“Well, if Dagmar told you…,” I say, like could you be any dumber to take the word of the town idiot.
“She’s not retarded like you think she is,” E. J. says, real defensive. “Dagmar’s just had a bad string of luck. And she makes a great rabbit stew. Where do you see Curry?”
“There.” I point out to where the carnival lights barely reach, wishing that my sister was by my side. She’ll be sad that she missed seeing Curry. She’d be juiced by how good he cleans up. Instead of his usual hobo outfit, he’s got on a pressed blue shirt and khaki pants. He looks sharp. Probably thought getting fancy would help him get a job with the carnival. (He’s not been living at the camp long enough to know that all Colonel Button requires of his hires is that they got arms and at least one leg.)
“Well, look at that. It’s Sam.” He’s come out from behind one of the trucks and is standing a few yards away from Curry. “Let’s go over there,” I say to E. J. “I want to tell Curry how dapper he looks and I need to talk to Sam in the worst way.” First, to give him hell for not being forthright about Mama’s death, and second, to throw my arms around him. He has to know about Mama’s passing. He’s a detective. How he must have been suffering all this time.
I’m still watching when Sam turns and spots Curry. Extends his hand. They shake and start gabbing like they’re long-lost friends. I didn’t even know they knew each other. And is that Sheriff Andy coming to join in the conversation? Well, I’ll be. I know that Sam and the sheriff are on friendly terms… but Curry? I didn’t know that he knew either one of them. I guess, if what E. J. told me is true about that hobo getting taken up to the Colony, that’s when he made the sheriff’s acquaintance. So why is Curry being so buddy-buddy with him? I went up to the hospital to visit my gramma after she had her nerves break down. It’s not a place that you’d thank somebody for sending you. What could they be talking about? Sam is wagging his head in disbelief at whatever Curry is telling him, and the sheriff is, too. Sam is also shaking his sinewy arms. Is he warming-up for the baseball toss game the roustabouts are setting up next to the Guess Your Weight scale. No, he seems too agitated. Has Sam fallen off the wagon?
“C’mon.” I let my binoculars drop to my chest and we start heading towards Sam, the sheriff, and Curry when Remmy Hawkins stumbles in front of us and blocks our path.
“Oooeee, look what the cat drug out from under the porch,” he says. He means E. J. Remmy likes me. In a very disgusting way. “If it ain’t E. J. Shittle and my little honey bun. That is you, ain’t it, Shen?”
It makes me sick that he can tell me and Woody apart. “Don’t call me your honey bun, you…” I want to tell Remmy that he’s an imbecile, but you know, this boy is drunk enough to be a keg with legs. And he loves to fight. He wouldn’t hurt me, but E. J.? Remmy loves picking on him. It’s practically his hobby to make fun of how poor and small he is.
Hawkins leers down at E. J.’s too-big shoes and says, “You come to get another pair offa Jinx the Clown?” He spits and that gob lands on the tip of E. J.’s royal blue sneakers, which are his only ones no matter how flappy they are on him. Elbowing him out of the way, Remmy sidles up next to me. “Ya might want to think about gettin’ off that high horse you’re on. You’re gonna have to start bein’ a lot more hospitable to me real soon.”
“Why would I do that? You givin’ away free tickets to the freak show or something?” The storm that swept through earlier might’ve cooled things down for a day or so, but I’m still feeling hot about Remmy showing up at the Triple S, taunting Sam and laughing diabolically when he called out from his fancy car, “Heard from your mama lately, twins?” As much as I know that I shouldn’t go after him, I simply cannot rein myself in. “Just in case I have not made myself clear durin’ our previous encounters, you make me sicker than a case of ptomaine poisoning, Remington Aloysius Hawkins, and… you… you got hair just like Clarabelle’s.” I’ve been dying to say that to him for years.
Remmy grabs one of my braids and reels me in. “You’ll be whistlin’ another tune once His Honor proposes to my auntie Abigail,” he whispers wetly into my ear.
I twist out of his grip, kick him in the shin, and jump out of his reach. “And what exactly is my father going to propose to your horsey aunt?” I wink at E. J. Being humorous like he is, he’ll appreciate this. “That she enters herself into the Four-H show?”
Remmy’s rubbing his leg not anywhere near where I kicked him, that’s how drunk he is. He mutters, “Marriage.”
“What did you say?” The smile I gave E. J. is still on my lips.
“You heard me,” Remmy says. “Your daddy’s gonna propose marriage to my auntie this Saturday night.”
I throw my head back and laugh like the lady that dares you to enter the carnival’s Ye Olde Haunted House does. “Did you hear that, E. J.? Remmy here is telling us that Papa’s thinkin’ of marrying Abigail Hawkins,” I say haughty, until I recall how I thought Papa might be falling into her web that afternoon she brought those pies over to the house. Then there’s what good friends my grandfather and Mayor Jeb Hawkins are. His Honor told me the other night in the woods, “Things are going to change around here. You’ll see.” Is this what he meant? Was he telling me that he was intending to marry Abigail?
That thought must be plastered across my face because Remmy rocks back on his heels and says, “That’s right. Now ya got it. You’re always playin’ hard to get, but you can’t fool me, Shenny Carmody. You’re excited as me that we’re gonna be kissin’ cousins.”
The thought of this boy being related to me-it is too much. I ball my fists and take a step closer. I don’t care how big he is. I’ll pound him into a bloody pulp.
Seeing how crazy fired up I am, E. J. jumps in front of me and says, the same way Sam would if he was standing here next to me instead of furiously conversing with Curry Weaver and the sheriff over near the woods, “Count to ten.”
“But he… did you hear what he just said?” I say, outraged.
“Allow me,” E. J. says in a very distinguished way.
I guess just like anything else in life, you can’t predict what’s going to happen next, but I’ll tell you one thing for sure. I didn’t think it would be little E. J. smashing that buffoon Remmy Hawkins in his nose so hard that he knocked him out cold. That fight training he’s been getting from Curry has really paid off.
“Why, thank you, kind sir,” I say, smiling down at Remmy. Grampa Gus couldn’t be more wrong about the Tittle boy. He’s not minin’ sludge. He’s Sir Galahad.
“My pleasure.” E. J. whips his coonskin off his head with a great flourish and a growling stomach. “Better get over to the drugstore now before Vera closes up.”
I say, “Give me a minute to talk to Sam,” but when I look over to where him and the sheriff and Curry were gathered, there’s nobody there. “Where’d they go?”
“You can catch up with him tomorrow,” E. J. says, looking down at Remmy and tugging at me. Remmy’s already coming to. “We got to skedaddle if you want to get Woody something to eat. And that scarf.”