy Oriental moves he got taught in the army that can whip an enemy up but good. I’ve asked him recently to hold off on rescuing me until there is bodily contact in situations like these because Quite Right people know how to take care of themselves.

  Getting up and brushing myself off, I tell him, “That was excellent timin’. Much obliged.”

  “My pleasure,” Billy says, kicking Sneaky Tim Ray in the leg with his steel-toed boot ’cause it always takes some time for his stormy temper to wane. I don’t believe he was quite so thunderous in nature before he attended the war. He was just as tall, though. I gotta crane my neck to get a good look at him ’cause I am not over six feet by three inches. I’m a lot shorter. And a little younger. He’s twenty-three. (I did check with Grampa, by the way. I am not thirty-three years old. I’m twenty, but not for long. Got a birthday comin’.)

  “Why didn’t ya use that neck-choppin’ move I taught ya?” Billy asks.

  “I forgot.” I pull down my blouse where Sneaky Tim Ray matted it up. “Next time I’ll give him the neck-choppin’ move, I promise.”

  He’s so easy on the eyes, Billy boy is. Reminds me a lot of my absolutely favorite movie star of all time, Mr. Paul Newman, who, if you recall, played Butch in the movie Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. That movie is a passion of mine. Clever’s, too. (Even though she’s my best friend, she goes more for Mr. Robert Redford; he’s the blond one of ’em.) Billy’s face is handsome and he’s got brunette hair like Mr. Newman’s, but he isn’t anywhere near as calm under fire. No. Billy gets worked up enough, his words’ll come out stuttery as a machine gun. And the slightest noise like a twig cracking underfoot can sound like cannons going off to his ears. He didn’t used to be this easily riled. He used to be a cool-under-fire star quarterback. WILLIAM “LITTLE BILLY’’ BROWN, JR. shines bright on those football plaques that hang in the hallways up at Grant County High School. Come every fall, I write an article in the Gazette to remind everyone in Cray Ridge how proud we should be of our Billy.

  “Got a little something for you, too,” I say, removing the paper out of my briefcase. “This story’s got your daddy in it. See?”

  Billy won’t look. His eyes are too busy searching the sky, the trees.

  So I read to him, “Another winner for Big Bill Brown and High Hopes Farm.”

  “I heard about that race already.”

  “You did? Dried apple damn!” I do not care at all to be what is called by Mr. Howard Redmond of New York City, New York—scooped.

  “I was up to the farm for most of the week,” Billy says. “They got in some new colts and needed the help.”

  “You were up to the farm? Good job!” Since Billy’s mama died birthing him and his daddy is ashamed that he came back from Vietnam with this nervousness sickness, it’s a hard rope for Billy to tow being at High Hopes, which is one of the best racing stables in all of Kentucky. “Would you like a star?”

  “Wouldn’t mind a green one if you got it.” He’s got a row of ’em already stuck on his shirt pocket, next to that nice silver one the army gave him. I got this idea from my physical therapist at the hospital. Whenever I see somebody doing a good deed, I reward them with a star. Even though Grampa says goodness is its own reward, I say it never hurts to have something shiny. Yesterday, to the best of my recollection, I gave out two of them. One to Miss Florida for giving me an extra slice of blueberry pie and another to Miss Ruth at the library for recommending that Jokes-A-Million book.

  “Ya workin’ on any new stories?” Billy asks, stroking Keeper. Besides his couple of good tricks, my dog is well known for his spirit-lifting abilities.

  “Nope,” I say, wishing Billy’d look at me face-on. Those stormy sky eyes of his are really something to behold. “Nuthin’ new to report.”

  “Did ya get a chance to look at what I left you in the stump?” he asks.

  I dig down in my pocket and pull out the locket, let it twirl off my fingers.

  “Go ahead and open it,” he insists.

  I do try, but sometimes my fingers on that left side of my body can still get shaky. Noticing I’m having a hard time, Billy lifts the gold chain off my fingers. “See?” he says, shy, showing me what’s inside.

  There’s a picture of me on a palomino horse that I think used to be my favorite when I could still feel the cantering wind in my hair. It was taken back when I didn’t live permanent with Grampa. Can’t recall the horse’s name. But golly, my dimples are deep. Another picture, one of Billy atop a tar black horse, sits on the other side of the locket. He’s smiling, too, so that shot musta also been taken before he had to keep his eyes peeled every minute for pits full of steaks.

  “Remind ya of anything?” he asks.

  “Wish it did.” I gather the hair up off my neck so he can fasten the necklace with the tips of his fingers. Billy doesn’t go in much for skin touching. “Ya wanna come say hey to Miz Tanner?” I ask, because he really does need to spend more time with folks who are not me and Keeper and Grampa.

  “Not today. Maybe tomorra,” he says, sorta wistful, looking at the pictures one more time before he snaps the locket shut. “You, ah . . . feelin’ all right about what happened?”

  I glance over at sprawled-out and slobbering Sneaky Tim Ray. “Well, I’d rather he didn’t jump out at me every single time I—”

  “No . . . no. Not what just happened. I mean, about the other night.” Billy points to the top of my legs.

  I woke up yesterday with bruises on my thighs. Budding lilac now. “Oh, goodness. I’ve been wonderin’ about those. How did I get them?”

  “Ya don’t recall?”

  “No, I . . . wait a minute. Clever and me were up to the Outdoor a coupla nights ago. Could I have fallen or somethin’?” Movie watching is our favorite hobby. Shoot-’em-ups most of all. That giant sheet out there turns into something completely different in the summer, in the dark. Us two girls just about pass out with utter adoration gazing at those stars on the screen and God’s up above.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Billy agrees real fast. “Ya musta fell. Ya know how uneven that ground is up at the Outdoor.”

  To quote Mr. Howard Redmond of New York City, New York: An operative must pay special attention to the eyes of a subject during an interrogation. If they are darting, this is a sign of lying. Billy’s eyes look like leaves getting chased by a rake. What’s this boy trying to hide?

  Stretching his long self even longer, he says, “I got traps to tend to. See ya later.”

  “Not if I see you first, little old lady who,” I yell out to his broad back that blends quick into the bushes that his laugh does not come back out of. Because Billy doesn’t get jokes anymore neither. And since his se
nse of humor got lost way over on the other side of the world, there is little chance of him recovering it. Poor, poor Billy Brown.

  Well, I suppose it’s my Christian duty to check on Sneaky Tim Ray to make sure he’s still breathing. Reaching into my leather-like for my compact mirror, I hold it under his nose until it clouds up, a trick mentioned in the pages of The Importance of Perception in Meticulous Investigation. He’s fine. Well, maybe not fine, but he is still breathing. I turn to head back to the drive, but then, I swear, I don’t know what crashes down on top of me at times like a wave. This overwhelming desire to commit such wickedness. I’m helpless to restrain myself. I’m NQR, you know.

  I command, “Piddle,” and Keeper readily obliges by lifting his back leg, smiling toothily at the steady stream spewing onto Sneaky Tim Ray’s grimy ankle.

  (Already mentioned to you that this dog knows a couple of good tricks, didn’t I?)

  Making Hay While the Sun Shines

  Miz Tanner is sitting on the porch steps of her yellow farmhouse with Keeper, who scooted on ahead. She’s distracting him with half a sandwich so she can check under his white bandage. I wonder why Billy didn’t mention that bandage. Being of a medical nature, that’d be something that’d usually pique his interest. Guess beating on Sneaky Tim Ray piqued his interest more, which is exactly what is expected of him. It was my grampa who assigned Billy to guardian angel me.

  “Hey, Miss Jessie,” I shout, skipping up the last part of the drive, ’cause I always feel tail-waggin’ happy upon seeing her.

  “Where you been?” she yells back. “Your grampa just called. Said he dropped you off twenty minutes ago.”

  (He keeps a stopwatch on me ’cause I get lost. A lot.)

  “I ran into Billy,” I say, coming up and crouching down on the step below her. Miss Jessie’s husband got thrown from a horse some years back and died on the spot, so just her and Sneaky Tim Ray live on the farm now. I’m not gonna tell her about this cousin of hers jumping me in the woods a little bit ago. No. That’d be purely foolish. Nuthin’ bad can happen to my dog.