What’s left of their faces is pressed up to the shed’s side window. The Boys are beaming broad when the long-eared one smashes his rifle butt through the glass.
“Cooter, get a good hold.”
Too scared to question, with no time left, he wraps the reins around his fist. Dancer is pawing, snorting and ready.
“Please quit goofin’ around and finish up now,” I tell Keep through the crack.
Seconds later, with the loveliest of creaks, the back door swings wide and reveals the ripe green of the woods.
Cooter, sobbing, extends a hand to pull me up behind him.
But one travels faster than two.
“Give ’em my love,” I say, firing the.22 into the air. And just like he was trained to do, just like I knew he’d do, ex-racehorse Dancer, hearing that shot, jumps through the back door like it’s a startin’ gate.
The Soul of the Matter
I’m lying on my belly in the bushes back behind the shed as the posse, whooping and hat-waving, gallops past me. They’re streaking into the trees hot on Cooter’s trail. I’m not worried. He’s got a head start and the best dog in the world leading him to his heart’s desire. By the time Cooter gets to the hospital, Billy will already be there and his daddy will have called Judge Larson and told him about the pictures of dead Mr. Buster on the beach. Cooter will be Exonerated: To be cleared from an accusation.
I should be feeling real happy about all this, but the fact is, what I’m feeling is let down. I’ve reached The End of a whooper of a story I was hoping would have a much better ending. Especially for my Billy. Tomorrow he’ll walk hands held high down Main Street, declaring himself guilty of the murdering of Mr. Buster Malloy to anybody who’ll listen. That’s just the kind of man he is. (I’m sure he was just waiting ’til we were all outta harm’s way to do just that.) So instead of drinking coffee outta our shoes in the hills of Bolivia like I’d planned, looks like I might be spending the rest of my days bringing Billy pecan sandies in prison on visiting day. Well, like they say, that’s the way the cookie crumbles. And I really do have a fondness for Cooter, so it’s good that I didn’t let my wickedness wave pull me under. His black fender hair has even grown on me some.
Miss Lydia hollers from the porch, “Ya can come out now, chil’.”
WARNING: Do not be surprised by her saying this or anything else from this moment on. Mystics: Folks who have the ability of attaining insight into mysteries that transcend ordinary human knowledge as by direct communication with the divine. Miss Lydia knew I wasn’t escaping along with Cooter, but hiding under one of her highbush briar berries.
“Comin’,” I call back to her. With Billy and Clever and Cooter temporarily safe, my spiritual advisor and I, we got a little time to chat. I’ve been so busy dealin’ with all of these messes, I haven’t had a chance to stop by and I’ve been missing her. When we’re through with our catchin’ up, I believe I’ll ask Miss Lydia to conduct a quick VISITATION with Mama. Then I’ll cut some baby’s breath to take along to the hospital for Rosie.
As I lower myself onto her porch step, she’s shaking her head to and fro in a fed-up way. “I shouldn’ta turned my bad eye to him. I know better’n that. LeRoy Johnson’s always been a slippery one. Even as a boy. Why, I could tell you stories that…”
While she’s busy venting her spleen, I’m enjoying watching black-as-a-piano, slow-as-a-waltz Teddy Smith making his way down the path from Browntown. Too bad he didn’t show up a little earlier. He woulda been a big help. (I may have previously mentioned, besides working up at Tanner Farm, Teddy also does heavy lifting with his chest and arms that are rippling in the sun for Miss Lydia.)
Getting to the front yard, Teddy doesn’t wave like he usually does when he sees me. Instead he chirps, “Mornin’, Gibber. Lydia.”
“Hey,” I call back with a lot of enthusiasm, as it is rare as a good porterhouse that he’ll actually speak to you in that tweety voice of his.
Smelling the leftover smoke from the Browntown fire when it comes by on a breeze reminds me to ask Miss Lydia something that’s been confusing me for the last few days. “Billy told me that he thinks the coloreds set the dump fire on purpose. The sheriff said so, too.”
Miss Lydia nods in greeting at Teddy, and then says, “Billy’s a smart man.” Shucking now in a fiercer way, she adds, “Do you understand why they set the fire?”
I think on that for a minute. “Is it ’cause they’d like to get a brand-new dump that’s farther away from their houses? The smell over there can get awfully pungent when the wind blows outta the north.”
“While that may be true, that’s not the main reason. They set the fire to call attention to the fact that they don’t want to be treated different. The coloreds want to be treated equal to white folks.”
Just about choking on a bean, I ask, “Like how?”
“With respect.”
Now, I don’t want to pooh-pooh Miss Lydia, her being all-knowing like she is, but that ain’t NEVER gonna happen. White folks are awfully set in their ways.
“Did the fire bein’ so close scare ya?” I ask, not able to stop myself from staring at the scars on her hands. “It did Billy and me.” But right after I say that, I come to the realization that even though we just about got the poop scared outta us, I myself learned something wondrous as a result of that Browntown fire. It’s only natural to stuff sad stuff away, like Billy’s war and my crash, but listen here-if you expose those sorrows to the light of day, you might be pleasantly surprised by the outcome. Look how it all worked out for Billy and me. Can’t be a rainbow without there first being a god-awful storm, right?
“The will of the Lord is strong and sure,” Miss Lydia answers in that versed way she talks sometimes. “His flock need not be fearful. All wrongs will be set right when He seeth them.”
“Is He seething now?”
“I believe He is.”
Wheeling an empty barrow outta the shed, Teddy shouts, “I’m strippin’ the stalls this mornin’,” not knowing how relieved he should be feeling about his nephew Cooter getting away from the Boys like he did just a bit ago with no time to spare. I’m not going to say anything to him just yet. He’ll find out soon enough, along with the rest of Cray Ridge, since I’ve already come up with my newest headline:
Cooter Smith Not Hung
(Don’t worry. I perceive this needs a little work. Grampa will smooth it out once he gets home.)
The whole of the Land of a Hundred Wonders is sort of an antique, especially the graveyard. Miss Lydia rarely buys anything. Not ’cause she can’t afford to, she does just fine with all her tourist business. But she preaches that it’s best to do with what the Lord’s already seen fit to give us, so I’m quite surprised when I see the shiny brand-newness of the pitchfork Teddy’s holding in his hand. When I cleaned the stalls for her last week, the old one seemed to work plenty fine.