by C. L. Bevill
Precious laid her phenomenal nose on his knee and huffed as if she had known about it all along.
Anora brought them a tray full of food, and they picked at it while they looked outside.
Willodean’s cellphone went off and she reached for it. The ringtone was the theme from the movie Halloween, and it made Bubba jerk. She answered it with a sniffle. “Oh hey,” she said. “You’re not here. You should be here.” She paused. “Okay,” she said slowly. “Let me put it on speakerphone.” She pulled the cellphone away from her ear and said, “That’s David Beathard. He says he’s ready to give us our present but also that he chipped in $1000 for the Explorer.”
“That’s very nice of him,” Bubba said. He waited until Willodean pressed the right buttons. Then he said, “David, you there?”
David’s voice came over the phone’s speaker. “Yes, it’s me, Bubba. Do you like the car? I helped pick it out. I voted on the color. It’s called Ingot Silver. That’s ironic, right? Because we didn’t really find any silver.”
“Silver?” Willodean whispered. “What did they find? Wait, are we talking about those tunnels under the Hovious place?”
“I’ll tell you about that later,” Bubba whispered back.
Willodean briefly frowned at him and then rubbed her belly again.
“Well then Bubba,” David went on, “it’s very fortunate that we worked this all out to this date and we’re ready. In fact, we’re on the five-minute countdown. There’s 90 seconds left.”
Bubba gaped at the phone. Finally, he said numbly, “You mean the S.S. Stormspike?”
“The Stormspike?” Willodean repeated. “That’s a good name.”
David said, “That’s right. We have 75 seconds left, so I have enough time to tell you to look to the north. I’ll be landing on the moon in three days. Two and a half if we’ve timed it correctly.”
“The moon?” Willodean mouthed at Bubba.
“Um,” Bubba said. “You ain’t really serious, are you, David?”
Willodean’s eyes went big and then she shook her head shortly. “No,” she said. “Couldn’t possibly happen.”
Bubba shook his head. “David, you remember we talked about safety and all that? Don’t you think that launching yourself into space ain’t really safe?”
“It’s perfectly safe,” David said. “Just ask Professor Blenkinsopp. He used to work for NASA in the 80s, you know. ’86 or ‘87. I think it was right around the time that…well, never mind that. You keep watching the north. I have a moon to conquer, and it must be done. I have to go now.”
The phone clicked as David obviously disconnected.
Willodean looked at Bubba and then Bubba looked out the window. “Let’s see,” he said, “ifin that way is where the sun comes up,” he pointed to one side, “then north would be straight out the window. But ain’t nothing goin’ to happen, right?”
“Right,” Willodean agreed. “How can a resident of the local mental institute possibly launch himself into space? Wouldn’t that take highly specialized equipment and knowledge that the common person isn’t privy to?”
They both looked out the window and stared at the skies. Bubba said, “Mebe I should call the fire department.”
“No, there’s Chief Andrews and his wife right down there,” Willodean said pointing. “I think he’ll know if there’s a problem about the same time as we do. If anything happens.” She giggled nervously.
“Right,” Bubba agreed. He glanced at his watch. “Got to be about thirty seconds left. Mebe we should move to an interior room. Just to be safe.”
“Come on, darling,” Willodean said. “We’re talking about a man who chased people around while wearing purple from head to toe and some of it was because he colored it in with a purple Sharpie. After all, you heard how hard it was to get purple underwear in a man’s size.”
“I did happen to hear something about that at the time,” Bubba allowed. “But honey, David’s supposed to be an astronaut now. I mean, he came into some money. That rocketship they made looks like a real rocketship and everything. That fella, Blenkinsopp, sounds like a real professor.”
“What educated PhD-having person would possibly help David Beathard out with a project like this? Even the private sector is having issues launching their stuff and that guy is a gazillionaire with money to spare.” Willodean frowned again and rubbed her belly.
“Willodean?” Bubba asked as his gaze dropped to her belly. “I don’t think them is false labor pains.”
“Check the time,” she said, and she gritted her teeth.
“It’s a quarter of ten,” Bubba said. He glanced outside and smiled. “Ain’t no rocket bein’ launched. That’s about thirty seconds past his countdown.”
“I mean, look at the time to time the contractions, silly bean,” Willodean said. “If they’re closer together than ten minutes we might need to move our act down the road to the hospital.”
“Oh, of course, um, 9:46 now.”
Bubba looked out the window at the brand-new Ford Explorer. It was time to give that baby a test drive quickly down the driveway, over the hill and dale, in the straightest line toward the hospital. Sure, it wasn’t an old classic with timeless lines and a rounded look that people drooled over when they couldn’t have one in their garage, but it was new and a lot safer than either the Jeep or the Chevy truck. Plus, it was pointed in the direction of the driveway and Bubba’s truck was presently located in the woods off Foggy Mountain, and he didn’t have a clue where Willodean’s Jeep was parked at the moment.
There was a bright flash of light that filled up the entire sky. Bubba started to say something but closed his mouth. The thoughts that followed were something like No, no, no, not that, not really, wouldn’t there be a boom and not a big bright light? His inner voice answered him. Physics. Light first then sound. Like Lightning and thunder.
Willodean looked out and said, “Whoa.”
Everyone outside instantly shut up and the country music band stopped playing. The only noise was the carousel playing a cheery waltz as the animals gyrated and whirled.
Then the boom came. It roared across the property, and the panes in the windows shook. It also shook the floorboards in a way that reminded Bubba that Texas wasn’t really prone to earthquakes.
Finally, the arc of the S.S. Stormspike became visible as it curved across the skies to the north reaching ever heavenward.
Precious took it all to mean that the world was ending, hastily tumbling off the bed and scooting underneath so that only her tail was visible.
Bubba and Willodean and every other person at the party watched the sweeping arc of the Stormspike as it coursed over the skies. For a long time, Bubba thought it might actually make it. He held his breath expectantly because deep inside he knew that would help. However, the flaming trail of the rockets began the second part of the arc and that was all decidedly downhill.
Down. Down. Down it went. Every set of eyes within a half-mile radius systematically followed the trail of the rocketship as it plowed toward the ground. Abruptly, there was another bright light exploding outward as it hit.
“That looked like it was out toward Foggy Mountain,” Bubba remarked as if he was remarking about the weather being nice enough for an evening stroll. “Yup, there goes Chief Ted, and there goes the rest of the volunteer fire department. Wow, I dint know Tee Gearheart had joined up with the volunteers. I also dint know he could run like that.”
“Great,” Willodean said, and her voice was filled with pain.
Bubba’s head shot around and saw that his beloved wife was having another contraction. His eyes followed her arms down to her abdomen, and he saw the ripple of muscles. His mouth opened, shut, and then opened again but nothing came out.
“We can follow them until they pass the hospital,” she said, “and then we’ll stop at the hospital while they go off to Foggy Mountain. That works out well.”
“You’re…you’re…you’re…” Bubba sputtered.
“Yes, I’m…I’m…I’m,” she said. “My water just broke.”
“Now? Now? Now? HOLY CRAP!” Bubba yelled. “I MEAN CARP!”
Epilogue
Bubba and the Latest Snoddy’s Arrival
Miz Demetrice sipped a cup of vending machine coffee. It wasn’t awful. It also wasn’t good. More importantly was that it wasn’t awful. She looked around and saw that the waiting room of the hospital was packed with well-wishers. Some had come and gone. Flowers had been left. Most had even come straight from the Snoddy Estate to the hospital to see about Willodean. The people left were the diehard friends and family members. Of course, many of those kind souls had volunteered to wrap up the Snoddy fundraising carnival and apparently fun was had by all.
Others like herself had gone to the hospital to wait for word on Willodean and the baby. Bubba staggered out once every hour or so to report and was looking more and more haggard as the hours passed. He said he’d slept in the reclining chair that was in Willodean’s room, but he didn’t look like he’d slept at all, and Willodean was reaching— Miz Demetrice checked her watch— her thirty-second hour of labor.
Miz Demetrice nodded. Bubba had been a big baby, but she couldn’t recall how many hours of labor she’d endured with him. Not that she ever regretted having Bubba in any way, shape, or form.
There was a group of people who meandered past to chat with the clerk in the waiting room, and Miz Demetrice saw that it was the loonies from the hospital. God, she prayed, please forgive me for calling them that. I don’t mean badly by it. It’s just habit.
Jesus Christ still had the brown cloth wrapped around him and the remnants of the camouflage makeup on his face. Thelda wore her sweaters proudly, but she had remembered to wipe away the greasepaint. Most of it anyway. Then there was that woman with all the names. Cella something something something somethingity. All Miz Demetrice could remember about her was that she liked cocktail weenies in a blanket and jumbo shrimp and that she was a reincarnation of Pocahontas or Cleopatra or someone like that. Then there was Daniel Lewis Gollihugh who was technically not a loonie, but he was hanging with them as if he was and danged if he didn’t have some of the greasepaint on his face, too. He was also still wearing a blue flight suit that only reached to midcalf on his legs.
They asked about David Beathard collectively and got to hear the same thing that Miz Demetrice had heard an hour before.
“That boy used an emergency parachute to git out of the rocketship,” the clerk said. “They found him about a mile away from Foggy Mountain, and he broke both legs and both arms, but he’s doing well. He was dehydrated from hanging from that tree with no way of getting fluids, but we’ve got him on an IV. Once they git him all situated, you kin visit.”
Lucky David, Miz Demetrice thought.
The short-lived but infamous flight of the S.S. Stormspike had made the national news, and if she looked over her shoulder, she could see Professor Augustus Blenkinsopp on the flat-screen television speaking with Hoda Kotb on the Today show. Miz Demetrice hoped that Brownie was not the next one who would be interviewed, and if he was that he had none of his specially made contraptions with him.
The fire department had spent ten hours putting out the fire on Foggy Mountain. Chief Ted had told Miz Demetrice a couple of hours ago when he’d come in to check on the burns that one of the volunteers had gotten, that the Stormspike had landed directly on the Hovious place itself and that the top third of Foggy Mountain was no longer there. Other than some third-degree burns on one man’s arm and David being hung up in a tree for many hours with busted limbs, there had been no casualties unless one counted the various wildlife on the mountain. (Poor squirrels never knew what had hit them, and it was a dang shame about the fish in that creek.)
Also, and with heartfelt relief, there was no further sign of the Boogity-Boo who had last been seen hotfooting it for Sturgis Creek.
Furthermore, the film set of The Curse of the Boogity-Boo was now gone, as well. Hoda had interviewed Marquita Thaddeus before the professor, and Marquita was certain that with some creative filming she could finish the film elsewhere. Funding had come out of the woodwork for them. Plus, they had been insured. The director hadn’t exactly looked unhappy with her state of affairs.
Miz Demetrice drank some more of her coffee. Someone sat next to her, and she saw that it was her good friend, Doctor George Goodjoint. He was an elderly man who had attended Harvard and Johns Hopkins for his various degrees, including a couple in medicine and one in philosophy. Then he had returned to practice general medicine in the small farming community he loved. He was a shade less than six feet tall, tended to stoop because of a curvature in his spine, and possessed a shock of white hair that he liked to periodically sweep back over his forehead.
“Mrs. Gray-Snoddy seems to be doing just well,” Doc Goodjoint said. “I checked with the OB-GYN a bit ago. The labor’s a little long but nothing to be concerned about. Both mother and fetus are not in distress, and they’re expecting an appearance within an hour or so. I believe the doctor is just as relieved as the parents.”
Celestine and Evan Gray, who sat across from Miz Demetrice, both sighed heavily.
“What about that fella, David Beathard?” Miz Demetrice asked.
“He really only broke his legs and his arms, although it’s in three places on one of his legs,” Doc said. “Fella came out of a rocketship that was actually launched and didn’t kill himself. That’s a miracle. Amen.”
“Amen,” Miz Demetrice agreed. “You know I am bothered by the coincidence of the S.S. Stormspike hitting the Hovious place.”
“Ah,” Doc said. He gestured at the television. “Yon professor explained that there was a mix up on the guidance computer. They did a test launch earlier with a scale model that used a very specific GPS location so that the model could be retrieved. Testing the water on how the real launch would proceed and all.”
“Bubba mentioned that. It came down where they were setting up their traps for the Boo,” Miz Demetrice said.
“Yes, and they used the very same guidance computer on the rocketship, the actual rocketship that Mr. Beathard was in,” Doc said and nodded to emphasize his point.
“You mean that they programmed the rocketship to come down in the same spot by accident and that’s the only reason that man didn’t get launched into space?” Celestine asked. “Good Lord,” she added.
Doc Goodjoint smiled ruefully. “God watches over little children and the criminally insane and also drunks and dogs.”
As if on cue, Precious stuck her head out from underneath Miz Demetrice’s chair and nudged her leg. Miz Demetrice reached down to scratch under the hound’s jowls.
“Dearest lady,” Doc said, “did you know that the LED lights on your hat are dead?”
Miz Demetrice shrugged. “I have extra batteries.”
Suddenly the doors leading to the wing where Willodean was in the process of labor sprang open, and Bubba exploded outward. There was still green and brown paint on his face, and he looked like he’d been put through a wringer. His hair looked like it had been on fire and put out with a brick. One of his boots was missing and a big toe stuck out of a hole in the sock. He looked so tired that he would have slopped the cows and milked the hogs.
Every single person in the crowded waiting room instantly became silent. The only noise was from the television where the professor said gleefully, “The next time will be the trick.”
Miz Demetrice stood up knowing this wasn’t just an hourly report on Willodean’s status because Bubba had a positive look on his face.
Bubba said, “We have a baby!” A weak smile followed.
“It is healthy?” Miz Adelia asked. “Ten toes and ten fingers?”
“Kin I play with it?” Brownie asked.
“I want to dress it up in a police officer outfit,” Janie said.
“Booo-bah,” Cookie said.
“Is it a boy?” Celestine asked.
“Is it a girl?” Miz Demetr
ice asked.
“Is it twins? Because twins run in our family,” Evan said.
Miz Demetrice harrumphed loudly and demanded, “Boy, don’t keep us waiting! We’re dying to know.” She considered. “Mebe not dying.”
Bubba looked at everyone and waited for all of their words to die away. Finally, he took a deep breath. “Everything seems just fine with both Willodean and the baby,” he said. He continued to grin and after what seemed like an eternity, he announced, “As for the rest, well, it’s a plain truth, folks. It’s a Snoddy!”
– The End –
Author’s Note: This is the ninth Bubba book, eleventh if one counts the two Brownie novellas, and yes, I kind of do. There will be more, although I once swore that if I wrote a series there would be no more than five in it. (Haha) Thanks to all the usual suspects, husband, child, cats, the universe, my lovely talented editor, Mary E. Bates, and the nice folks who format my manuscript at the Fiction Works. (That’s www.fictionworks.com for those of you who need that kind of service.) Also, thanks to Deranged Doctor Design for helping with the cover of the hard-copy novel. They didn’t design my cover, but they did help me with making it into one that can be used on the paperback copy. However, they also do fabulous work as can be seen on many of my other novels. (www.derangeddoctordesign.com ) Now for the Easter egg in the note. I once made lunch for my husband and asked him what kind of sandwich he wanted. He said, “Any kind.” I said, “Cat food?” He said, “Yeah,” and kind of giggled. So I made him two sandwiches and one I sprinkled with dry cat-food kibble. Unfortunately, he ate half of that one before he wondered why it was so crunchy. Anyway, he answers the question now when I ask him what kind of sandwich he wants, and yes, we’re still married. Finally, thank you all, kind readers for your support. I cannot do this without you and it gives my heart a warm fuzzy when I hear from you.