Stepping over Hawkins, I accidentally on purpose genuflect on his gut and he lets out a groan. I ask E. J., “That’s nothin’ more than his usual hot air, don’t you think? Papa has been keeping company with Abigail, but he can’t really be planning on marryin’ her.”
He says, “A course he’s not,” but I know by the way he’s avoiding my eyes as we make our way off the carnival grounds that he’s not being truthful with me. No. E. J.’s lying through his knight-in-shining-armor teeth.
Chapter Twenty-three
WELCOME banners are hanging from the old-fashioned street-lamps.
Downtown is decked out for the party. Tomorrow these cobble-stone streets will be swarming with folks who’ve come to buy souvenirs. Just about anybody who wants to can peddle pictures of Robert E. painted on velvet and whittled figures of Traveller and stone replicas of Natural Bridge. Every knickknack under the summer sun can be got at the temporary booths that are lining Main Street. The permanent shops are spruced up, too, with MAKE YOURSELF AT HOME signs perched in their windows. Sidewalks are scrubbed clean. Streets swept. Founders Weekend is a big deal, but honestly? I’m dreading the whole darn thing. Feels to me like another storm is bearing down on us instead of a good time. I should be home right now battening down our fort. And it’s not only my sister who is on my mind. You know, we had that blowup with Remmy Hawkins. When he comes all the way to, he’ll start looking for E. J. and me, wanting to even the score. Was Remmy telling the truth or was it just more of his usual foolishness? The thought of Papa marrying Abigail Hawkins… her vile red hair lying on Mama’s percale pillow. Her thin lips drinking out of our mother’s teacup in the morning. Stroking our mama’s things with her stinking gardenia hands. Papa would probably make Woody and me call her Mama. People like to say that you can get used to anything, but that’s not true.
E. J. and I are short-cutting to the drugstore through Mudtown. Negroes young and old are out on their porches sipping out of beer bottles and listening to their bluesy music. A lot of the men are bare-chested and the women have fans in their hands and their skirts hiked up. There’s kids playing Red Rover, Red Rover, Let Billy Come Over. Most everybody shouts out, “Evenin’” or “How do.” They’re used to seeing us come down this street to visit with Blind Beezy, who isn’t out, but the lights are on in her front parlor. She must be knitting and purling like a madwoman. Tomorrow folks will be lined up and clamoring for her loud shawls and sweaters and scarves.
As we turn onto Monroe Street, E. J. gets a twinkle in his eyes and says, “Ya wanna do a sneak up on Beezy? I sure could use a quarter.”
All the years we’ve been trying to take her by surprise, we have never once been successful. I’d love seeing her, but we really shouldn’t. I promised Woody I’d be back soon. Then again, E. J. went out on a limb for me tonight when he popped Remmy in the nose. I owe him.
We come in low-to-the-ground through Beezy’s backyard like we always do. Once past her garage, we make a sharp turn at the peony bushes and tiptoe around her gardening patch. She grows okra, which is flowering nicely. E. J. is in the lead and he’s crouched over so far that his belly is all but dragging on the grass. Once we’re even with the birdbath, E. J. gives me the zipped-lips sign and points up to her parlor window, which is open, of course. The heat of the day has spread into the evening.
Beezy’s talking to somebody. A visitor’s come calling. Could it be Mr. Cole? Forgetting that we’re trying to be stealthy, I almost jump up and say, “Hey!” because I am really missing those nights on the porch with him and Beezy. I could point out some constellations to him real quick, chat about the men going to the moon. That would be nice. Maybe Beezy’s got some chicken pot pie prison-style in the oven. I could take some back to Woody.
“Ya got to do it this way?” Beezy’s croaky voice drifts through the window that we’re hunkered below. She sounds… scared? That’s very unusual. She’s the bravest woman I know.
“Believe me, if there was another way to go about this… Sam asked me to stop by. He doesn’t want you to worry.”
I look at E. J. and he’s as perplexed as me. We recognize that Northern voice. It belongs to Curry Weaver.
“It’s a God-forsaken, horrible thing,” Beezy says. “I never imagined he was capable of planting-” She stops. All I can hear is her radio selling toothpaste and the kids down the block playing Red Rover, until she calls out in her usual trilly way, “Is that chickadees settin’ to…”
Uncanny, I tell you.
Curious as all get out about what the two of them are talking about, but not wanting to be drawn into a long visitation with Beezy, I don’t answer her and neither does E. J.
We just back out of there the same way we came. Sneaky as two rampaging elephants.
It didn’t sound like Curry was asking for a handout like a lot of the hoboes do when they go door-to-door. Beezy said something about “planting.” Were they talking about gardening? But that’s a pleasant subject that she can really warm up to and she sounded kind of horrified. I ask E. J. when we make the turn onto Montgomery Street, “What do ya think Curry was doin’ over at Beezy’s? What were they were discussin’?”
“Do I look like a newspaper?” he says, using one of my own smart mouth remarks on me. He shoves his hands into his jeans pocket and his pants are so big they almost fall down. He’s being unusually peevish because he didn’t win his quarter. “Could we go back and try again?”
“Absolutely not. I promised Woody… wow!” I say as we turn into the town’s main square.
The Beautification Committee has trimmed the band shell in flags and the gardens have been weeded and planted with red geraniums. The life-size statue of the Father of Our Country is rubbed to a nice sheen. Tree trunks are wrapped in gray crepe paper-the color of the Confederacy. This square is where the Parade of Princesses will start on Saturday morning.
“Race ya for a sundae,” E. J. says, perking up and pointing towards Slidell’s, which is across the square directly next to the courthouse.
“Naw, I don’t feel like racin’,” I tell E. J. like I always do, but then I peel off fast, like I always do. Being quicker on my feet than the winged messenger Mercury, I win most of our footraces by a mile. But I’ve decided to let him be victorious this time. Our sidekick is looking very starved this evening.
We run across Jefferson Street, shoving and bumping each other. We use the front door of the drugstore to stop ourselves. “Beat ya by a step,” E. J. says, bent over laughing.
“Hold up there,” somebody shouts from behind us. Still not used to being able to come and go from Lilyfield whenever I want, I freeze in place.
From the reflection in Slidell’s window, I can see the sheriff’s car idling at the curb. And he’s got a passenger. Sam Moody is in the backseat. He leans forward and says, “Evenin’, Shen. E. J.”
I go up to the car and squat down so I can see more of him below his baseball cap.
“What’s goin’ on, Sam? You and the sheriff doing some Founders Weekend joyriding?”
He shrugs, smiles. He has got the nicest teeth. Lined up like veteran’s headstones. He must’ve inherited them from his father because Beezy’s are tan and detachable. I’m just about to ask him if he knows why Curry Weaver was over at his mama’s house when Sam says, “When I saw you and E. J. dashing across the square, I asked the sheriff to stop so I could let you know before you heard from somebody else.”
“Hear what?” E. J. asks.
“The sheriff is taking me in,” Sam tells us.