I bring his hand that has held me steady up to my lips. “Thank you for savin’ me, Teddy. That was real brave.”
We sit there still together for some time, until the investigative reporter in me comes calling. “I didn’t find Mr. Buster dead here in the graveyard. I found him over on Browntown Beach.” Teddy is strong, but I don’t think he could’ve lugged that fat man all the way over there by himself. “Did ya use your wheelbarrow to get him over there?”
“By the time Lydia got your dog sewed up, Billy’d come lookin’ for ya. He hepped me carry Buster’s body over there.”
My guardian angel really does need to work on his punctuality.
“Billy brought along the pitchfork and swam it out into the lake so I’d never have to see it again,” Teddy says. “He wanted to take Buster’s body out there, too, weigh it down so nobody’d ever find it, but I told him, no. Let him lie dead and cold in the same place as little Georgie.” He pulls back his sloping shoulders. “Ya best go now, Gibber. Tell ’em in town that I’m the one murdered Buster. I was fixin’ to turn myself in right ’fore ya broke Cooter outta the jail anyways.”
My voice is so pitchy sounding, practically matching his when I say, “Ya know, I don’t believe I’m gonna tell anybody in town anything of the sort. You know and I know and Miss Lydia and Billy know that you did in Mr. Buster, but that’s all that do. In my opinion, that sorry excuse for a man deserved to die. And even though everybody in Cray Ridge will agree with that in their hearts, when it gets down to it, at that county courthouse, you’ll be found guilty ’cause you are not lily white, and I say the hell with that.”
I get up off the wood bench to pluck the sign out of the muddy earth and bring it back to him.
WONDER # 33
IF SILENCE IS GOLDEN, THEN FORGIVENESS IS PLATI NUM
“Everybody can go catch a green rabbit, for all I care,” I tell him.
Teddy doesn’t say a thing for a piece. But then reminds me, “Important to keep in mind that I weren’t the only one saved ya.”
I know he means her. But I can’t. I just can’t.
“Ya know what ya should do now? You should go into that house and make her a cup of that dandelion tea she’s so nuts about,” I say, trying to dam up the tears. “And could ya tell her… tell her that I’m not ready just yet, but I hope like hell she’s right about thyme healing all wounds.”
Teddy doesn’t answer me back, just looks awful desolate when he runs his hand down my hair that covers my scar, then gets up and walks off. But if I know the Caretaker… he’ll do his job.
The Showdown
I was thinking of ridin’ Peaches, but changed my mind. I feel like walking to the hospital. Feet touching the earth one right after another, there’s something real grounding to that, and Lord knows I’m in need. Mr. Howard Redmond states in the last chapter of The Importance of Perception in Meticulous Investigation: Writing the Story:The concluding part of an investigation can be overwhelming, particularly in an important case. All investigative reporters worth their salt must take their time to thoroughly examine the facts before they begin to write their story.
So that’s what I’m gonna do. Take my time to sort this all out. But NOT because I need to get my facts straight. As I wind my way down this wide-as-a-ribbon trail that leads away from Land of a Hundred Wonders toward town, like I already explained to Mama, I know that I’m not ever gonna be able to report my awfully good story. I really only have the headline: Buster Malloy Found Dead on Browntown Beach. I can’t tell my loyal Gazette readers who did it or why or where or when. Which means I’m not ever gonna become well known enough as a reporter to travel to Cairo, but that’s fine. Billy wouldn’t like Egypt. He’s not so good with sand, I’m not sure why. He just really despises the stuff. And now that I know he’s innocent of murdering Buster, we won’t have to relocate to Bolivia, which I got to admit is kind of a relief, since I was fairly certain we would have to kidnap Senor Bender so he could translate for us down there and Billy’s also not so good with that Spanish teacher. Thinks a man that gets manicures is smarmy.
And Grampa. He’s gonna need me here to take care of him. Setting him up on fresh-laundered pillows out on the screened porch so I can go off to cook us a big fish over the fire. Even though he never cut me any slack when I first got out of the hospital, my mostly 100% lovable self is figurin’, for a nice welcome home from the hospital present, I’ll let him whup me in Scrabble.
So with the case solved, but not being able to report it, and Clever having a baby, but us not having the treasure to buy diapers and such, and Miss Lydia not being so miraculous after all, well, I’d describe how I’m feeling right this minute as… bittersweet. Like one of Candy World’s green caramel apples. Now don’t get me wrong. I still got hope. After all, it does spring internal. (Even though I know that you’re resting in peace now, me getting Quite Right again’d be the dusting on the doughnuts for us, wouldn’t you agree, Mama?) And I got so much else to look forward to. Like Billy and me gettin’ married, and baby Rosie’s toes, and I bet Grampa’ll be back home soon.
So I’m thinking about picking some of his favorite bluebells for him when outta the woods up ahead somebody yells out in a last-chance voice, “Come on out or we’re comin’ in after ya.”
“Yeah,” somebody else calls out.
Thinkin’ it’s me they’re hollering at, I flatten down to the ground until another voice shouts, “I’ll be back with her mama,” and then I realize it can’t be me they’re talking about because, as you well know… Well, lookee here! I bet all this commotion is breakin’ news of some sort. Thank goodness. I sure could use another awfully good story right about now.
Skittering fast down the trail, trying to blend in like Billy taught me, I get a good look at what’s unfolding on the other side of the trees. The angry voices are coming from the old Hamilton place, which has been abandoned ever since Mr. Garr Hamilton got dragged back to jail for moonshinin’. Years ago, I was friends with his girl, Martha Jane, who went and lived with her auntie out west once they carted her daddy off. I haven’t been up here since. The clapboard house looks like it’s shrugging now. Ya can’t even tell that it used to be painted a dawning-sky blue. Focusing on the front-yard tree, the one that’s got the tire swing still hangin’ off it, I can see the sun glinting off a gun barrel poking through the minty leaves. And over to my right, there’s Deputy Boyd trying to conceal his chubby self behind a skinny outhouse.
What the heck is goin’ on here?
Ohhh… I get it.