“She hadn’t married Carl yet so she wasn’t called Beezy Bell back then,” Vera continues. “She was poor and pretty Miss Elizabeth Hortense Moody, and Gus Carmody was a rich and a very handsome young man.
I’m not sure what this has to do with the price of a cup of coffee either, but she’s saying the truth. That old coot wasn’t always uglier than a pig snout. Gramma Ruth Love has lots of pictures of him pressed into a photo album that has THE GOOD OLD DAYS stamped on its cover. As much as it pains me to admit it, Vera’s right—Grampa
was
a looker.
“I’ve heard customers remark many times that Gus was quite the charmer,” she says.
“You heard that wrong,” I say back, gruff. “My grandfather’s about as charming as a funeral.”
“That may be true now, hon, but back then? They say that your grampa could talk the sweet off a sugar cube.”
I’m trying to alert E. J. to Vera’s rapidly deteriorating condition by leaning behind her back and vigorously tapping my temple, but he’s too busy hanging on her every word to notice. Being a mountain man, he’s fond of tall tales.
“Then what happened?” E. J. asks on the edge of his stool.
“That depends.” Vera looks back and forth between us, her curls bobbing. “I don’t know much about kids. Are the two of ya old enough to know how babies are born?”
“Yeah,” E. J. and I say. He’s got a goat that he delivered babies to and I watched.
Vera pauses, like she’s about to change her mind, but then says, “When Beezy was young, she was desperately in love with Gus Carmody.”
“What?” I say, aghast. That’s proof positive that the woman has lost her mind. I have never in all my days heard something more harebrained.
Vera ignores me. “And when two people get hot and bothered like that, they . . . uh . . . they do it.”
“Do what?” E. J. asks.
“Shuck the oyster,” Vera says like she’s reciting the soup of the day.
E. J. looks as confounded as me.
“They zalleywhack. Play the game of twenty toes?” Clearly, Vera’s not getting the reaction from us that she expected. Exasperated, she says in a voice that echoes up the drugstore’s empty aisles, “Beezy and Gus fornicated.”
Root beer comes squirting out of E. J.’s nose and I jump up off my stool, “Oh, that’s so disgustin’ and . . . and . . . unappetizing and . . . Vera! What is wrong with you? Beezy wouldn’t shuck with Grampa. You’re her friend, you know how much she hates him. You’re the one that’s hot and bothered. I’m calling Doc Keller right this minute.”
Vera puts me back in my place. “You mean Beezy hates your grandfather
now
. Back then was different. Hear me out.”
She seems so convincingly upset, I grit my teeth and say, “Go on,” but the second she’s done, I’m rushing to the phone.
“Well,” she says, “after he got what he wanted from her, Gus turned his back on Beezy. Threw her right outta his house despite her condition.”
The condition Vera means is that Beezy was feeling sad and stupid about something he did to her. Grampa puts me in that condition, too. But this still doesn’t explain her earlier loopy remark about Sam.
Vera spins her stool my way, leans in close, and says, “You’ve got a lot on the ball, Shenny. You musta noticed the resemblance between your father and Sam. Their hooked noses, those same caramel eyes. How they both got an interest in law enforcement?”
I’m afraid she is giving my powers of observation too much credit. I’ve never noticed anything of the sort.
“What I’m tryin’ to tell you . . . what I mean to say is—” She breaks off like she’s having second thoughts.
“What, Vera?” I ask, curious now what her over-fried brain is trying to get at. “For God’s sakes, spit it out.”
“Just a second.” Vera digs into her apron pocket and slaps three rolls of Rolaids onto the counter before gushing out, “Sam Moody is the bastard child of Beezy and your grampa’s old-time love affair. Sam . . . he’s your uncle, Shenny.”
C
hapter Twenty-five
V
era told us if we’d wait while she closed up the store, she’d give us a lift back home. I told her thank you for the offer, but we had to make a stop, and then E. J. and I ran out of Slidell’s before she started getting into the blow-by-blow account of how Sam came to be my uncle.
Half-uncle, really.
Now I know why Beezy hates Grampa as much as I do. She’s the gal they’re talking about in one of those “Hell has no fury like a woman scorned” situations.
How come I haven’t put this together before? I should’ve figured this out. One time when we were driving home from church the Mudtown way, we slowed down in front of Beezy’s place. Woody and I stuck our arms out the window and yelled, “Mornin’.” My grandfather turned to Uncle Blackie, who hardly ever goes to church because he doesn’t have a conscience that needs cleansing, that’s why I remember this trip. “Ya see that, son,” he said. “There ain’t much left of her now, but that nappy used to be fine. Legs like a nutcracker.
Hardy har har.
” Grampa saying something that nice about a colored person was so out of the ordinary that Woody and I talked about it later. She decided he must’ve been paying Beezy a good-at-lifting-furniture compliment since he’d just come from Mass, and that sounded about right. But that wasn’t what he meant at all.
Then there’s how Woody and I feel naturally close to Sam—that was another hint. And the way Beezy treats us like we’re her family. I thought her special kindness towards us was just a holdover from when she worked up at Lilyfield taking care of us when we were teeny-tiny, but it’s so much more than that. Woody and I are sort of her grandbabies.
I’m not angry at Beezy for not letting my sister and me in on all the spit swapping she did with Grampa Gus. I know why she never told us on one of those sultry nights on her porch when all sorts of secrets come out. She was afraid that Woody and I would think poorly of her. I confess, I do a little. Shucking oysters with our grampa shows a real lack of taste on her part. He probably tricked her. Did the same exact thing to Beezy that Blackie did to Louise Jackson. Those men seem to know just what to say to a girl to get them to do what they want, especially Grampa, who has years more experience being a horse’s ass. Gramma refers to our town as Sodom and Gomorrah, and I’m beginning to see her point. Does she know about this long-ago dalliance between Grampa and Beezy? Or like all the other skullduggery that involves the Carmody men, has my grandfather managed to keep it buried?
Man laughing and jukebox music, the sound of pool balls hitting against one another and the tantalizing smell of burgers is coming out of the open door of Elmo’s Bar as E. J. and I scurry by.
I’m so hungry my stomach thinks my throat’s been cut, which means Woody’s must, too.
I wouldn’t feel right eating without her, so I pass E. J. his egg salad sandwich and keep the other two in the sack. “We gotta make this quick,” I tell him as we turn the corner onto Main Street.
E. J. says, “Are you all right? Ya know, about what Vera told us about your grampa and Beezy and Sam?”
“I guess I am.” I’m miffed that Sam didn’t let us in on the secret and I’m shocked, but it’s a good kind. I’ll get a huge grin out of Woody when I tell her. Maybe she’ll even start talking again, that’s how thrilled she’ll be. I bet E. J. is feeling swell about our newfound relative as well. When he marries Woody, Sam will be his uncle, too. He doesn’t look so happy right now, though. I say to him, “A penny for your thoughts.”
“Don’t got a penny.”
I’d explain, but I’m worn down right to my tread. “What’s on your mind?”
“Your mother.”
“Me, too.” I wish I could’ve read that note she left for me and Woody. Vera said it was beautiful. I’ll look harder for it as soon as things settle a little.
That
note must be the one Sam keeps asking me to keep an eye out for.
“What if the sheriff begins thinking that Sam had something to do with your mama’s . . . ummm,” E. J. asks as we make the turn into the alley that runs behind the shops on Main Street.
He means her death. It surprises me more than snow in August that he figured that out. I might underestimate our sidekick sometimes. “He’d need proof of wrongdoing.”
E. J. follows me as I turn into the narrow alley. “Like what?”
I think back on some of the cases that I observed in my father’s courtroom and on
Mannix
. “Like maybe something that belonged to Mama being found over at the Triple S. Something that would point to foul play.” That gives me the quivers. “But that’s not gonna happen. Mama was Sam’s best friend.”
I come to a halt and tell E. J., “Here we go.”
The bottom half of the moon is aglow with the nicest smile, but it’s not shooting off enough light to help us make our way through the junk that’s scattered in the backyard of What Goes Around Comes Around. I got to switch on my flashlight. A mangy cat is giving himself a bath on a cushionless divan. A bunch of chairs are stacked on top of one another and leaning against the pile are rusted signs that folks find on the highway and bring to the owner of the shop, Artesia Johnson, who is a soft touch. By the wink she gives me at Mass, I know she leaves the back window of the shop unlocked so I can come look for Mama’s stuff from time to time. A real generous heart beats beneath Miss Artesia’s blubber. (She’s heavy set. She’ll tell you it’s her glands, but all you got to do is share a blanket with her at the church picnic and you’ll know right off it’s her mouth.)
“Cup ’em,” I tell E. J. I shake off my sneakers and place my foot in his hands.
With one good boost, I’m halfway through the back window and I wriggle the rest of the way through.
The shop is much spookier at night than during the day, when it already gives me the willies. It’s the mannequins. They don’t have faces. One of them’s wearing a nice red, white, and blue jacket. Besides a scarf of Mama’s, I think I’ll get that jacket for Woody. She’s going to be so excited when I inform her that we got a big new relative. She’ll probably make me sing some stupid show tune to celebrate. Or a patriotic ditty, now that we got our very own uncle Sam!
There are tables upon card tables of discards set willy-nilly around the shop. Egg beaters are mixed in with mohair sweaters. Beaded purses are lying on top of typewriters with missing keys. Miss Artesia’s got the antique jewelry and more valuable items set out in a display case. There’s one of Clive Minnow’s Confederate buttons that he found with his metal-detecting device. I missed his funeral when Woody and I spent all that time up in the fort grieving Mama. I’m going to borrow this button, too. Miss Artesia won’t miss something this small. Once everything calms down around here, I’ll take it to the cemetery and push it into Clive’s mound. He’d like that.
A selection of scarves is hanging on a coat hanger right above the jewelry case. The third one from the left, that’s one of Mama’s. I never took them home all at one time because having them sitting in a pile in the fort felt too final. By leaving them here, I could pretend, the same way I was doing about everything else, that someday Mama and Woody and me would come by to pick up the rest. I slide the scarf off the hanger and hold it up to my nose, but the scent of her is long gone. The pink chiffon smells like spaghetti and meatballs now. Miss Artesia’s favorite. Woody won’t care. She’ll just be glad to have something of Mama’s. And it
is
Italian.
“Shen!” E. J. calls through the back window. His mouth sounds full and like he’s saying, “Then!” He must’ve already started eating
It’s probably Miss Johnson remembering she forgot to put out the goose lamp above the cash register when she closed up. That’s all right. I don’t care if she finds me rifling through her wares. It will give me the opportunity to thank her for her patience and understanding. There’s a jingling, then a rattle at the back door. Like she is having a hard time fitting the key into the lock, but then the door opens and closes hard.
“Hey, Miss Artesia,” I call in that direction, so I don’t startle her. “Don’t be scared. It’s me, Shenny Carmody. I’m just picking up something for my sister. I’ll pay you back.”
But it’s not Artesia Johnson coming out of the dark back hallway looking all forgiving. Somebody else is standing in the glow of my flashlight.
It’s Curry Weaver.
C
hapter Twenty-six
C
urry’s still got on the starched blue shirt and tan slacks that he had on over at the carnival grounds when I saw him discussing something so heated with Sam and the sheriff. He looks polished for a man who just got out of the Colony. Usually those hoboes come back from the hospital looking like “The Wreck of the Hesperus.” Curry’s dark hair is parted on the left and combed with shiny grease. Whiskers have sprouted up on his jaw and small upper lip.
I say, “Hey!” like I’ve just run across him while the two of us were doing our daily errands. “Don’t you look nice.”
“Hello, Shenny,” Curry says. E. J. steps out from behind him. He’s got egg salad stuck to the corners of his mouth.
My brain, which went into reverse upon seeing him, is just starting to rev back up. First he’s at Buffalo Park, then over at Beezy’s, and now here. What the heck? Oh, I get it. He must’ve saw E. J. and I leaving Beezy’s. I bet he followed us over here to chastise us for spying on him and her. “Look,” I say, “we’re really sorry we tried to do a sneak up. We didn’t mean to intrude on your visit with Beezy. Tomorrow I’ll tell her how—”
“That’s not why I’m here,” he says.
“Okay.” I look over at E. J. and he seems as flummoxed as me. “Then why
are
you here?”
“I thought you two might like to know that the sheriff has finished questioning Sam concerning your mother’s disappearance,” he says. I take a step closer to him. E. J. looks smaller than he usually does next to Curry, who must’ve found his new outfit in the Extra Large section of wherever he shops, which is odd. I don’t think that hoboes usually do. Shop, that is. Looks to me like they get most of their stuff from garbage pails.