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.”
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.
C
hapter Twenty-three
W
ELCOME 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.
I
t 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.
“Dang it all!” I am feeling more upset for me than him. After I got back to the fort, I planned to feed Woody and then the two of us would head over to the Triple S and sit on the steps of Sam’s cabin and talk about Mama’s passing. He has to know that she died and just didn’t say anything to us because he didn’t want to take away our hope. Our
Speranza
. Now he’s gone and ruined it all.
“What did you do?” I say. “Did you fall off the wagon?” I picture him and Curry over at the carnival grounds. Did that hobo say something to get him mad? Then Sam planted his fist on his chin and the sheriff was called in? Yes. That must be what happened. That’s why Curry was over at Beezy’s. He was apologizing to her for getting Sam arrested. But they all looked so friendly when I was watching them through my binoculars. I’m confused. “Did you get in a fight with Curry Weaver?”
Sam gives me an incredulous look. “Why would you think. . . it’s . . . it’s not like that.”
“Well, then how is it?” I ask, practically feeling the steam coming out of my ears.
“Shen . . . somebody reported to the sheriff that I had something to do with the disappearance of your mother,” he says.
“What? Why that’s . . .” I grab on to the half-raised car window to keep myself from tipping over backwards. “That’s—”
“Real wrong,” E. J. says, running over to the driver’s side of the car. “Beg your pardon, but that’s not right, Sheriff Nash. Sam and Miss Evelyn were the
best
of friends. They spent every Tuesday after—”
“E. J.!” I shriek, giving him the cut-throat sign over the roof of the car.
He looks back at me, stricken. “I mean . . . they knew each other a little but not so much that—”
“Calm down, son,” Sam says with a hint of a smile. “You’re going to blow a gasket.”