Miss Lydia calls back to him, “Careful of Holly, she’s got a poor ligament in her right hind.”
I just adore sitting on this veranda with her like this. Her flower garden smelling like Eden and the honeybees buzzzy at work. Cats cranking up their little purr motors figure-eighting between her red silky slippers. Since she can’t wear regular shoes ’cause her one foot is damaged so bad that it’s painful to feel anything rough rub against it, she wears these.
Tracing the dragon on the slippers with my finger, I ask her, “Ya know what I perceive?”
“What would that be?” she says, her gaze lingering on Teddy as he enters the barn.
“That settin’ fire to the dump was a bad plan on the coloreds’ part if what they were tryin’ to achieve was that respect.”
“Why’s that?”
That’s one of the things I love most about Miss Lydia. She listens to me like I’m not NQR. “ ’Cause everybody is probably thinkin’ even more disrespectful about the coloreds now for makin’ the whole town stink of burned rubber. Wouldn’t it a been more appropriate for them to’ve just quit pickin’ tobacco? That woulda got everybody talkin’ in a big way. And if he was still alive, well, that woulda got greedy ole Mister Buster’s undivided attention. Ya didn’t happen to kill him, did ya?”
I’ve been praying with all I got that I’ve made another bad assumption. That it wasn’t my Billy that did him in. I’ve thought about it and thought about it and I can’t come up with one single reason why Billy would want Mr. Buster deader than a store nail. Really, it’s Miss Lydia who’s got the best motive for stabbing up her deceased brother, him taking advantage like he did.
“For you,” Miss Lydia says, without pausing at all, “I’ll tell the sheriff I murdered Buster.”
Boy, that’s a relief! Since I believe Billy would never make it for long in a prison. Being closed up gives him the heebie-jeebies something bad, which wouldn’t happen anyway because ’fore it did, I’d break him outta the sheriff’s jail. I did it for Cooter. I can do it for my man. Besides, if Miss Lydia confesses to murdering Buster, both of us know that since just about everybody in the county believes she’s touched in the head, the worst that’d happen to her would be she’d spend a few weeks in the mental institute crafting ashtrays, and Grampa can always use a couple more down at the diner, so this is not that big a deal.
Heavens to Murgatroid! I just perceived something.
“Since Mr. Buster is dead, you’re gonna be the boss now. After they let ya out of Pardyville, ya can go back to live up at the farm.” The second after I say it, I also perceive she’ll never leave Georgie. Or Mama. Or the Wonders.
“I own the farm outright now, yes,” she says, snapping a bean to smithereens.
“But what about what’s his name… I forget… Mr. Buster’s son? What’s gonna happen to him?”
You don’t see Miss Lydia smile all that often since people of wisdom see more of the bad in life than we simple people do, but she’s giving it a try with the good side of her lip. “Appears that my dear nephew, Bishop, and that Yankee neighbor of yours got carted off this morning. The field boss found what the two of ’em been growin’ and called the state troopers, who then asked my permission to burn those hemp plants down to the ground.”
Well… well… well.
With Willard and Bishop outta the picture, the golden hemp treasure is fair game. Me and Billy and Cooter could go gather up that crop ’fore the troopers show up. We’ll take it up to New York and introduce ourselves around that village while Clever is recuperating from the baby coming, and when we’re done selling the hemp for lots of cash, I’ll make a stop at the offices of Penguin Books to see if Mr. Howard Redmond is at his desk. I have been dying to ask him about-
“Ya can forget all that,” Miss Lydia says, snippish.
(Told ya she can see my wheels working.)
“Did ya realize you got a birthday comin’ up?” she asks, outta the blue.
“I do.” I was thinking I’d have a party of some sort this year as I have not had one since… actually, I don’t remember ever having one. “How old am I gonna be?”
“Twenty-one. That’s a milestone birthday.”
“Ya don’t say.”
“A milestone means it’s an important event, chil’,” Miss Lydia says, all of a sudden so supremely solemn. The breeze has stopped stirring. Birds have quit their twittering. Even the cicadas are stock-still.
I really do wish I had my blue spiral notebook with me because it’s one of those times when something of great importance is about to happen. This is an almost daily occurrence at Land of a Hundred Wonders and always comes on fast like this. Miss Lydia is about to make one of her PRONOUNCEMENTS.
“The spirits have spoken,” she says, setting down her bowl and floating up out of her chair. “The time for A FINAL RECKONING has arrived. Follow me.”
What I really need to do is get over to the hospital to check on Clever and Rosie and Billy and Cooter, but since I trust Miss Lydia beyond reason, and would not ever disobey her, I go with her into the parlor that’s dim with black curtains to protect her eyes that are so sensitive they can see into the future. Candles of white burn day or night, for they are soul cleansers. And AR-TIFACTUALS OF PROTECTION are scattered across her tabletops, their chestnut faces and corn-husk bodies working just dandy to keep away evil spirits. I know there are four-leaf clovers lying beneath the cushions of her green cloth sofa, which is where we always sit when we have our VISITATIONS with Mama. And the ever-present vase full of lilies-of-the-valley looms large and reminding.
If Grampa would only come visit and see these pictures of Miss Lydia and Mama that hang on her every parlor wall, he would know how much love there is for his daughter here in Hundred Wonders. Maybe he’d stop being so bitter about everything. Maybe even his hope would spring back when he saw the snapshots of when they were blond enough to ride two to a pony. Little girls picnicking down at the lake with Gramma Kitty. Later when they are more grown, there is a photo of Miss Lydia gazing into my mama’s eyes with such pure love that you can barely stand looking at it.
From underneath the sofa, Miss Lydia removes her tattered photo album with shaky fingers. We have spent day upon day, year upon year, looking at the two best friends glued forever on these pages. And me. I’m in these pictures, too. Baby Gibby… first day at school Gibby… braids down to my bottom Gibby. She removes a photo from the album. Gibby graduating from high school. My mama’s got her arm around me looking so proud. And I’m smiling at her so Quite Right.
I say, “Did you know that back before the crash Billy and me were going to get married and…” Something like soul-shatteringsorrow is sucking the air out of the parlor and taking my breath along with it. When I look over at Miss Lydia, to see if she’s feeling the same, she’s fingerin’ that graduation picture and staring off into the distance. The sound of clattering chimes comes through the parlor window.