Papa, Grampa, and Uncle Blackie are in the house. I got to calm her down before she starts howling. Remembering what I brought from What Goes Around Comes Around, I grab the scarf out of my pocket and place it around her neck. She stops wildly flipping through the pages of her pad long enough to take a sniff of the chiffon. She’s searching for Mama’s smell. “Sorry about that,” I say. “You know how Miss Artesia loves her spaghetti and meatballs.”
Woody drops the drawing pad in my lap. She’s found what she’s been searching for, but we really don’t have time for art appreciation right now. I made that promise to Curry to come back to the fort for my sister, then go over the creek stones to the Tittles’, but she’ll never do what I ask of her until I look through her drawings. Once she gets her mind set on something, there is no changing it. She can be a butterfly and a bulldozer, both at the same time.
I flick on my flashlight so I can see clearer what she’s all fired up about. Staring back at me is the drawing that’s been bothering me. The one she did of Mama with the ghosty figure. Woody must’ve been working on it when E. J. and I were in town. The crayon colors look bright and it’s got that waxy smell. There’s wavering lines coming off the previously unknown figure like fumes. I can tell now that it’s a lady. She’s got gray hair resting on her neck like an SOS pad. Her hands clasped in prayer.
I whistle in appreciation. And surprise. She never draws pictures of her. “That’s really something. I bet Mama is ooohin’ and aaahin’ up in Heaven at what an excellent version of Gramma you’ve come up with.” I brush the cracker crumbs off my legs, stand, and offer her my hand. “We can look at more pictures later, okay? We got to get goin’ now. I promised Curry-”
She starts crazy slapping the floor again.
“What, Woody, what?” She points angrily down at the drawing and then puts her hands around her neck like she’s choking herself. That’s when it comes to me that maybe Gramma’s smelling bad or making us play Holy Communion with her are not only the reasons Woody’s been avoiding her.
Oh, how could I be so dumb? So careless?
Gramma must’ve had one of her conniptions when I wasn’t around. She really can get out-of-control sometimes, especially if she’s provoked by Grampa. When he was sleeping one night, she tried to crucify him to the headboard of their bed. She had the nails and the hammer and everything. I know that might seem mental to some people, but I don’t really think it is. She’s got a lot of sane reasons to be mad at him. No. It’s not until our grandmother smears red lipstick on the palms of her hands and pretends that she’s bleeding like Jesus on the cross that I think she’s gone nuttier than one of her praline pies.
“Did Gramma have one of her fits and hurt you? Is that what you’re tryin’ to tell me?”
My sister shakes her head hard enough to make her braids whip.
“Shenny? Woody?” It’s Louise calling to us from down below. I didn’t hear her coming down the path from her cottage to the fort. “I know you’re up there. I see the light.”
“Only ignorant girls that live in bayou shanties sneak up on people and shout at ’em. What do ya want?” I say, keeping my eye on my twin. She is back to the drawing again. Circling faster and faster from the Gramma figure to the Mama figure.
“Uncle Cole wants you and Woody to come to the cottage,” Lou says. “Beezy’s over there. The sheriff… he’s arrested Sam.”
“We know that.” I’m sure the whole town does by now. Poor Beezy.
Woody puts her hand on the back of my head and tilts it forward until I’m a few inches away from the drawing. “I’m sorry. I still don’t see what you’re tryin’ to tell me,” I say in my most soothing voice.
Exasperated, my sister throws the pad off to the side and places her hands around my neck this time. Squeezes with all she’s got. This is the same thing she did to me that afternoon in our bedroom when we were looking at the drawing the same way we are now. “Cut it out!” I say, prying her fingers off. “I’m tryin’ hard as I can to understand.”
Lou shouts, but not mean-sounding, “We got food over at the cottage. I made some of that pecan fudge from your mama’s recipe.”
I know I should do what I promised Curry I’d do, but my stomach is begging me to fill it. The Tittles won’t have anything to eat and even if they did, I wouldn’t feel right taking it off them. Woody and I could just run over to the Jacksons, eat, tell Beezy that Sam is going to be okay in the long run, eat some more, and then take the stepping stones over to E. J.’s the way I told him I would. We’ll stay over there until tomorrow morning when Curry promised to answer all my questions.
I beg Woody, “Please, please, let’s leave the drawing be and go over to the Jacksons’. Did you notice how pleasant Lou sounds? I think she’s changed back to her old Louisiana self now that Blackie’s broken off with her. Bet we could get her to tell us a tale about Rex the kid-eating alligator while we chow down-doesn’t that sound wonderful?”
When she frowns at me, I start singing a couple of bars of “I’ll Never Say No to You” from the musical The Unsinkable Molly Brown. Making her feel guilty can work sometimes if I’m really trying to convince her of something.
“Uncle Cole says your grampappy is soused as a saxophone player on a Saturday night. And your uncle…,” Lou says, choked up. “His Honor and his brother have begun celebratin’ the Founders, too.”
It’s good they got busy so early. Maybe they’ll forget all about Woody and me.
“I made ya girls a ju-jus,” Lou says, a little shy. That’s the nicest present a hoodoo woman can give. It’s a little sack full of fingernail clippings and ashes and feathers and toad parts. Those bags are supposed to drive off evil spirits. “I gotta get back to the cottage now. I know Beezy would love to see ya. Me, too.”
I want nothing more in the world right now than to call back to Lou, “We’re comin’ in two shakes,” but Woody has collapsed in a heap on the fort floor. Her face is glowing, radiating. There’s that flu going around. The one that got Clive Minnow. “Are you feelin’ sick?” I kneel down next to her and kiss her forehead, but it’s not warmer than it should be.
“You out there, girls?”
Woody jerks to attention, the way she always does at the sound of her voice. I scramble over to the fort’s peephole. Gramma Ruth Love is standing on the back porch of the house under the bug light. She’s wearing a cream-colored nightie and her hair that she has never cut is cascading down to her waist.
“I baked a lemon meringue for you,” she calls. Next to chiffon pie, that’s our mouth-watering favorite and she knows it. She loves my sister and me and wants to feed us and spend time together.
Or Grampa sent her out to entice us.
He’ll do that. He knows how fond we are of our grandmother most of the time. Thinking about a slice of her prize-winning pie is making my mouth water. Woody is furiously licking her lips, so maybe she’s feeling the same way. Or maybe not. Because now she’s doing something odd with her mouth. Twisting it, and then opening and closing it. Maybe she really is sick to her stomach.
“Are you going to upchuck?” I ask. “Let’s get you over to the side.” But it’s not a retching sound that comes out of her mouth. It’s a word that I swear sounds like, “Cantaboo.”
I’m not sure that she’s spoken or if it’s just wishful thinking on my part.
“Twins?” Gramma calls again from the porch. “I brought all my best dolls.”
Woody opens her mouth and tries again. Yes. I’m sure she’s saying, “Cantaboo.”
If this was any other moment in time, I would be crying for joy, thanking her for coming back to me, for speaking. But this isn’t any other moment in time. It’s now or never. I heard the screen door open and slam shut again.