Not according to Clive Minnow. When we drive past Stonewall Jackson Cemetery, I regret missing his burial ceremony. Not as much as I do about missing Mama’s, but there’s a twinge when I recall Clive’s foolish fears about catching leprosy and malaria, and how he would get so excited when he found something with his metal-detecting device that he’d do a Rumplestiltskin dance through the woods, and his furious picture taking while he was searching for UFOs, and how he’d upset the checkerboard if he was on the losing end-yes, even that I’m going to miss. That man might’ve been odd, but he was someone I could count on to be where he was supposed to be, doing exactly what he always did. That’s a rare quality these days.
E. J. and I are in the front seat of the car. E. J. doesn’t get to ride in cars very often and he keeps sticking his head out the window like a dog. I have draped Mama’s spaghetti-and-meatball-smelling scarf around my neck. I wish we could just drive and drive. I don’t want to have to think anymore about Sam or Mama or my father or any of this horridness. I want to be small again. A little girl heading home after a long day at the beach. Smelling of sunburn, not putting up a fuss when my mother picks me up in her arms and carries me out of the car, sets me down on our sailboat bed, crooning, “Tomorrow.”
“How’d ya come up with the name Curry?” E. J. asks. “It’s kinda different.”
Lieutenant Sardino smiles, flicks his signal up, and makes the turn on Kilmer Street. “Curry is my wife’s favorite food. She’s Indian.”
E. J. perks up. “No kiddin’!” He really likes Indian stuff. Whenever Clive Minnow found arrowheads in his woods he gave them to me because he was only interested in metal objects. In turn, I gave them to E. J., who has quite the collection. Curry must be a food like pemmican.
Cruising past Washington and Lee College where Papa went to law school, I ask, “How’re you plannin’ to get Sam out of the fix he’s in all by yourself?” I don’t care if Curry Weaver is a lawman. He’s not from this neck of the woods. If the Carmody family is involved with charging Sam for Mama’s death, even though he thinks he does, Curry has no idea what he’s going up against.
“I got a plan,” Curry says. He’s teasing me. That’s the same thing I told him up at the hobo camp about finding my mama. “At some point I may need assistance from you and your sister to stand up in Sam’s behalf. Do you think you could do that even if it was contrary to what your father had to say about him?”
I give him the most truthful answer I can. “I don’t know.” Mama would expect us to help Sam. To tell the truth. She’d pull out that old saying, “Honesty is the best policy.” But I shudder three inches deep to think how mad Papa would be if I went against him. Woody and I would have to find someplace else to go or face living in the root cellar. Maybe we could move over to the Triple S. We could take care of the station until Sam gets paroled for good behavior. We can clean windshields and pump gas, and E. J. knows how to change fan belts and operate the cash register. If Papa can calm himself down, we could go over to Lilyfield and have supper with him sometimes. But not on Sunday. Not the day Grampa Gus usually comes.
The more I think about this, even if I wanted to, helping Sam is sort of a moot point. No matter how hard I stick up for him, my testimony won’t do much good. If His Honor believes Sam murdered Mama, and the sheriff supports him, our new uncle is going to go away for a long, long time, no matter what I or anybody else has to say. Still, doing the right thing even if you think the outcome will be bad is important. Mama taught me that.
Making up my mind, I tell Curry, “I will speak up for Sam under one condition.”
“What’s that?” he asks.
“That it’s just me who testifies for him. I don’t want Woody gettin’ mixed up in all this. She’s very delicate and I’m worried that she might never start talking again if something else bad happens.”
It has been 363 days of not hearing her say, “Good mornin’, pea. Are those flapjacks and bacon I smell?” Three hundred sixty-three nights of not hearing her say with a yawn and a scratch, “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
Curry says, “I’m not sure that will be possible, Shen. I think Woody knows something important that might help Sam.”
I know she’s an eyewitness to what happened to Mama, but I can’t figure out how he knows. “Why do you suspect that? Is there something you aren’t tellin’ us?” Curry just keeps on driving with his elbow out the window like I haven’t said a word. I can see why him and Sam are friends. Question dodgers-that’s what they are.
As we pass by the Triple S, my eyes get hot when I think of the fix Sam is in. The light above the office is flickering off and on. The bulbs need replacing. Only Sam is tall enough. Wrigley is sitting out on the station porch like he’s waiting for his owner to show up. First thing in the morning, I’ll get over here and feed him the way Sam asked me to. It’s the least I can do for my own family member who is about to be sent to prison, maybe the electric chair.
Curry turns off the two-lane and onto Lee Road. When we’re at the beginning of Lilyfield, he switches off the car lights and drifts to the shoulder. The yellow glow of the turned-down radio is reflecting off his face. I’ve never met anybody so dark skinned who wasn’t a Negro. Come to think of it, I’ve never met anybody who is Italian. His complexion is deeper than Sam’s. Despite the impatience I’m feeling towards him, I want to place my hand on Curry’s whiskers the same way I used to with Papa. Rub my palm across his chin and call him Capricornis, after the goat constellation.
“Do you think my father and grandfather truly believe that Sam murdered Mama, or is something else goin’ on here?” I ask. Curry gives me an admiring glance before he turns his face back into a blank canvas. I have finally figured out what it is about all this that’s getting under my skin. My mother always told me-timing is everything and there are no coincidences. That everything happens for a reason. “You know what I think?”
Curry swings his arm up to rest on the seat behind my head and when he does I can smell his manly aftershave. It’s not English Leather. It’s something spicy. “I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”
“Well, I think it’s possible that Sam is gettin’ framed by my family.” I saw this on another TV show once. This man killed his wife so he could get all her money. He cut the brakes on her car and made it look like an accident and tried to blame her death on this poor auto mechanic, just like our Sam. But Papa and Grandpa don’t need money. The Carmody family is loaded, so that part doesn’t really fit.
“Whatta ya mean framed?” E. J. asks.
Curry says, “What Shenny means is, she thinks that her father and grandfather might be trying to take suspicion off themselves and put it on Sam instead. Right, Shenny?”
“I… I don’t…” I hadn’t really thought it through all the way, but now that Curry has fleshed it out, it’s beginning to make diabolical sense. “Do you think Papa and Grampa are framin’ Sam?”
“Why do you think they’d do that?” Curry asks in an I-know-something-you-don’t-know way. He’s got this very mysterious quality about him. The same one Sam has. They must teach it at the police academy up in Decatur.
“I don’t know why they’d try to frame him. All I know is it’s a bit coincidental that Mama is about to be declared dead at the same time my father is thinkin’ about asking Abigail Hawkins to marry him. Did you know that he was?”
“Accordin’ to Remmy Hawkins,” E. J. says, “His Honor’s gonna propose to her on Saturday night.”
“That’s right,” I say, trying to think it through. “So… maybe Papa is blaming Sam so he can marry that horse-faced woman without everybody wondering at the wedding what would happen if his real wife shows up one day. I mean, His Honor could just go ahead and declare Mama dead, it’s been almost a year, but havin’ Sam to blame for her murder really closes the book on the subject.”