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.”
That sounds too sinister, even for my grandfather. His name hasn’t come up, but I know that old devil would think
up something dastardly like this and make my father go along with it. I rub my itchy eyes, and say, “I really don’t know what to believe anymore. It’s all so awful and such a jumble and . . . can’t you please tell me what you know?”
“I wish I could but . . .” Curry moves his hand from the cloth car seat to the back of my head. He strokes my hair. He seems more like a daddy now than a cop. I wonder if Curry has any papooses. “Tomorrow morning,” he says. “Be right at this spot at nine o’clock and all your questions will be answered.”
“But—”
“Listen to me carefully.” Curry lets his hand slip from my head down to my shoulder. “I want you to promise me to get Woody and go somewhere safe right away. Stay the night at Beezy’s or—”
“You can come to our place,” E. J. offers eagerly. He likes to cuddle with Woody. “It’s closer.”
“But . . . why can’t we just sleep up in the fort?” I ask. My twin feels best up there and I do, too.
“You need to do what I ask, Shenny,” Curry says, serious as can be. “It’s important. Do you trust me?”
He seems concerned about Woody and me and that feels nice, so I say, “Yeah, all right.”
“Promise?” Curry asks.
I make an X over my heart and nudge E. J. with my hip. He gets out of the car, but I don’t follow. For better or for worse, I have decided to put all my eggs into Curry’s basket. I lean into him and say, “I’m not sure I’m doing the right thing here, but I can tell you mean well.”
Curry gives me a pat on the head. “Give my regards to Woody. Stay safe.” Then he adds on under his breath, “For all our sakes.”
When he takes off down Lee Road, Beezy’s rattling old Pontiac gives off a backfire.
E. J. and I are standing by the side of the road, watching the one taillight disappear into the thick darkness. He says, “Pididdle,” and then, “You think he’s tellin’ the truth?”
“How am I supposed to know?” I’m extra crabby ’cause I’m hungry. I pull our dinner out of the drugstore sack. I must’ve sat on it in the car. The egg salad sandwiches Vera made us look like how I feel. Smooshed.
“I got my doubts about him,” E. J. says. “I’m sure you thought of this already, being smart like ya are, but how did Curry know to come down here two weeks ago to help Sam out of trouble when he just got arrested a few hours ago?”
Boy, I really have been underestimating our sidekick. I don’t want him to know this idea never occurred to me, so I just say the first thing I can think of. “Maybe he’s got ESP like the swami at the carnival.” Now I don’t trust Curry again. Something’s rotten in Denmark.
“Well,” E. J. says, hiking up his too-big jeans. “Gotta go. You know how mothers get when you’re not home when ya say you’re gonna be.”
One of the Calhouns’ hounds starts baying on the other side of the creek like he heard E. J. and knows just how I’m feeling.
“Geeze, Shen . . . ,” E. J. says, trying to take the foot out of his mouth. Again.
“Forget it.” I’m looking towards the big oak that’s easy to spot even from the road, so he does, too. Rays of candlelight are coming out from between the fort’s broad boards. That means Woody’s praying in front of her Saint Jude coffee can altar. I’m so much later than I told her I’d be. She’s probably saying Hail Marys for my immediate return.
Trying to get me to laugh, E. J. points and says, “Hark! What light through yonder window breaks?” He makes it sound not Elizabethan at all. Yonder does not have that many o’s. “You know I love her with my whole heart and soul, right?” he adds on real soulfully.
Even though I’m planning to tell the truth about Sam on the witness stand, he will still be incarcerated because what the Carmodys want the Carmodys get. After the trial, my family will disown me. And Beezy will probably get so mad at Papa and Grampa for being so mean to her boy that she won’t want to have anything to do with her new almost grandbabies. Woody will be all the flesh and blood that I’ll have left. I’m not so eager to share her with E. J. I tell him, “If you start goin’ on about how she’s the sun and the moon is envious, I’ll hit you over the head with this flashlight, drag you into the woods, and let the wolves have at ya.”
Backing towards the trail that will take him back home, he says, “Hurry, go get her the way Curry told you to. I’ll be waitin’ for y’all on the porch. I’ll have a bowl of berries ready.” And then, out of the trees that he disappeared into comes, “How many times do I got to tell you, there’s no wolves around here?”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” I say into the night. I know of at least one big bad one.
Through the trees, I can see the front porch light shining on Grampa’s black truck.
Chapter Twenty-eight
I’m not exaggerating, Woody is drooling happy to see me.
Ivory, too. I give my sister both of the egg salad sandwiches as an apology for being late and she feeds the crusts to the dog.
Getting next to her on the fort floor, I rip open one of the bags of crackers that I’ve been stealing out of the pantry and say, “You’re not goin’ to believe what I found out.” I’ve given some thought to what I’ll tell her. Not everything all at once. I’m going to start off with the good stuff. My sister is not decrepit, but sometimes that’s how I think of her. Like an old-fashioned gown that’s been sitting in Gramma’s attic trunk too long. If I’m not careful in the way I handle her, she could fray in my hands.
I lace her fingers in mine. “Now, take it easy, all right? I’m warnin’ you, this is big happy news.” I wish I could go slow and tell her every detail about what happened since I left her, but I got to be short and sweet. I’ll fill her in on the specifics later. We’re running out of time right now. “Don’t start hoopin’ or hollerin’.” I tilt my head towards the house. “We don’t want them to hear us.” Woody cocks her head the other way and so does Ivory. “All right then,” I say, swallowing in the biggest breath I can. “Vera told me at the drugstore tonight that Sam . . . our Sam . . . he’s not just our excellent friend . . . he’s . . . are you ready?”
She nods with a lot of enthusiasm.
“Sam is . . . our uncle!”
It takes her a second to get what I’m saying, but when she does, it’s like she hit Bingo! I knew she wouldn’t doubt me for a second. I’m her twin. Woody jumps up and spins in glee. Happy flaps around the fort!
“Isn’t that great?” More flapping. “Okay, okay, now settle down,” I say. “I got some bad news, too. You ready?” She doesn’t nod. “Curry Weaver told me that Papa went down to the sheriff’s office and brought along Mama’s diary and the watch Sam gave her. He’s tellin’ Sheriff Nash to charge Sam with murdering her.”
Just like the good news I delivered, it takes a second for this to sink in, and when it does Woody slaps the fort floor over and over. Attacks her hair. Gnashes her teeth. I try to get ahold of her around the waist, but it’s like trying to capture lightning. “I know . . . I know, it’s the worst news ever,” I tell her, “but don’t worry . . . we’re going to help Sam, all right?” I thought she’d get upset but not this much. There’s no reasoning with her when she gets like this. She shoves me down to the fort floor, reaches for her drawing pad out of the corner. Her face looks like it’s on fire.
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.