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.
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.
“Hurry up,” I tell Keeper, who’s dragging behind me. He is not at all fond of felines, so he’s low growling. I got the kitten up close, snuggling into her fur the way you do. “Shhh… shhh… shhh…” I’m croonin’ over and over, when outta the dark comes a voice I know only too well.
“Well, lookee here.”
“Sh… it!” I squeal, tripping, almost falling. “Ya ’bout scared the wits outta me!”
“Don’t you mean what wits you got left?” Sneaky Tim Ray says, the stink of him permeating the air. It’s not only the usual hooch smell, it’s something else real off-putting. Keeper’s full out snarling.
I say, the fright of it all giving me heart-pumping bravery, “I’m warnin’ you, Holloway, quit poppin’ out at me like that or I’ll… I’ll…”
Swaying back and forth like a strong wind’s gotten under his skin, he says in his snidest of tones, “You’ll what, darlin’?”
“I’ll… I’ll…” He’s right. What will I do? I cannot thwart him. He’d hurt Keeper “accidentally on purpose,” the way he’s sworn to do. “What do ya want?”
“Saw y’all boatin’ along the shore,” he says, swigging down a swallow from his jug. “Ya could say we’s your welcomin’ committee.”
We? What does he mean, “we”?
Who is that towering behind him in the shadows? “That you, Cooter Smith?” I ask, hoping it is ’cause me and him go way back. Not only as gadabout friends, but after his mama and daddy disappeared, Miss Florida asked Grampa to take Cooter under his wing. Growing up, I can’t tell you the number of nights I fell asleep listening to the two of them out on the lawn practicing birdcalls. For old times’ sake, I sing to him, “Oakalee… oakalee… oakalee.”
“Gib.” Cooter steps forward and nods, barely.
Lord, what is that citified thing he’s done with his hair? Looks as sleek as a fender on a funeral car.
“Whatcha got there?” Sneaky Tim Ray pries my arms apart with only-God-knows-where-they-been fingers. “Awww. Ain’t she precious.” He runs his hands down the kitten’s spine, wrenches her outta my arms. “Ya know, you and me have a lot more in common than ya might realize, darlin’. Bet you didn’t for instance know that I love pussies, too,” he says, laughing cruddy and flinging the kitten into the woods.
When I start after her, Holloway cinches me around the waist. “Not so fast. You ’n me got some unfinished bidness to take care of.”
Cooter, shifting from foot to foot, says, “We ain’t got time for this. Leave her be.”
“ ’Fraid I cain’t do that,” Sneaky Tim Ray says, wrenching my hand to the front of his stained bibs. “The south has risen again.”