“It’s not like the Colonel to lie,” he said. “Of course, he’s always been a mystery. We don’t really know where he’s from, or who his folks are.” He flushed. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded, Mo,” he said quick. “What I mean is …”
“I know what you mean.” I tossed an acorn at the birdbath. “The Colonel and me ain’t true family. Everybody knows that.”
“You are family,” he said. “You’re just not blood, is all. And blood don’t count for much anyway. Look at Macon and me.” Lavender calls his daddy by his first name, but as far as I know, he’s never called him that to his face. Lavender slammed out of his daddy’s house the day he turned eighteen and hasn’t been back. He moved here the same day.
Lavender’s house is old, with a patched roof, but his pride shows in the way the porch stays swept and the daylilies never want tending. His hand-lettered business sign stands in the front yard: AUTO DOC—WE MAKE HOUSE CALLS. He keeps the Azalea Women’s wheels turning and has Grandmother Miss Lacy Thornton’s Buick purring like a kitten. But everybody in town knows Lavender is just scraping by.
“Maybe you’re right,” I said. “Maybe blood ain’t all that much. I guess the main thing is, the Colonel’s good to me.”
“No,” he said, picking up a pack of spark plugs. “The main thing is, the Colonel loves you. Miss Lana does too. Speaking of Miss Lana—”
“She’s fine,” I said. “She’s in Charleston, with Cousin Gideon.”
“Don’t worry,” he said easily, “she can’t stay away from you very long.”
“I know. I just wish she wouldn’t go away.”
He dove back under the hood. “How’s your autobiography coming?” he asked.
“I’m still in the research stage,” I admitted. “Miss Lana gave me a newspaper article before she left, about my coming to town. Your daddy’s got some quotes in it.”
“Really? I’d be curious to see that.”
Lavender? Curious about me?
I smiled. “Truth is, autobiography is harder than I expected. Maybe because I got so many fill-in-the-blanks.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m more of a multiple choice man, myself.”
An easy silence fell between us.
“Hey, Lavender,” I said after a while. “That new girlfriend of yours—what’s her name? Candy? Taffy? You may not know it, but a girl like that will rot your teeth out. How about you marry me?”
He tossed a screwdriver in his battered toolbox. “You? You’re a baby.” He grinned. “Hand me that ratchet. I got to get this car right for tonight’s race. Where’s Dale, anyway? You guys are usually like get and got, one right behind the other.”
“Gone home to check on your mama,” I said as he leaned over the engine.
I haven’t mentioned it to Lavender yet, but if we adopt children after we’re married, I’ll want to name them myself. Naming Good runs scarce in the Johnson family.
Lavender’s full name, for example, is Lavender Shade Johnson. No lie. Miss Rose says she named him during her Early Poetry Stage. When Dale come along, Mr. Macon named him Dale Earnhardt Johnson, III—after Dale Earnhardt, maybe the most famous racecar driver in history. The “III” in Dale’s name stands for Dale Earnhardt’s car, the Immortal Number 3.
Dale runs opposite his daddy on most things, but he too believes in Naming for the Famous. His dog, Queen Elizabeth II, is living proof of that.
“Dale’s back,” I told Lavender, and he looked up as Dale skidded to a halt, sending up a spray of fine white sand.
“Hey, little brother,” Lavender said.
“Hey yourself,” Dale replied, ditching his bike and plopping down beside me in the shade. He leaned back in the cool grass and crossed his tanned legs. He’d slipped into a fresh shirt—black, as usual.
“How’s Mama?” Lavender asked.
“Fine. She’s out in the garden. Daddy came by—for a few minutes, anyway.”
Lavender shot him a sharp look. It was awful early for a farmer to be home, even one sorry as Mr. Macon. “Everything okay?”
Dale’s shrug said it all: Mr. Macon had come home drinking again. Lavender tossed his ratchet in the toolbox harder than he needed to. “What you hooligans doing this evening?” he asked, slamming the Monte Carlo’s hood.
“Tonight’s Karate Night at the café,” I said. “Mr. Li’s coming over from Snow Hill to teach everybody some new moves.” I tried to sound modest. “I may not have mentioned it, but I’m a yellow belt.”
Dale sighed. He hates Karate Night, but he hates Mr. Macon’s drinking more. “Yeah,” he said, his voice dull. “Karate Night. That’s probably what I’m doing too.”
Lavender wiped his fingerprints off the Monte Carlo’s hood. “Sounds good,” he said. “In fact, it almost sounds better than fine-tuning this car for the Sycamore 200.”
“The Sycamore 200?” Dale said, sitting up straight. “That’s big time!”
Lavender smiled. “I wouldn’t say big time, but it’s a step up—and good money for the checkered flag. All I got to do is check out this engine.”
“Since when do you race for money?” I asked.
He closed his toolbox. “There’s nothing wrong with money if you know how to spend it,” he said. “Anyway, I’m short somebody to time laps tonight, and I’d hoped you two might help me out. You two can tell time, can’t you?”
“Us?” Dale yelped. “Time laps?”
It was an undreamed-of honor.
“I’ll ask the Colonel if I can go,” I said, jumping up.
“Sam’s taking the car over on the flatbed,” Lavender said, looking at his watch. “We’ll take my truck. Let’s leave at four o’clock. That’ll give us an hour to get there.”
“Count me in,” Dale said, grabbing his bike. He leaned close. “I’m going to see Mr. Jesse. We could use the pocket money,” he whispered, and winked. The reward money! “Pick me up at the bridge,” he shouted.
Lavender nodded. “Mo, tell the Colonel I promise to have you home by ten.”
“I’ll wait for you at the café,” I said, setting off at a dead run.
“Hey, bring that newspaper clipping,” Lavender called after me, and I waved without looking back.
I pounded home, changed shirts, and stuffed my laminated newspaper article in my pocket. I bolted for the kitchen, where I found the Colonel dressed in faded fatigues, a bag of spuds at his feet. He smiled as I skidded across the floor and hurled myself into a chair by the stainless steel work table. “Afternoon, Soldier,” he said.
“Afternoon, Colonel,” I panted.
“Thought I’d make some garlic potatoes tonight. Steamed turnip greens with fresh green onions, grilled chicken. While I was away I picked up a teriyaki baste I think you’ll appreciate. Broth, ginger root, sesame oil, a dash of teriyaki. …”
“Sounds great,” I said. “Actually, Colonel, I was hoping you might handle the supper crowd on your own tonight. That is, if you wouldn’t mind.”
He raised his right eyebrow. “You’re here to request leave? On Karate Night?”
I nodded.
“Reason?”
“Deployment to the Carolina Raceway,” I said. “Me and Dale been asked to time laps for Lavender. Don’t worry, sir, it’s not dangerous,” I added.
“I see,” he said. “Transport?”
“GMC pickup driven by Lavender Shade Johnson.”
“Always liked that boy,” he mused. “Pity about the name. Time of departure?”
I studied the clock, trying to do the math without moving my lips. Four o’clock is a tough one. “Sixteen hundred hours?” I guessed. “I already changed shirts,” I said, smoothing my purple T-shirt. “I know you like me to look good in a crowd.”
He nodded. “Return time?”
“Twenty-two hundred hours.”
He tossed a potato into the pot. It made a bald, rolling sound. I held my breath. Miss Lana wouldn’t let me stay out until ten o’clock if the planet’s fate depended on it. “Very we
ll, Soldier,” he finally said. “I suppose I can draft someone to help me if we get too busy. Permission granted. But I expect you back on time.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. I crossed to the Colonel and gave him a quick kiss on top of his head. He smelled like ginger and Old Spice. “Colonel, I don’t know what you and Miss Lana got crossed up about, but don’t you worry. She’ll be back.”
He sighed. “I know,” he said. “I just wish she’d stay put. She’s so … flighty.”
“A little, maybe,” I said. “But she’s crazy about you.” Just then, Lavender’s GMC roared into the parking lot, horn blaring. “There’s Lavender!” I cried.
“Run along, then, Soldier.”
I stopped at the door and turned. The Colonel looked thin and old and lonesome among the dented pots and pans. “Colonel?”
“Yes, Soldier?”
“I think I know what you mean about Miss Lana.”
He looked up at me, his expression suddenly as fragile and vulnerable as a new fawn. “You do?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I miss her too.”
He smiled. “Move along, Soldier,” he said. “Never keep a comrade waiting.”
Chapter 5
At the Carolina Raceway
Lavender leaned across the seat of his 1955 GMC pickup and pushed the door open. I hopped up on the running board and dove in. “Hey,” I said.
“Hey yourself.” The truck bumped into gear as he eased off the clutch.
“Truck looks good,” I told him.
It was true. Lavender found her in a junkyard last year. He restored her piece by piece, and dressed her broad curves in a coat of deep blue paint. I scooted forward to scan the roadside. “Dale ought to be out here somewhere,” I said at the edge of town. “There he is, by the Crash Pine.”
Dale jumped in almost before we stopped rolling. “Sorry about the mud,” he muttered, scraping his black sneakers together. I glanced at the creek’s dark waters. I could just make out Dale’s bike on the bank, hidden in a tangle of kudzu.
“How’d you get your feet wet?” Lavender asked.
I changed the subject before Mr. Jesse’s boat came up—which it would if Dale started talking. “Hey, you reckon that’s where the Colonel found me?” I asked, peering over the bridge rail. “Because I’ll want a good description for my autobiography.”
“Your what?” Dale yelped, looking like I’d handed him something dead. “You ain’t writing during summer vacation, are you?” he demanded. “Because I’m pretty sure that’s against the rules. Aren’t there rules against that, Lavender?”
Lavender shifted gears. “Calm down, Dale. Mo’s doing research, that’s all.”
“Again?” Dale said, his voice accusing. “You try to figure out your life every time you get close to a birthday, Mo, and you ain’t done it yet. I wish you’d leave it alone,” he said, slumping against the door. “I’m tired of hearing about it. There’s nothing wrong with the people you got.”
“Well, others are interested in the Mystery of my Upstream Family even if you ain’t,” I said, pulling the newspaper article from my pocket. I cleared my throat and read:
BABY GIRL FOUND
Macon Johnson, of Tupelo Landing, found a newborn girl at the edge of Contentnea Creek last Tuesday while helping a man who had wrecked in the hurricane.
“The old coot in the colonel’s uniform was holding a baby when I found him,” Johnson said. “Said he found the baby floating downstream on some debris. He named her Moses. She’s darned lucky to be alive, if you ask me.”
Anyone with information about the man, who had the name Lobo on his pocket, or the baby should contact Mayor Little.
“Yep, that sounds like Macon,” Lavender said. “I’m surprised there’s not more about the Colonel, though.”
“He’s got his own article,” I said, slipping the story back into my pocket and buttoning the flap. “Miss Lana’s keeping it for him.”
Dale looked back over his shoulder. “Daddy was right, Mo. You were lucky to get out of that creek alive.”
“Mo’s always been lucky,” Lavender said. The truck chugged good-naturedly through her gears and settled into a steady hum.
An hour later we rumbled across grassy, rutted acres of parked pickup trucks, and through the crew gate of the Carolina Raceway. Lavender let the GMC glide to a halt. “Here you go, little brother,” he said, pulling a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket. “You two get us some eats and meet me in the infield.” He stretched. “Listen, Sam brought a couple of ladies, so don’t skimp on the food, okay? Don’t worry about drinks. We brought a cooler. All right? Can you handle it?”
“Sure,” Dale said, stepping out onto the running board. I slid out after him. “Lessee,” Dale muttered as we headed for the concession line, which wound down the drinking side of the bleachers and halfway across the family seats. “You, me, Lavender, Sam, two ladies. That makes six.”
“Don’t waste your money buying food for those girls,” I told him. “If I know Sam, he’s brought a couple of ex-baton-twirlers trying to starve themselves into cheerleader-size jeans.” I peered at the line ahead of us. “Hey, I’m going over to Potty Palace. I’ll be back before you get to the front of the line.” Dale nodded, straining to see the menu board, and I trotted into the crowd.
I got my first shock of the evening just after exiting Potty Palace. I rounded the corner at near Olympic speeds, slamming square into a tall, slender woman who wheezed like an out-of-sorts accordion. I careened off of her, jumped a medium-size azalea, got my feet tangled, and landed in a crumpled heap by the gravel walk. “Jeez Louise, lady,” I shouted. “Why don’t you look where you’re going?”
“I was looking, Mo,” the woman said, trying to stand up straight. “Were you?”
“What?” I rolled onto my back and squinted into a shockingly familiar face: Miss Retzyl, my fifth-grade teacher from last year. She’s also my sixth-grade teacher for next year, having suffered the dreaded Curse of the Combined Grades. “Miss Retzyl? You should be careful! You could have killed us both!”
She smoothed her starched white blouse, then her hair.
I sighed. The truth is, I adore Miss Retzyl, who is tall and willowy, with red hair and brown eyes. She’s smart and poised, and always on time. She has an average house and drives a dark blue convertible. When it comes to Predictable, a quality rare in my life, she’s the real deal. Plus, she likes me. I cast about in my mind for something brilliant to say. Sadly, I came up empty. “Good Lord,” I muttered instead, pointing to her legs. “What are those?”
She stepped back nervously, looking at her sandals. “What do you mean?”
“Knees,” I answered. “You got knees.”
She frowned. “Of course I have knees, Mo. Everyone has knees.”
“Right. But I never saw them before. You always wear those old-lady dresses. And shorts!” I cried. “Miss Retzyl, you’re wearing shorts!”
She smiled uncertainly. “Are you all right, Mo? Did you hit your head?”
“I’m fine,” I said, swiping the gravel off my shins. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m … here for the races.”
“Really? Dale’s brother is in the next one. Me and Dale are timing laps for him.”
“Dale and I,” she murmured.
“Right. You remember Dale? Third row, fifth seat from the front? Blond hair, bad at math, wears a lot of black?”
“Of course I remember Dale.”
“His brother, Lavender, drives the thirty-two car.”
“I’ll be sure to watch for him,” she said, edging away. “Well, this has been nice, Mo, but my friend is waiting, and—”
“Friend?” I gasped. “You got friends? I figured when the school year ended you’d go home and watch TV, maybe read. I never considered friends.”
She smiled. “Of course I have friends, Mo. See you soon,” she said, and faded into the crowd. I wound my way back to Dale, who stood just one person away from the concession stand
.
“You won’t believe who I ran into,” I said. “Miss Retzyl.”
“That’s nothing,” he said. “Look over there.” I followed his gaze.
The second shock of the evening fell like an ax. “Miss Retzyl and …”
“Joe Starr,” he said, his voice grim. Detective Joe Starr handed Miss Retzyl a hot dog, and smiled. The hair on the back of my neck stood up.
Miss Retzyl and Joe Starr? Together? Had the world gone mad?
“What’ll you have, baby doll?” the lady behind the counter rasped, her cat-eye glasses sliding down her narrow nose as she glanced at Dale.
“Six fried baloney sandwiches, three orders of fries, and as many M&M’S as I can get with whatever’s left,” he said, pushing the twenty-dollar bill toward her. “You want anything else, Mo? I got our reward money from Mr. Jesse,” he said, tugging his pocket open to show off two five-dollar bills.
I snagged a five and shook my head.
We made our way to the infield clutching greasy bags of race chow. I was right about Sam’s friends: a couple of big-haired, thin-faced twins named Crissy and Missy. They sat on lawn chairs in the back of the GMC, sipping Diet 7UPs and winking at Lavender and Sam. Dale stepped gallantly forward. “Care for a baloney sandwich?”
Crissy peered into the bag. “No thank you, sugar; we’re dieting. But you’re so sweet, I could eat you with a spoon.”
Dale turned red as their nail polish, shoved his bag at me, and bolted for Lavender. I sauntered behind him, queen of the eats. “Watch the inside of the fourth turn,” Sam was saying, over by the car. “It’s running loose, you’re liable to slide.”
Lavender grabbed a sandwich. “Mo, Dale, I want you two on the truck.”
“With the twins? Buffy and Muffy?” I asked, passing fries to Sam.
“Their names are Crissy and Missy and I’m not marrying either one of them, so play nice,” he said. “Dale, I’d like for you to time the laps,” he said, handing him a stopwatch. “No rounding off. Mo, I need the times in this ledger, please, ma’am. I want to see how we’re running, lap by lap. Okay?”
Three Times Lucky Page 4