I lift my head to look where he’s pointing. The graveyard. “Just like all the other lies she told me, it wasn’t a miracle that I survived the crash,” I say, bitter.
“Well, I believe, like beauty, that miracles are in the eyes of the beholder.” I could tell from the way he cradled Miss Lydia that it wasn’t the first time he had. And what she nicknamed him-the Caretaker-that name has a whole new meaning for me now. Teddy here, even if he is slow on the uptake, it’s clear to me he’s lightning quick to keep Miss Lydia safe. Would do just about anything to snatch her out of harm’s way.
“Nice visitin’ with ya, but I gotta get over to the hospital,” I say, starting to stand.
He clamps his hand down upon my shoulder. “She don’ want me to say nuthin’ to ya, but I figure long as ya know the rest… Too many secrets been held too long.” Once my bottom meets bench, Teddy gives my shoulder a squeeze like a reminder to stay put. “Ya was over here visitin’ with Lydia that night. Heppin’ her jar up preserves. Blueberry.”
What’s he talking about? Does he mean the night of the crash? No. That’s not right. We were coming from Chicago to Cray Ridge that night. “What do ya mean by that night?” I ask, hardly caring.
“The night… a bad storm was comin’,” he says, tellin’ the story like I’m not even here. “When ya got done with the jarrin’, Lydia sent you out to the barn to fetch me so I could walk ya back to the cottage ’fore the rain came. But I was busy, pitchin’ the late hay, so I told ya to go back up on the porch and that I’d be there right off. And ya said, ‘I sure ’nuf will, Teddy. I’ll wait right there for ya,’ and off ya went. After I finished off the feedin’, I hurried back to the house, but when I got there you were gone. I thought ya left without me, so I ran toward the path to catch up, callin’ out your name. I was in such a state, I didn’t even notice I still had my pitchfork in my hand.” He swallows hard. “When the thunder stopped rumblin’, jus’ for a lick, that’s when I heard your dog barkin’ and yowlin’ over in the graveyard. That’s where he was waitin’.”
“Well, a course he was waitin’. Keeper always does that,” I say, wondering why this would upset Teddy enough to make his eyes shine.
“Weren’t Keeper. It were… ’member?”
Closing my eyes, I wait for the memory of that night to appear. Surprisingly, it doesn’t disappoint. Coming to me is the aroma of just-picked-that-afternoon blueberries on the stovetop simmering away in sugar. And the feel of the smooth rubber rings from the canning jars. And there’s Miss Lydia, swaying to her opera music, the wind of the approaching storm shoving around her white kitchen curtains. But that’s where the memory fades. “I… nuthin’… who was waitin’ in the cemetery?”
Teddy’s breathing out all right, he just can’t seem to breathe in.
“It’s all right,” I say, patting his hand. “Ya can tell me.”
“It were… Buster.”
“Mr. Buster Malloy?” I ask, stunned.
“I shoulda walked ya straight home,” he says so hollow-hearted. “None of this woulda happened if I hadda.”
“None of what woulda happened?”
Teddy shifts his eyes over to the cemetery. “By the time I got to ya, he already… he was drunk. He was… Buster was tryin’ to do to you what he did to Miss Lydia all those years ago.”
Oh my goodness.
That night… that night… yes. Me and Miss Lydia were working together in her daisy-papered kitchen. When the jam jarring was just about done, she said, “Time to get ya home,” while she bustled around the kitchen putting the preserving supplies back into the cupboard. “Bad storm’s comin’. Go out to the barn and ask Teddy to walk you home, chil’. And take a scarf, it’s already startin’ to sprinkle. I send ya back with a wet head, your grampa will be fit to be tied, won’t he.”
Knowing she was right, I did do that, took a scarf out of the basket of purple ones she keeps next to her front door. After I wrapped it around my face, just one eye peeking out, I looked at myself in her hall mirror and thought, Look at me, why, I look just like Miss Lydia. And I did go out into the barn and ask Teddy to walk me home, and then came back to the porch like he told me to. And I rocked in her chair while I was waiting for him to finish feeding, until outta the darkness, a nightingale warbled over in the graveyard, which was Mama’s favorite bird, so I figured it was a sign that she wanted me to come snuggle with her a bit, so I made my way over to the graveyard. And I was bent over, giving her stone a smooch the way I like to do, when I heard from behind me, “Well, look who’s come to visit,” and the voice sounded so much like… I got confused.
“Georgie?” I called into the pitch of the night. “That you?”
I squeeze Teddy’s hand real hard, but he does not yelp out. Somehow he knows that I need to hold on to him so I don’t drift off into a sea of ascaredness, because this is bad, this remembering of that night. This is real bad. ’Cause after I realized it wasn’t Georgie talking to me from THE GREAT BEYOND, I shouted, “Who’s there?” and that’s when he came stumbling outta the shadows.
“Evenin’, Mr. Buster,” I said, not surprised, figuring he’d come to pay his respects to his dear nephew. Lots of folks like to come around that time of the evening to visit their departed because Miss Lydia says that’s when their spirits are the liveliest. “You come to say good night to Puddin’ and Pie?”
Mr. Buster broke out bawling, and was so disheveled, his eyeglasses hanging off one ear, and I felt so bad for him because I know what it’s like to miss a loved one so bad that you just can’t even be bothered to comb your hair. So I came and knelt down next to him, patted his back. But it wasn’t comfort he was seeking, not that kind anyway, because I could see by the light of the lantern that hangs off Georgie’s stone that Mr. Buster’s pants were already half down, candies tumbling out his pocket. Keeper was crazy barking and snarling, so Mr. Buster picked him up and threw him at the pointy fence and drug me to the ground and pushed my legs apart, held them open with his smooth little hands, letting loose only once to pluck at my panties. “Lydia… Lydia… Lydia,” he chanted.
I cried, “No, Mr. Butter, you’re confused. Put your glasses back on. It’s me, Gibby McGraw.” Teddy was calling for me in the distance, and I tried to shout back, “Here I am, here I am,” but Mr. Butter closed my mouth hard with his hand that smelled of butterscotch and booze.
“By the time I got to ya, he just about had his…,” Teddy says. “I pulled him off and pierced him with the pitchfork and he fell back onto Georgie’s tombstone and broke his neck.”
So that’s how I got those bruises on my thighs. They were from Mr. Buster holding me down. And that’s why Miss Lydia had to stitch up Keeper’s head. ’Cause he got thrown up against the graveyard fence.
I lay my head on Teddy’s shoulder. “Ya killed him for her, for Miss Lydia, on account of what Mr. Buster did to her, didn’t ya?”
“And for what he done to her boy,” Teddy says so mournfully, like her pain is his. “And for you, Gibber. Ya know I’ve always had a fondness for ya.”