Land of a Hundred Wonders

by Lesley Kagen

  Knowing she was right, I did do that, took a scarf out of the basket of purple ones she keeps next to her front door. After I wrapped it around my face, just one eye peeking out, I looked at myself in her hall mirror and thought, Look at me, why, I look just like Miss Lydia. And I did go out into the barn and ask Teddy to walk me home, and then came back to the porch like he told me to. And I rocked in her chair while I was waiting for him to finish feeding, until outta the darkness, a nightingale warbled over in the graveyard, which was Mama’s favorite bird, so I figured it was a sign that she wanted me to come snuggle with her a bit, so I made my way over to the graveyard. And I was bent over, giving her stone a smooch the way I like to do, when I heard from behind me, “Well, look who’s come to visit,” and the voice sounded so much like . . . I got confused.

  “Georgie?” I called into the pitch of the night. “That you?”

  I squeeze Teddy’s hand real hard, but he does not yelp out. Somehow he knows that I need to hold on to him so I don’t drift off into a sea of ascaredness, because this is bad, this remembering of that night. This is real bad. ’Cause after I realized it wasn’t Georgie talking to me from THE GREAT BEYOND, I shouted, “Who’s there?” and that’s when he came stumbling outta the shadows.

  “Evenin’, Mr. Buster,” I said, not surprised, figuring he’d come to pay his respects to his dear nephew. Lots of folks like to come around that time of the evening to visit their departed because Miss Lydia says that’s when their spirits are the liveliest. “You come to say good night to Puddin’ and Pie?”

  Mr. Buster broke out bawling, and was so disheveled, his eyeglasses hanging off one ear, and I felt so bad for him because I know what it’s like to miss a loved one so bad that you just can’t even be bothered to comb your hair. So I came and knelt down next to him, patted his back. But it wasn’t comfort he was seeking, not that kind anyway, because I could see by the light of the lantern that hangs off Georgie’s stone that Mr. Buster’s pants were already half down, candies tumbling out his pocket. Keeper was crazy barking and snarling, so Mr. Buster picked him up and threw him at the pointy fence and drug me to the ground and pushed my legs apart, held them open with his smooth little hands, letting loose only once to pluck at my panties. “Lydia . . . Lydia . . . Lydia,” he chanted.

  I cried, “No, Mr. Butter, you’re confused. Put your glasses back on. It’s me, Gibby McGraw.” Teddy was calling for me in the distance, and I tried to shout back, “Here I am, here I am,” but Mr. Butter closed my mouth hard with his hand that smelled of butterscotch and booze.

  “By the time I got to ya, he just about had his . . . ,” Teddy says. “I pulled him off and pierced him with the pitchfork and he fell back onto Georgie’s tombstone and broke his neck.”

  So that’s how I got those bruises on my thighs. They were from Mr. Buster holding me down. And that’s why Miss Lydia had to stitch up Keeper’s head. ’Cause he got thrown up against the graveyard fence.

  I lay my head on Teddy’s shoulder. “Ya killed him for her, for Miss Lydia, on account of what Mr. Buster did to her, didn’t ya?”

  “And for what he done to her boy,” Teddy says so mournfully, like her pain is his. “And for you, Gibber. Ya know I’ve always had a fondness for ya.”

  I bring his hand that has held me steady up to my lips. “Thank you for savin’ me, Teddy. That was real brave.”

  We sit there still together for some time, until the investigative reporter in me comes calling. “I didn’t find Mr. Buster dead here in the graveyard. I found him over on Browntown Beach.” Teddy is strong, but I don’t think he could’ve lugged that fat man all the way over there by himself. “Did ya use your wheelbarrow to get him over there?”

  “By the time Lydia got your dog sewed up, Billy’d come lookin’ for ya. He hepped me carry Buster’s body over there.”

  My guardian angel really does need to work on his punctuality.

  “Billy brought along the pitchfork and swam it out into the lake so I’d never have to see it again,” Teddy says. “He wanted to take Buster’s body out there, too, weigh it down so nobody’d ever find it, but I told him, no. Let him lie dead and cold in the same place as little Georgie.” He pulls back his sloping shoulders. “Ya best go now, Gibber. Tell ’em in town that I’m the one murdered Buster. I was fixin’ to turn myself in right ’fore ya broke Cooter outta the jail anyways.”

  My voice is so pitchy sounding, practically matching his when I say, “Ya know, I don’t believe I’m gonna tell anybody in town anything of the sort. You know and I know and Miss Lydia and Billy know that you did in Mr. Buster, but that’s all that do. In my opinion, that sorry excuse for a man deserved to die. And even though everybody in Cray Ridge will agree with that in their hearts, when it gets down to it, at that county courthouse, you’ll be found guilty ’cause you are not lily white, and I say the hell with that.”

  I get up off the wood bench to pluck the sign out of the muddy earth and bring it back to him.

  WONDER # 33

  IF SILENCE IS GOLDEN, THEN FORGIVENESS IS PLATI NUM

  “Everybody can go catch a green rabbit, for all I care,” I tell him.

  Teddy doesn’t say a thing for a piece. But then reminds me, “Important to keep in mind that I weren’t the only one saved ya.”

  I know he means her. But I can’t. I just can’t.

  “Ya know what ya should do now? You should go into that house and make her a cup of that dandelion tea she’s so nuts about,” I say, trying to dam up the tears. “And could ya tell her . . . tell her that I’m not ready just yet, but I hope like hell she’s right about thyme healing all wounds.”

  Teddy doesn’t answer me back, just looks awful desolate when he runs his hand down my hair that covers my scar, then gets up and walks off. But if I know the Caretaker . . . he’ll do his job.

  The Showdown

  I was thinking of ridin’ Peaches, but changed my mind. I feel like walking to the hospital. Feet touching the earth one right after another, there’s something real grounding to that, and Lord knows I’m in need. Mr. Howard Redmond states in the last chapter of The Importance of Perception in Meticulous Investigation: Writing the Story: The concluding part of an investigation can be overwhelming, particularly in an important case. All investigative reporters worth their salt must take their time to thoroughly examine the facts before they begin to write their story.

  So that’s what I’m gonna do. Take my time to sort this all out. But NOT because I need to get my facts straight. As I wind my way down this wide-as-a-ribbon trail that leads away from Land of a Hundred Wonders toward town, like I already explained to Mama, I know that I’m not ever gonna be able to report my awfully good story. I really only have the headline: Buster Malloy Found Dead on Browntown Beach. I can’t tell my loyal Gazette readers who did it or why or where or when. Which means I’m not ever gonna become well known enough as a reporter to travel to Cairo, but that’s fine. Billy wouldn’t like Egypt. He’s not so good with sand, I’m not sure why. He just really despises the stuff. And now that I know he’s innocent of murdering Buster, we won’t have to relocate to Bolivia, which I got to admit is kind of a relief, since I was fairly certain we would have to kidnap Senor Bender so he could translate for us down there and Billy’s also not so good with that Spanish teacher. Thinks a man that gets manicures is smarmy.

  And Grampa. He’s gonna need me here to take care of him. Setting him up on fresh-laundered pillows out on the screened porch so I can go off to cook us a big fish over the fire. Even though he never cut me any slack when I first got out of the hospital, my mostly 100% lovable self is figurin’, for a nice welcome home from the hospital present, I’ll let him whup me in Scrabble.

  So with the case solved, but not being able to report it, and Clever having a baby, but us not having the treasure to buy diapers and such, and Miss Lydia not being so miraculous after all, well, I’d describe how I’m feeling right this minute as . . . bittersweet. Like one of Candy World’s green caramel
apples. Now don’t get me wrong. I still got hope. After all, it does spring internal. (Even though I know that you’re resting in peace now, me getting Quite Right again’d be the dusting on the doughnuts for us, wouldn’t you agree, Mama?) And I got so much else to look forward to. Like Billy and me gettin’ married, and baby Rosie’s toes, and I bet Grampa’ll be back home soon.

  So I’m thinking about picking some of his favorite bluebells for him when outta the woods up ahead somebody yells out in a last-chance voice, “Come on out or we’re comin’ in after ya.”

  “Yeah,” somebody else calls out.

  Thinkin’ it’s me they’re hollering at, I flatten down to the ground until another voice shouts, “I’ll be back with her mama,” and then I realize it can’t be me they’re talking about because, as you well know . . . Well, lookee here! I bet all this commotion is breakin’ news of some sort. Thank goodness. I sure could use another awfully good story right about now.

  Skittering fast down the trail, trying to blend in like Billy taught me, I get a good look at what’s unfolding on the other side of the trees. The angry voices are coming from the old Hamilton place, which has been abandoned ever since Mr. Garr Hamilton got dragged back to jail for moonshinin’. Years ago, I was friends with his girl, Martha Jane, who went and lived with her auntie out west once they carted her daddy off. I haven’t been up here since. The clapboard house looks like it’s shrugging now. Ya can’t even tell that it used to be painted a dawning-sky blue. Focusing on the front-yard tree, the one that’s got the tire swing still hangin’ off it, I can see the sun glinting off a gun barrel poking through the minty leaves. And over to my right, there’s Deputy Boyd trying to conceal his chubby self behind a skinny outhouse.

  What the heck is goin’ on here?

  Ohhh . . . I get it.

  Once Billy and Clever got away from ’em, and Keeper led Cooter safe down the trail to the hospital, the posse, all worked up like they were, musta went looking for somebody else to sink their yellow dog teeth into. That’s what’s gotta be happening here. They got somebody cornered.

  Martha Jane and me used to play cowboys and injuns in these woods, and I remember ’em well enough to be making my way closer to the house on my best buffalo-hunting feet. Arriving behind a wide-trunked maple, I get a view of the side yard of the old place. There’s bushes that haven’t been trimmed in years and a scraggly apple orchard and grass so long that it’s up to the knees of the horse that’s grazing like he died and went to heaven. If I didn’t know better . . . wait . . . is that . . . Dancer? How’d he end up here at the Hamilton place instead of at the hospital where he was supposed to deliver Cooter just in time to see Rosie Adelaide make her way into the word? Did Dancer spook and throw Cooter off? Or maybe Cooter’s leg got bothering him so bad that he couldn’t stay mounted and had to make the rest of his way to St. Mary’s on foot or . . . OH MY GOD IN ALL YOUR GLORY!

  It’s gotta be Cooter the posse has run to ground! They got him trapped inside the house! What’s happened to Keeper?

  I’m about to call out for my dog, the hell with the posse hearing me, when the sheriff’s car sweeps into the circle drive and comes to a halt on the lawn. Knocking down the old birdbath with the door of his squad car, LeRoy barges out, saying something spiteful sounding to somebody in the backseat. Then he squats and bellows, gun pulled from his holster, “This has gone far enough y’all. This is your last warnin’.”

  Y’all?

  I’m weaving amongst the trees, attempting to get a better look, when I see tethered to a tree that’s growing new in this old place, Sonny, lapping cloudy water from a puddle.

  Oh no . . .

  Clever and Billy never made it to the hospital! That means Billy didn’t get to show the pictures of dead Mr. Buster on the beach to Judge Larson and so . . . “Oh, sweet, sweet Jesus,” I say, falling to my knees and begging for His help. My eyes looking heavenward, that’s when I see my Billy and he sees me. Up on the roof of the house, there’s what you call a cupola, that’s what he’s hiding behind. Sniping. He’s holding up a warning finger. Wait, he’s signaling.

  “I said, come out NOW,” the sheriff yells through his bullhorn. “This is your last chance.”

  Billy better have a real good plan to end this standoff ’cause furious fumes are coming off LeRoy Johnson when he reaches back into the squad car door and yanks out Janice Lever by her wrist.

  I’ve gotten even closer by belly-crawling. Billy told me to wait, and him knowing so much about warfare, that’s what I’ll do for now, but I got my .22 already drawn.

  Within earshot, LeRoy Johnson threatens Janice, “Ya tell your girl to bring that boy outta the house with her, and I’ll let her go. If not, I’ll have her and that baby she’s about to birth incarcerated.”

  The sheriff’s talking blustery, but he gets an ascared look on his face when a voice wet with excitement comes out of the top of the tire swing tree, saying, “Time’s up.” It’s one of the Brandish Boys up there in the hunting blind. The one who sounds swampish.

  The sheriff shoves Janice closer to the house. “Do it,” he commands her.

  “Carol? Carol, honey? It’s Mama,” she tries to shout, but her voice, weak from her yesterday drinking, won’t barely rise. Her hair is tumbling to the side and she’s wearing the same clothes she had on in the jail cell when I broke Cooter free. “You gotta come out, baby. They’s gonna burn ya out, ya don’t.”

  To my left, I hear a sneer, actually hear it, I tell ya. Carefully, so carefully, I peek. The long-eared Brandish Boy, he’s secreting himself a few yards away from me, behind a gnarled oak, so I can smell the gasoline just fine. And hear him flicking a lighter off and on, off and on like he’s so hungry to see that house gorging itself on flames.

  For a piece, all is quiet, ’cept for the cicadas, but then a voice comes muffled from inside the house, “Don’t shoot. I’m comin’ out.” When the front door swings open, it’s Cooter, hands waving in surrender.

  Keeper’s not by his side.

  That’s when I hear the Brandish Boy cock that rifle from up in the tree. Seein’ what’s about to unfold, I shout, “No! Cooter! It’s a trap!” And hearing me, he starts to turn back, but then, something I never woulda imagined . . . like in some awful, awful final scene from one of them shoot-’em-up movies, Clever’s mama takes off runnin’ toward the front door the exact same moment the Brandish Boy pulls back on his trigger.

  I scream, louder than the sheriff, who’s aiming his rifle up to the tree the shot came from, booming at the Brandish Boy, “Drop your gun and get down outta there. You’re under arrest.” And then, not taking his eyes off the branches, LeRoy orders over to the outhouse, “Jimmy Lee, the other one’s makin’ a run for it. Get after him.”

  From atop the roof, Billy, slipping and sliding down the shingles, shouts, “Gibby, run!” and I almost do, but the blood from Janice’s head is gushing down her neck and onto her chest.

  “Stay still, stay still,” I cry, hurrying to where she’s collapsed on the grass. Picking up her pointy-nailed hands and cradling her head gently in my lap, all I can think to say is, “Why? Why the hell did ya do that, Janice?” Amidst all the yelling and the distracting smell of fresh gun smoke, I can barely focus enough to hear her struggling to say, “The Boys.” She’s striving for, but not attaining, one of her snotty smiles. “I know ’em real well. They . . . they was gonna shoot Cooter for the reward no matter what.” A bubble of pink comes floating to the corner of her pale lips. “I had to stop them . . . I . . . every girl should have a daddy. My grandbaby is gonna have hers.”

  Pressing my hands to the side of her head, I’m trying to push the blood back where it belongs. “For crissakes, don’t die, Janice,” I say, at the same time the awfulest keening comes from outta the house.

  When I look up, there’s Clever standing in a broken-out top-floor window, Cooter by her side. Our desperate eyes meeting as she screams out, “Mama. I’m comin’. Don’t let her go, Gib.”

 
But after Janice in a barely-there voice says to me, “I told ya . . . I told ya I’d make it up to her someday, didn’t I?” I know it’s too late. With a flutter, like a petal falling from a flower, nothing more, Clever’s selfish, selfish mama is already gone.

  In Conclusion, I’d Like to Say

  With all her funeral-attending experience, Clever was able to pull together a real attractive one for her mama. She came to me a few days after Janice’s passing and asked, “Ya mind puttin’ some words together for her stone? Something nice,” she tacked on, because she knew that even though I admired Janice sacrificing herself for Cooter, and her wonderful waitressing skills, I still got some leftover feelings about her overall poor mothering performance. Did the best I could.

  Janice Lever

  (1937-1973)

  MAMA OF CLEVER

  BATON TWIRLER

  TWO-TRAY SERVER

  HEAVEN DESERVER

  Miss Florida musta baked a hundred pies. That’s what the coloreds do when somebody makes their trip to the Promised Land. Throw ’em a goin’-away food and music party. Janice Lever, if she hadn’ta been gunned down, woulda been Cooter’s and Miss Florida’s kin, so once Miss Florida got over her initial blood-mixing madness, she explained to me as we baked those pies together in her Browntown kitchen, “Since she ain’t got no other family, Carol has given us the go-ahead on buryin’ Janice the colored way.” So everybody was gnawing on pork ribs in their funeral best, keeping a beat to that lowing saxophone music after the ceremony at First Ebenezer, remarking how awfully attractive Janice looked in her old twirling costume, which Clever insisted on buryin’ her in, sparkling baton and all.