Land of a Hundred Wonders

by Lesley Kagen

  “Don’t get your hopes up on neither one of them subjects,” he says, irritable again because loud from next door, Willard’s favorite musical group is complaining about getting no satisfaction.

  Grampa cups his hands and bellows, “Turn that caterwauling down, ya jackass.”

  Willard obeys straight off because even I know that smokin’ hemp is against the law. Willard knows full well that Grampa could turn him in to the sheriff, but not that he won’t. “Grown men should know what’s right and what ain’t right in their hearts. Shouldn’t need no laws or a blowhard like LeRoy Johnson to remind ’em,” is what my old cowboy lectures whenever the subject comes up.

  Two lemonades and a bowl of strawberry ice cream later, Grampa is tallying up the score. “Two hundred twenty-seven to one hundred fifty-four.”

  “You or me?” I ask, trying to get a look at the score sheet.

  “Don’t matter who won,” he says, scrunching up the paper in his fist. (Poor, poor Grampa. Isn’t that what folks always say when they lose at something?) “You sleepin’ out here tonight?”

  “I am, but not right off. I gotta finish up my story.” I reach behind me for my extra blue spiral notebook that I keep under my porch pillow. Wish to hell and back I hadn’t forgotten my leather-like up at Miz Tanner’s.

  “Not too late,” Grampa says.

  “Nightie-night, Charlie. Think about what I said about Miss Jessie’s big brass bed.”

  He walks stiff into the house. He’ll splash water on his face in the bathroom. Sit down on the wooden chair next to his bed and unstrap his leg. Have a sip of peach schnapps. “Be sure to brush your teeth and say good night to you know who,” he says, out of the darkness.

  He means Mama. Grampa’s hung her paintings all over the cottage walls to help me remember more of her. She was well known for her dreamy watercolors of horses, rearing and playing, kicking and galloping. Mama was an artist. A woman of Refinement: Elegance. Grampa tells me her paintings still sell for a pretty penny up in Chicago. Because she is dead, that makes them worth more, which pains me some days, so bad. There’s photographs of her, too. Winning blue ribbons for her art. Holding a fish on the pier that’s bigger than she is, with the kind of smile that makes you wanna smile back. My mama was my grampa’s only child and the love of his life. Though I probably loved my daddy as well, I know she was mine, too. If only I could net more than a handful of memories of her. Like the feel of her powdered cheek on my fevered forehead. The way her velvety braid tickled the tip of my nose when she tucked me in. Some nights, when I can’t take not remembering her anymore, I lay my face onto the grazing mare and filly painting above my bed, hoping to feel something she left behind. But I should be fine tonight. I got my story to keep my heart out of that longing territory. And a job to do.

  As Clever Does

  Plumping up my pillow, it’s just me and Keeper and my extra blue spiral out here on the porch now, nobody to bother me for a while. I can’t stop dwelling on Mr. Buster and his twisted noggin and how that would be so useful as an investigator to have eyes in the back of your head like that.

  Focus, Gibby. Focus on the Miss Cheryl and Miss DeeDee story. It’s almost done and then you can get busy investigating on Mr. Buster. I press my pencil to my pad, wishing I had my favorite No. 2. Love that worn rolling feeling.

  Miss Cheryl and Miss DeeDee have been visiting Hundred Wonders every Sunday afternoon for over two months now. Miss DeeDee cannot believe the improvement she has been experiencing in her eyesight.

  I scootch Keeper over a bit. He’s such a bed hog.

  Miss Cheryl, Miss DeeDee’s good friend, has this to say about their visits. “If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes . . . well, it’s a miracle.”

  Miss Cheryl’s right about that. Miss Lydia can perform miracles. During our VISITATIONS, and I’ll swear to this on my Bible, I can feel Mama’s presence so strongly. Miss Lydia makes Mama come alive again for me at Hundred Wonders.

  From outside the porch, there’s a rustle rustle and a snap. Clever is much earlier than usual. (I am not sure if I have mentioned this before, but her given name is Carol Lever. I saw it written down like this before I was properly introduced to her—C Lever—and I assumed, proof once again that the road to hell is paved with good assumptions, that her name was Clever. She liked it, so it stuck.)

  “Whatcha doin’?” she asks, separating the bushes and sliding up to the other side of the screen. She’s fussing with a sweetheart rose. She almost always has got one pinned to her hair. Her and Grampa love those flowers to death. If I was writing an article about Clever for the Gazette and had to come up with a hobby of hers, besides western-movie watching, of course, I’d say it’s either tending the gardens along with him, pruning and watering and pinching and all. Or attending funerals. (She finds the newly dead real interesting.) Or stealing. Clever is what one might call light-fingered.

  “I was tryin’ to get a few more words down in this story ’fore you showed up,” I tell her through the screen.

  “ ’Bout this evenin’ . . . ,” she says in a drawl so finger-lickin’ sweet you could frost a birthday cake with it.

  Almost every night that I can remember, and some I can’t, we perform what Clever has dubbed Gadabouts: Reckless adventures or escapes from confinement. This can mean anything from us taking the boat out on the lake during an electrical storm to trespassing where we’re not supposed to. Sometimes Billy still pals along if Clever gets it in her mind that she wants to steal something bulky, like that Jim Beam liquor sign off the highway. The girl truly excels at coming up with spine-thrilling activities.

  “What’d ya have in mind?” I ask her since there is no sense in my resisting. Clever is the boss of us this time of night and she has been since the old days. Only it was the four of us gadding about back then. We tried to come up with a good nickname for ourselves, you know, like, the Four Musketeers or Running Four Cover. Something snappy like that, but me, Clever, Georgie Malloy,and Little Billy could never agree, so we just quit trying. And then Cooter Smith, Miss Florida’s grandbaby? He started to tag along with us, so even if we coulda agreed upon one of those Four nicknames, it wouldn’ta worked out.

  “We could play some cards with Willard,” Clever suggests, raggedy-looking in the lantern light. She’s a slip of a gal with tawny hair to her shoulders that waves like a piece of corrugated tin. Shallow-water eyes. Same age as me. Her front tooth’s chipped and her nose’s got a bump up top from when she fell off the side of the Leghorns’ silo during a previous gadabout.

  “Can’t play cards tonight. I really gotta get this story wrapped up,” I say, pressing my eraser to the paper. “What’s new?”

  “I mighta fallen in love.”

  This is NOT hot off the presses. Clever falls in and out of love faster than Miss Elizabeth Taylor. (That’s where I got my idea to move to Cairo, by the way. From that movie Cleopatra.)

  “And,” Clever says, “Mama kicked me out of the apartment this mornin’.”

  This also happens on a semiregular basis. Mostly right after Janice gets herself a new love interest. Grampa says the Lever girls remind him of oil and vinegar dressing. They’re hard to keep together and separate easy.

  “Ya know, if I were you, I might try blendin’ better with my mama,” I say.

  “Well, ya ain’t me, are ya?” Clever shoots back.

  In my way of thinking, even a bad mama is better than no mama at all, but I know better than to say that out loud. Everybody knows that Janice Lever, although a top-notch waitress at Top O’ the Mornin’ Diner, the kind that can carry two dishes on each arm, stinks to high heaven in the mothering department. But if somebody else besides her insults her mama, Clever’ll give ’em an Indian burn that stings like the dickens.

  “Ya stayin’ here with us then?” I ask. She’s been living off and on with either Miss Florida in Browntown or here at the cottage since she was little.

  “Believe I’ll stay over at Willard’s.” Clever picks out the
last cigarette butt from the bag she keeps in her rolled-up sleeve. She steals the leftovers outta the ashtrays down at the diner when she can. “For now, anyways.”

  “Mr. Frank Reynolds from ABC News in New York City says smokin’ can give you cancer.”

  She holds a match to the tip, breathes in. “Gettin’ cancer is the least of my problems,” she coughs out. “I’m . . . ah . . . in trouble.”

  Also not breaking news. Probably she’s in Dutch again with her boss over at the ice-cream stand. That’s fine. If she gets herself fired, maybe Mr. Cubby, the taxidermist, will hire her. She’s been wantin’ to work for him.

  “I’m knocked up,” she says.

  “I know how you favor those knock-knock jokes much as Grampa,” I say, swiping off eraser crumbs. “So I’m real sorry, but I don’t have time to be honing my sense of humor right now. It’s vital I get this story done.”

  “Being knocked up don’t have nuthin’ to do with a joke. It ain’t funny.”

  “Well, what does it have to do with then?” I ask, fussy. Besides feeling like a full-out failure when I don’t understand what something means, I fear Mama’s gonna wear her pacing feet to the bone if I don’t figure out who murdered Mr. Buster soon.

  “Knocked up means”—Clever stops to hawk and spit—“I’m gonna . . . I’m gonna have a baby.”

  “You’re what?” Whipping my face to hers, I can tell she’s expecting me to say something more, but what would that be? I have no idea what the “appropriate” thing is to say in a situation like this. Would it be, “Congratulations”?

  “Mama says it’s gonna ruin my life the same way I ruined hers. She agrees with Willard, who says I should give it away.”

  “Give what away?” I ask, completely confused.

  Her words sound like they’re wrapped in tissue paper when she answers, “The baby.”

  “You can do that? Like . . . like . . . they give away those free samples of fudge at Candy World?”

  “Willard says there’s a social place in Lexington that’ll take it. If I give it away, he’ll let me stay with him long as I want. Maybe even take me to New York when he goes back.”

  A social place? I consider myself to be fairly knowledgeable in the social ways. This does not sound like anything I know about.

  “Ya don’t wanna play cards. Ya wanna go to Browntown?” Clever asks, shooing off the baby subject and moving back onto the gadabout subject. “I could get a little hooch off Cooter.”

  Just in case you don’t know any Negroes, you definitely should get to. I am acquainted with quite a few of them because Miss Florida Smith, our helper at the diner, she is the Queen of Browntown even though the rest of Cray Ridge does not treat her like royalty. Except for when they are eating some of her pie. I am not allowed to go over to Browntown at night anymore. Miss Florida told Grampa last week to keep me away until things simmer down. But staying away, it breaks my heart. The way that place smells of barbecue and how the houses are hugged together so close that you can hear when somebody is mad at somebody or when they’re giving each other a little sugar. All the little children running around with their nappy hair and dusty toes. And that music. That low-down music.

  But . . .

  Grampa was clear on the subject, and if he finds out I was over there, he won’t call me Gibby girl for a week. He’ll call me Gibson, and only if he has to tell me to do something of an emergency nature. The hell with him!—the creeping thoughts are nudging—Go! You love Browntown. And you might could come across an awfully good story. Yes. It’d be worth getting into trouble for an awfully good story. That’s exactly what I need right about now. This Miss Cheryl and Miss DeeDee article is feeling a mite stale.

  “Gib?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’d be a good mama,” Clever says, real wretched.

  “I know, I know you would.” She has always been good with the little ones. Gives them free cookie cones, which is one of the reasons she’s always in Dutch with her boss.

  “Knock knock,” I say, ’cause besides offering her a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup straight out of the can, or five dollars, it’s the only other way I know to cheer her up.

  “Who’s ttthere?” she says, struggling.

  “Butch.” That’s her nickname for me. It’s from our special movie.

  “Bbbutch who?”

  “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. The both of ’em. Right there. On your doorstep. Wouldn’t that beat all?”

  She fans her hand out on the screen. I do the same. Her heart is pounding in her thumb.

  “Come with me,” she says, snorting up the sad.

  Even though she’s pretending she wants to go to Browntown to get some hooch off Cooter, that’s not what she really wants. Even though Clever’s been busy with Willard for months, when the going gets rough, she’ll run to Cooter lickety split. The two of them’ve been running hot and cold for forever. And if she can’t locate him, she’ll settle for a different kinda lovin’ from Miss Florida, who’s been a second mother to her.

  “Well?” Clever says, snotty now ’cause she’d prefer having her eyes pecked outta her head by hungry crows than say please. “I ain’t got all night.”

  (You gotta admit. She’s irresistible.)

  “Oh, all right, Kid.” That’s my nickname for her. I set my blue spiral back under my pillow, lower the lantern wick, and slip on my sneakers. Keeper and me are extra careful with the porch screen door, praying nature noise will cover up its squeak.

  Once out on the lawn, I call softly into the dark, “Where are ya?”

  “Down here,” Clever calls back. “At the pier.”

  When I join up with her, she reaches for my hand and holds it firm across her belly. I cannot believe I haven’t noticed how round and hard it’s become! Have my powers of perception taken a vacation? Then again, she has been wearing a lot of these flowing-type outfits instead of her usual short-shorts and T-shirts. Something strong ripples under my palm. “For crissakes, what the hell did you have to eat tonight?” I ask, taking my hand away quick. “It’s really comin’ back on ya.”

  “That’s not supper, that’s the baby movin’ around. It squirms like that day and night. Don’t ya know one thing about how this all works?”

  While certainly not an expert, I did see that filly getting born just a couple of weeks ago. “I know some.”

  Clever looks awful disappointed. She counts on this investigative reporter to keep her up on current events. “Well, knowin’ some is knowin’ more’n me,” she admits. “The only thing I know is one of these nights I’m gonna wake up in fits of pain and after a while the baby’ll slide out.”

  Poor, poor girl. She probably doesn’t know what a mess this birthing is going to make either. “When that night comes, ya might wanna change into some work clothes, kiddo,” I explain as she undoes the rope that’s holding the boat safely to the dock.

  We’d usually take the path through the woods over to Browntown, but Clever, being weighted down with child, has decided the boat would be quicker, I guess. Keeper and her are already snuggling close on the middle plank, so I set myself down next to the outboard. A wide moonbeam is making the lake look unzipped.

  “Don’t start the motor up. Grampa might hear,” Clever bosses. “Row.”

  For once, she’s right. The Importance of Perception in Meticulous Investigation clearly states: At times it may be crucial for an operative to commit an act of subterfuge. Think like a leopard.

  The Gadabout

  Once we’re up close to Browntown Beach, I pull the oars into the boat and we glide the rest of the way. Clever splashes into the lake first, followed by me, with Keeper bringing up the rear. It’s so damn sultry tonight, even the frogs are complaining. And the cicadas, well, they don’t appear to know the meaning of the words “enough already.” I’m beginning to get that wormy feeling in my stomach. Maybe I shouldn’ta agreed to this. We pulled up the boat not too far from where Mr. Buster is rotting away.

&n
bsp; Clever taunts, “Race ya,” and rushes off toward the trees that the colored music is dripping out of like sap.

  Should I tell Clever, my dearest and oldest friend, about finding his dead body? She could have some ideas. Every once in a while she gets a bright one. Like how she figured out how to get us into the 57 Outdoor for free by outfitting me in a two-sizes-too-small angora sweater. Our thumbs and my double D’s stuck out quite nicely on the highway. (I wouldn’t recommend the trunk of a Fairlane as a mode of travel, but Paint Your Wagon was worth every bit of that greasy ride. That Mr. Clint Eastwood certainly’s got an awful lotta mumbling charm.)

  Then again, if I tell Clever about finding Mr. Buster, I might as well go ahead and plaster the news on the billboard outside of town, because as much as I love her, and I do with every inch of myself, the girl is NOT well known for her secret-keeping ability. No. There’d go my investigation, and writing my awfully good story is still #1 on my VERY IMPORTANT THINGS TO DO list.

  “Gib?” Clever’s hurrying ahead down the path that runs along the shore, still impressively swift despite her swollenness. “What’s takin’ ya so long?”

  I can’t see her face, but I don’t have to. I know it’s radiating excitement, and if you could see her heart, it’d have a crazy ole grin plastered across it. Clever gets like this whenever she’s near Browntown. Wilder.

  “Be right there,” I yell, true to my word, ’til a mewling sound coming out of the bushes next to the path stops me cold. Lifting up the low branches, I can see a tabby kitten huddled in the dirt, looking scared as can be. I recognize her as one of Miss Lydia’s from her cat Sheba. How’d she get out from underneath the porch? Shame on her mama.

  "C’mon,” Clever shouts from farther down the path, her head bobbing through the bushes.

  “Come back here,” I holler. “I found somethin’.” I’d like to think the reason she keeps going is that she can’t hear me, but more’n likely, it’s ’cause she’s so charged up. Well, I can’t just abandon the poor thing. There’s snakes and possums and all sorts of critters livin’ it up in these woods at night. Don’t know if they lick their lips for kittens or not, but don’t think I’ll take that chance. "C’mon, Keep. We gotta make us another stop first,” I say, veering down the path that leads to nearby Land of a Hundred Wonders. I must also confess to some selfishness right here on my part. Because if Miss Lydia is still up and about, which she will be since she hardly ever sleeps, I figure she’ll let me have a quick VISITATIONwith my mama, after which I will feel cherished. When we’re done, me and Keeper’ll take the trail behind her barn so we can reunite with Clever.