Land of a Hundred Wonders (17 page)

Nobody talks to the Kid that way.

Nobody.

“I'm so sor—” I try to tell Clever.

“Shut your trap,” she hisses at me as she snatches the map outta Willard's fingertips.

Now, I know she could use a hug, no matter how bad she's behavin', but I dare not touch her until the sorrow is done sweeping through her. She'll beat the snot outta me if I try something pitiful like that.

Boy, what a stimulating idea!

Willard's already struggling to his hands and knees, so I put my arm around Clever tight, and aim her like a weapon. Just like I knew she would, she gets hot as hell, spinning and lashing out dervishly, eventually landing a solid kick in Willard's stomach that deflates him like a day-after-the-party balloon.

Once Clever's got her breath back, I ask, “You all right?” even though I
know
she's fine. (She's blessed with high recuperative powers.) I also
know
exactly what she's about to say. That's the way it is with sidekicks.

Sure enuf, she hawks and spits, landing a goober square in the middle of Willard's forehead, then goes ahead and quotes the BEST movie line of all time: “For a moment there, I thought we were in trouble.”

Baby Talk

Raindrops keep falling on my head. Pouring down, really. What
have
I gotten myself into? Besides all the churning worries about Grampa, now there's this treasure map situation. And I haven't even started investigating who murderd Mr. Buster. Jesus alive, Miss Florida is right. You get one problem solved, and another rears its head. (The head belonging to Willard this go-round.) I confess, this is one of those times I thank heaven for my
NQR
ness, since I'll probably disremember these troubles in the bat of an eye. Fifteen at the most.

Clever is sitting at the kitchen table feeling somewhat
Discombobulated: Confused.
At first she wanted to beat Willard some more, but two seconds later, she wanted to kiss on him. I wouldn't let her do either, so she's acting mopey, but asking for seconds, a good sign. Now it's my turn to chase the sad out of her heart, the same way she did for me. And I believe I've come up with a pretty good plan to do just that.

“Under no circumstances are you to give Willard that map,” I say, setting the soup down in front of her. I gave her most of the noodles since she's eating for two. “You and me and Billy are gonna go up to the Malloy Farm and find that treasure, and when we do, you'll be rich beyond belief and won't have to give the baby up to the social.”

Clever slurps, sighs, says in her most dramatic of all voices, “Don't think I'll be feelin' up to a treasure hunt anytime soon.”

(Don't be fooled. She's inherited a bit of her mama's theatrical baton-twirling nature. Alongside that, while the good book tells us not to judge lest we want to be judged, truth is, Clever doesn't resemble her name all that much. She needs some time to let the plan sink in.)

I didn't want to turn on the lights, in case Willard could see us once he came to, so the cottage candles are flickering in the night breeze that's coming off the lake, the parlor curtains floating inward like spooks.

“You wanna play a game when you're done?” I ask.

Picking open another cracker pack with her gnawed-to-the-moon nails, she says, “Don't feel much like that either.”

That's fine, because the second after I asked her, I realized that seeing the Scrabble board, smelling the score pad, they'll only twist up my heart worse than it already is. Memories are already waving hello to me out of every nook and cranny. His whittling knife is sitting out on the side table alongside the Peaches carving he's been working on for me. I put on one of his Johnny Cash records, so he's singing a love song as I head toward my briefcase. Wouldn't do me a bit of harm to start writing some on that Mr. Buster is dead story. Background, at least.

“Baby's makin' a fuss tonight,” Clever says. “Come over here and feel it.”

“I already did down on the pier, didn't I?” I say, reaching for my leather-like offa the sofa.

Lifiting up her shirt, she says, “Not on skin, ya didn't. C'mon. Ya gotta get friendly with it.”

I kneel down in front of her, and she shows me where to place my hands on her hard tummy. “It doesn't like me,” I say, feeling the kicks.

“It don't even know you,” Clever chuckles. “That's just what it does. 'Specially up against my ribs.”

“Goodness. That's really something, isn't it? A miracle.”

Clever radiates proud. “I'm not givin' this baby up no matter what anybody says. Already got a name picked out and everything. ” She weaves her fingers through mine. “I changed my mind. We gotta go after that treasure. Ya still game?”

“A course I am, Kid. First off, what we gotta do is—” I start up, but am so crudely interrupted by a hell of a ruckus at the cottage door.

''Y'all in there? It's Sheriff Johnson checkin' up on ya, Miss Gibby.”

I lay my fingers across Clever's lips. She shakes them off, and yells out, “Nobody's home.”

The brass knob on the cottage door circles back and forth, forth and back. Followed by a jumpy jiggle.

“Keep quiet, goddamn it,” I tell her, heading toward my bedroom window that looks out on the porch. My neighbor is standing out there next to the sheriff with a shit-eating grin on his face. I tiptoe back into the kitchen. "LeRoy's got Willard with him. They've come for the map.”

Clever shoves back her chair and starts to get up. “I'm gonna open that door and turn Willard in to the sheriff.”

“No, you are n-o-t,” I say, pushing her back down.

“But smokin' hemp is against the law,” she says, struggling against me. “He'll have to take Willard down to the jail.”

Bless her heart. Having a baby must make you get amnesia because Clever knows damn well the law around here can't be trusted. She's had plenty of run-ins with the sheriff that have ended with less than favorable results. I so wish Grampa was home. He'd sock LeRoy Johnson clear off our porch with a one-two punch.

“Open up in there,” the sheriff yells, louder and meaner.

“No matter what, they ain't gettin' the map,” Clever says, tough. “Just like you said, I
need
that treasure for the baby.” It's either candlelight or desire flickering in her eyes, can't tell which. “Hey, I know what we gotta do! We gotta go on the lam to Bolivia! Just like Butch and the Kid did.”

“I believe there's a large body of water between here and there. Don't ya think a boat'd be more appropriate?”

“No, goin' on the lam doesn't mean . . . ya, ya, a boat would be fine,” Clever says.

Recalling the language problems Mr. Cassidy and Mr. Kid encountered in the movie, I say carefully, “Maybe runnin' off to Bolivia is not that smart 'cause neither one of us knows how to speak much
Espanol
.”

“But . . . but . . . ,” she sputters.

“Maybe we could invite
Senor
Bender to join us.”

“Siiii,”
she says, grinning. (Clever has always considered the
Senor
one hot
tamale
.)

The knock this time is no joking matter. Those two are not going to give up on their idea about getting in here.

“Then again,” I say, “Grampa's in the hospital and I need to keep track of him and I don't recall there bein' any telephones in Bolivia.”

“But . . . but . . .”

“I didn't say we can't run off. We just need to run off someplace closer. Someplace that's got pay phones, all right?”

“I got a good idea! We could go over to Browntown. They got a phone at Mamie's.”

“No, that's
not
a good idea.” Browntown woulda seemed like a fine place to lay low before Vern Smith warned me about the coloreds not liking us whites so much anymore. “Give me the map,” I say, not at all trusting Clever when it comes to matters of the heart. If Willard starts in again on how sorry he is, and how much he wants her, I know her, she'll hand over the map faster than Secretariat does the quarter mile.

Clever slides the paper out of her skirt and into my hand, not complaining at all when I lock it up in my briefcase. “If we're
not
going to Bolivia, and we're
not
goin' to Browntown, then where in the hell
are
we goin'?” Clever asks, hands-on-hips belligerent.

“Let us in or I'm gonna knock this goddamn door down,” the sheriff shouts. I can picture him out there huffing and puffing.

“Well?” Clever asks.

“I believe Land of a Hundred Wonders would do us just fine, Kid.” I haul her up out of the chair, push her toward my bedroom.
“Vamanos!”

On the Lamb

After I kiss good-bye the picture of Mama above my bed, Clever and me squirm out my bedroom window, sneaking around the sheriff and Willard like a couple of tenderfooted Apaches. Of course I have my Eveready flashlight in my briefcase, but I dare not switch it on until we are farther down the path. On account of Clever's tummy being so protruding, we can't belly-crawl, even though that's what Billy woulda suggested. All we can do to stay hidden from the two of them is to crouch over like a coupla old crones and make our way steady toward Hundred Wonders.

When a
who . . . whoo . . . whoo
comes from somewhere behind us, Clever lets loose with a squeal. “They're comin'. Run, Butch!”

“It's just the horned owl,” I say, grabbing for her. “Hush, they'll hear us.” You never got to light a fire and breathe on it hard to convince Clever Lever to haul ass, but she's especially jittery this evening. Must be 'cause she's about to become a mother. Mothers can become quite alarmed when their children are in peril. My mama came looking for me in the gully after we crashed. Miss Lydia told me she called my name over and over, arms outstretched and smoking. It took all the fireman's muscles to get her into the ambulance.

“Ya think we're far enough away to slow down?” Clever pants out when we come up to the fork in the path.

Glancing back, I say, “Seems like they lost our scent for now, but I wouldn't count on that being a permanent situation. You know what an excellent tracker the sheriff is.” (He's not the best in the county, that would be an honor taken by the Brandish Boys. But ole LeRoy, he's pretty damn good.)

“Oh, the hell with the sheriff and Willard. I gotta pee,” Clever says, hopping from foot to foot and eyeing the bushes.

“Careful,” I say, sorta laughing when I remember the day she got her driver's license and somehow talked Grampa into borrowing his truck so she could take us to the drive-in to celebrate. Halfway through
The Appaloosa
, she had to tinkle, but you know Clever, she wouldn't miss a chase scene if her life depended on it, so she ended up squatting in the scrub that rims the 57 and came back howling with stinging nettles in a most inconvenient place and . . .

Oh, Jesus.

“You okay?” Clever asks. “You're tremblin'.”

“I . . . I . . . don't know. I'm not sure, but I think I just remembered something from . . .”

“Well, good,” she says, disappearing behind a leafy bush.

I collapse against the oh-so-familiar sugar maple that lets you know you're halfway to Hundred Wonders. I haven't been able to do that since the crash. Recall something so clear from so long ago, like that stinging nettle memory. I'm shocked. This remembering doesn't feel good like I thought it would. Like getting to sleep between your own cool sheets after coming home from a long, hot trip. No, it doesn't feel that way at all. It feels scary and sorta foreign. Like I'm paying a visit to a strange place and that strange place is me. I rub my cheek against the maple bark.
Focus, Gib, focus. You're all right. Probably just recalling a dream. You're just worn down, is all.
I open up my leather-like and remove my blue spiral. Shine the flashlight on my
VERY IMPORTANT THINGS TO DO
list, which always gets me back on track.

Yes! That's exactly what I should be doing instead of running around these woods with Clever, trying to stay two steps ahead of that obnoxious sheriff and that scheming Yankee, thinking my memory's coming back. I should be looking for clues to solve the murder and starting up my search for Egyptian housing.

But I can't do that without proof.
The Importance of Perception in Meticulous Investigation; Proof:
A reporter cannot state facts unequivocally unless he or she has proof of said crime. Proof is similar to evidence, but not the same. Proof is what is obtained once a reporter sifts through the evidence.

I don't recall picking up the pictures from Bob's Drug Emporium, but here they are in a still-sealed envelope with RUSH stamped across the top.

Clever whispers loud from outta the bushes, “Ya got a tissue or something?”

Am
I remembering? Or is my brain playing fever tricks like it did in the hospital? I check my forehead. Warm, but not sickly so.

“Gib!”

“Drip dry, for crissakes!”

First off in the stack, there's a real nice shot of Grampa in his lake chair, Keeper at his side, also snoozing. Just like in the hospital. I need him so badly to be here with me. To say, “I'd call this an interesting turn of events, wouldn't you?” That's what he
always
tells me when something unexpected springs up. But what would he say to me right this minute?
Nose to the grindstone, Gibby girl.
Yes, yes, that's what he'd say.