by Lesley Kagen
Clever and me are at the cottage, out on the pier, legs hanging long to the water, shooting skimmers in the dwindling light. Pink balloons are sagging off the dock after today’s shindig. We’re celebrating my belated twenty-first birthday and Rosie Adelaide’s one month. Cooter and Clever got to the hospital in plenty of time after the showdown for her to deliver a baby who resembles a box of colors with her burnt umber skin and cornflower blue eyes. She’s curled up in the cottage in her daddy’s arms. In Grampa’s old bed.
As usual, Keeper’s at my side. Snubby tail wagging at nothing I perceive. His back leg is still bandaged and maybe he won’t be able to use it again after he got it caught up beneath one of the Brandish Boys’ horses when he was trying to lead Cooter to the hospital. The fact he can’t bound into the lake and retrieve these skimmers is just about causin’ him to go blind.
“Tell me again what Mama said to you right before she passed,” Clever says, landing a three-skipper.
“She said that every baby should have a daddy and her grandbaby was gonna have hers.” I musta told her this story a bazillion times, adding on as I go, “And that she was sorry for treatin’ you like she did. And that you were the best daughter in all of Kentucky. And that she knew you’d be the best mama. And that you were extremely good-lookin’.”
I can practically see my sidekick’s smile coming clean through the back of her head when she says, “That really was something, her taking that bullet for Cooter like she did.”
“It sure was, Kid.”
I gotta admit, I was somewhat shocked by how broken up Clever was after Janice’s passing. More than I thought she’d be. But she’s settled down some now ’cause after they set her mama in the ground at Land of a Hundred Wonders Cemetery, her and Miss Lydia have become quite close, their shared interest in the dead being the thing they have in common. They’ve been spending a lot of time having VISITATIONS and discussing in depth:
WONDER # 12
TRANSMUTATIONS OF THE HIGHEST ORDER
“Ya think that’s possible?” Clever asks.
“Do I think what’s possible?” I’m remembering the last time we were out here on the pier. It was right after Grampa’s heart attack.
“Transmutation of the Highest Order,” Clever says, looking almost thoughtful. “Ya think a soul could crawl into another body so it can finish off any business it didn’t get to when it was alive?”
I haul back my arm and let loose, delivering a four-skipper. “Before I answer with what I think, why are you askin’ me?”
Clever looks sheepish. “I swear, sometimes Rosie reminds me an awful lot of Mama.”
“She’s not askin’ ya to pour Mr. Jim Beam into that baby bottle, is she?”
Clever cups her hands, moving into Indian burn territory. When I’m done swatting her off, she says, “Miss Lydia’s taken to wearin’ black almost every day. She’s missin’ ya something awful, ya know.”
“I heard she’s got Teddy and Vern managin’ the tobacco farm. That was smart a her.” After all, one of them is the Caretaker, and the other one reads. Once that hiring news got out, agitated Browntown relaxed.
“How do ya think the white folks are gonna feel ’bout that?” Clever says, knowing we’re not the only ones that enjoy throwin’ stones.
“What choice do they have but to at least pretend it’s such a fine idea, bein’ that Miss Lydia is the second-richest person in Grant County now?”
“Shoot. I forgot. She gave me something to give to ya.” Clever pops up dripping, runs off to the picnic table, and brings back a shoe box. “Open it,” she says, bossy as ever. I lift off the top, and beneath the white tissue paper there’s a bouquet of dried forget-me-nots held together with a purple ribbon. “She said you’d know what that meant.”
“Gibby?” Grampa shouts out. He’s making his way toward us from the old Fleming cottage. The one that damn Yankee Willard rented out. That’s where Grampa’s been living since he got back from the Houston hospital. That’s the way he wanted it. Said me and Clever and Rosie should stay in our cottage and he’d move over there. After he aired out the hemp smell. When they’re married, though, him and Miss Jessie will live at her farm. Cooter’s been bunking down with Billy for the time being in the tent in the woods. We’re all gonna have a ceremony right here on the cottage lawn when the maple leaves reach their reddest. This is what the Gazette headline is gonna announce in next week’s “All You Need Is Love” column:
Comin’ Soon . . .
A Trifecta Wedding!
We haven’t worked out all the details yet, where everybody’s gonna be living after we’ve tied the knots, but for sure it’ll be here in Cray Ridge and not Bolivia. Which is good, since Loretta Boyd from over at Candy World told me this afternoon when I stopped by to pick up a sack of chocolate-covereds that Senor Bender would NOT be available to do any Espanol work in the near future ’cause he’s run off with the Spanish Club’s treasury money. And Miss Darlene Abernathy. (I haven’t told Clever about that last part. She’ll be too disappointed. She stole a rusty shovel from somebody and gave it to me for my birthday, promising, “Tomorra we’ll head over to the hospital and beat that varmint Darlene to death on her lunch break.”)
“Ya hear me, Gib?” Grampa calls out to me again in his hut-to voice.
“Hard not to, Charlie.”
Turns out his heart attack wasn’t as bad as the doctors first thought, so he didn’t have to get his chest opened up with a saw down in Houston. “But,” Miss Jessie explained on our way home from the airport a few weeks ago, “he’s had a complication.” (I’m embarrassed to tell ya that made me snort, and say, “Ya think HE’S had a complication. Lord. Ya have no idea.”)
Once we got him back home, the four of us, Billy and me and Clever and Cooter, took turns telling him the best we could about what’s been going on. Slow, so he’d understand. Because his complication is called a stroke. (Just in case you’re not familiar, this has nothing at all to do with swimming. It’s a medical condition that happens when some of your brain blood doesn’t get where it’s supposed to and your body can go sorta slack on one side and your understanding of words can get messed up.) He said to me yesterday morning when I was gettin’ him dressed, “Guess the thoe’s . . . on . . . the other foot now, huh, Gibby girl?” See how confused he gets? His shoe was right where it was supposed to be.
While Grampa’s been rehabilitating, he’s turned over the everyday running of Top O’ the Mornin’ to Miss Florida. Some folks got their dandruff up ’bout that, but I have a lot of faith in the persuasiveness of her black bottom pie. The customers are also having to get used to new waitress, Clever Lever, who is displaying the familiar snotty behavior of her mama. She’s already got down the two-plate arm handle, so it looks like waiting tables is in her blood. Cooter’s also back in the kitchen part-time helping out.
“Got thomthin elth I forgot to give ya,” Grampa says, still making his way over from the next-door cottage. The hospital doctors told Miss Jessie that it’s important to his recovery that he does things on his own, so I don’t rush over to help.
“Hey, Grampa,” Clever calls to him as he lowers himself into his chair to take the evening breeze on his face. “I can tell you’re fond of that baby, so ya can quit pretendin’ ya ain’t.”
“That baby . . . that baby looth like a frog.” He gifted Rosie a whittled red-wing blackbird at the party today. (Until he gets his strength back in his right hand, everything he’s been working on looks a lot like everything else, but he said it was a blackbird, so there ya go.) To get him stronger, Grampa and Clever work every morning in the rose garden as well. He’s named a real pretty miniature pink rose—Rosie A. That made Clever do her air-raid siren crying. And, of course, the other part of his rehabilitation means I take him out on the boat every day.
“Mr. Bailey came by and mentioned that the fish been bitin’ all week in Carver Cove. So if you wanna go over there tomorrow, we can. But we have to get an early start,” I tell him slow
. “I’m doin’ something important in the afternoon. Whatcha got there?”
“Happy birfday,” Grampa says, taking a vanilla envelope out from behind his back.
“Sounds like somebody needs me,” Clever says, running her fingers down my hair as she walks past me toward the cottage. Like her, I can tell by the sound of that cry that Rosie’s hungry. There’s not a doubt in my mind that Miss Lydia didn’t lie about one thing. Yes, what we’re witnessing here is an honest-to-goodness Transmutation of the Highest Order. Rosie’s piercing, wailing demands remind me EXACTLY of Janice. She doesn’t like to sleep in her own bed, either.
“Open it,” Grampa says.
Inside the big envelope there’s a birthday card that says in his new scrawled-out-like-a-ransom-note writing:
Knock knock
Who’s there?
Little lady
Little lady who?
Little lady who’s about to get a
mysterious visitor from the east
When I look back up at Grampa, he’s apple-doll puckering. (Even more than usual, factoring in the sag he got from the stroke.)
“I don’t get it,” I tell him, studying both sides of the card.
“Look inthide the envelope. There ith thomething elth.” Blowing it open, I palm out a large glossy picture of my hero, smoking a wood pipe in a tweedy jacket with patches on the sleeves and looking nothing at all like I imagined he would. Not rugged and sly, more bookish with horn-rimmed glasses. Down on the bottom in professional handwriting:
Finest regards, Mr. Howard Redmond
“Gosh,” I gush. “I can’t believe he made the time to get a picture taken and then sign it so personal. Isn’t that something?”
Grampa half smiles, and so does Billy, who’s done doing the dishes and has joined us out on the lawn. He looks adorable in Grampa’s Chief Cook and Bottle Washer apron. (On the airplane trip home from Houston, Texas, Grampa had an old-man-to-old-man talk with Billy’s daddy. Told him to quit being such a horse’s ass. That he had a fine son. A soon-to-be Vietnam veterinarian. Big Bill Brown is still not buying that. But that doesn’t seem to upset Billy like it used to. We’re his family now.)
I open my leather-like briefcase and slide in the picture of Mr. Howard Redmond below his fine book, The Importance of Perception in Meticulous Investigation, which reminds me that I’m not done for the day just yet. “I got a little more work to do. Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” I say, bussing both my men on top of their sweet heads.
Keeper limps after me up the lawn and into the screened-in porch. (I’d pick him up, but he takes after Grampa in this respect.) After fluffing up my pillows, I take out my blue spiral and read aloud this week’s top story.
Brandish Boy and Sheriff LeRoy
Johnson Set to Go to Trial
As you probably already heard, Janice Lever was shot dead by one of the Brandish Boys, who’d been offered a dandy reward by Sheriff LeRoy Johnson to track down Mr. Cooter Smith, who it turns out did NOT murder Mr. Buster Malloy dead at the dump like the sheriff told everybody he did. Eyewitness, Deputy Jimmy Lee Boyd (Sheriff of Grant County elect), says that he was too ascared to mention it early on, but he witnessed LeRoy Johnson and Sneaky Tim Ray Holloway throwing dead Mr. Buster on the burning dump on the night in question. The sheriff had no choice but to admit his guilt. “I found Buster on the beach while I was makin’ my daily rounds. Figured I might be able to blame his death on the Smith boy somehow, but not havin’ a ready plan on how to do that, I hauled him into the woods for safekeepin’. When the coloreds started up that dump fire, it was like the Lord himself was tellin’ me, LeRoy, if’n you throw that body atop those flames, everyone will think Cooter Smith did Buster in on account a that’s where he works. It’s your Christian duty to put that rabble-rouser where he belongs once and for all. Behind bars.” (The sheriff smiled lunatically when he said that, so I suspect he might be spending some time up at the Pardyville Institute.)
So who was it murdered Mr. Buster Malloy? Will we ever know? This reporter thinks not. I believe that murder will always remain one of life’s little mysteries. (In case you haven’t noticed . . . life is chock-full of ’em.)
Next week Tuesday, the Brandish Boy, the one with the oozing pocks that shot Janice Lever dead, will stand trial at the Grant County courthouse. The other Brandish Boy, the one with the long ears? Nobody’s seen him since he ran off after the showdown at the old Hamilton place.
In other news . . . After a slew of encounters involving Sneaky Tim Ray Holloway’s hands and my double D ninnies were described to Judge Larson, charges were not pressed against this reporter for shooting his pecker. (Not off, but close.) Holloway is presently taking his meals at the jail. It appears “the old bat” that he stole the cookie jar money from earlier on this summer over in Leesburg is none other than the mayor’s dear grandmother.
Setting down the blue spiral, I ask, “Well, what do ya think?”
My dog gives me a slurpy kiss of approval. The best of all his couple of good tricks.
“Ya know, now that I’ve had some time to dwell on it, I believe Teddy Smith might be right, don’t you, Keep?” I say, lowering the lantern light. “Miracles really are in the eyes of the beholden.”
His ticktock tail lets me know that he couldn’t agree with me more.
The two of us side by side, we’re getting lulled by Billy’s and Grampa’s low voices conversing out on the lawn. The who . . . whoo . . . whooing of the horned owl, the boat knocking bashful against the dock. The crickets are performin’ a solo tonight ’cause I’m not sure when the cicadas disappeared, but they won’t resurrect ’til years from now. And right on the other side of my wall, there’s one of the best sounds of all. Precious baby cooing.
“Night, Mama. You, too, Daddy. By the way, I’m gonna use some of that money I inherited on my birthday from the ChampionBus people to pay off that cheating debt you owe that art dealer up in Chicago. Thought you’d like to know.”
Wait just a cotton-pickin’ minute.
Reaching back under my pillow for my blue spiral, I flip to the page that’s got my VERY IMPORTANT THINGS TO DO list. It needs immediate updating.
Using my No. 2:
1. I can get Quite Right.
2.
Well, much as I’d love to visit a bit more, I need to get me some shut-eye ’cause tomorrow’s the first Sunday of the month. Got that public Scrabble tournament to attend over in Appleville.
(Not to brag or nuthin’, but I’m a shoe in.)
Lesley Kagen is a writer, actress, voice-over talent and restaurateur. The owner of Restaurant Hama, one of Milwaukee’s top restaurants, Ms. Kagen lives with her husband in Cedarburg, Wisconsin. She has two children. Visit her Web site at lesleykagen.com.
Land of a Hundred Wonders
LESLEY KAGEN
This Conversation Guide is intended to enrich the
individual reading experience, as well as encourage us
to explore these topics together—because books,
and life, are meant for sharing.
A CONVERSATION WITH LESLEY KAGEN
Q. Kentucky is an uncommon location to set a novel. Why did you choose it?
A. I’ve always been intrigued by the South. The language, the culture. My daughter goes to school in Virginia and has recently married a wonderful man from Georgia, so I’ve spent a lot of time down there in recent years. I absolutely adore it! I also wanted the story to unfold in a small town because of the interesting dynamics that go on in that sort of setting. Folks who have known each other for years and years create lifelong relationships that are fascinating to me. I’ve lived in big cities for most of my life, many times not knowing my neighbors. Guess I’m a country girl at heart.
Q. Why did you set the book in 1973?
A. The seventies were a time in American history that signaled a significant change in our society. Mores were shifting, racial tension bubbling, the Vietnam War raging, and the drug culturesurfacing. It was interesti
ng to visit all this unsettledness onto sleepy little Cray Ridge.
Q. Your protagonist, Gibby McGraw, has suffered a traumatic brain injury and as a result her perception of life can be both hilariously funny and sad as can be. Why did you choose to write from the perspective of a young woman whose life is so different than the norm?
A. You know, I’m becoming increasingly suspicious about this word “normal.” We all claim to be, but who really is Quite Right? I know I’m not. And I grow weary with the effort of proving that I am. Why can’t I go grocery shopping in my jammies? Why can’t I walk in the rain without my umbrella? Maybe we could all agree to be who we are and from now on that will be called “normal.” Do you know who I could speak to about that?
Q. Describe Land of a Hundred Wonders in one sentence.
A. A love story.
Q. Awww . . .
A. I know, I’m a fool for love and all its many manifestations. The love of a parent for a child and vice versa. The love between a man and a woman. Best friend love. Forbidden love.
Q. Your love of horses and dogs is clearly an important element of the book. How did this love affair with animals get started?
A. After reading Black Beauty, I talked my mother into getting me riding lessons when I was seven years old. I’ve been crazy about these gorgeous creatures ever since, and passed that love on to my daughter. Same with dogs. And cats, I like cats, too. And bunnies and . . .
Q. One of the parts of the book that I enjoyed the most was the underlying cowboy theme. How did you come up with that?
A. I grew up with shoot-’em-ups. The simple themes of good guys versus bad guys easily identified by the color of their hats, the hunky guy capturing the heart of the damsel in distress, and the immediate dispensation of justice. Life is so complicated now. This down-to-basics stuff sorta makes me swoon.
Q. So you’re a romantic?
A. Yeah, I guess I am, in a covered-wagon sort of way.
Q. Who is your favorite character in the book?