Land of a Hundred Wonders

’cept for me and him and Miss Florida, who is done folding her apron square.

“Charlie?” How relieved I am that he’s called me Gibby instead of Gibson. His mad at me from going to Browntown the other night must be wearing down some.

“Frank Bailey told me the perch are bitin’ off Witch Point,” he says, counting coin.

“That right?” I say, not looking up from my blue spiral. I don’t want to break the mood.

Miss Florida calls from the back hall, “See y’all tomorrow. God willin’ and the creek don’ rise.”

“Stay dry,” I shout.

“So?” Grampa says, emptying the till into his bucket.

“I’d love to go fishin’ with you, but I can’t today. I gotta get busy investigating the death of…” That was a close call. '… the death of… ah… Miz Titwilliger’s cat.”

He’s coming to sit down in the booth across from me. Uncapping his black pen so he can jot down the egg order. “What happened to Miz Titwilliger’s cat?”

(Damn, he’s cagey.)

“Ahhh… not sure. That’s why I gotta get over there to interview her ASAP.”

Sliding over the napkin that he wrote 3 doz on, he says, “First things first,” and tips his cowboy fishing hat back hard enough to make the lures jangle. “I believe we have a paper to look over.”

Grampa never lets the Gazette get typed up and run off by Miss Ruth over at the library until he checks it over. To make sure I haven’t spelled something incorrectly or written about a subject that might get me in a heap of trouble, like it did with that picture I printed of bare-butted Janice Lever doing something she shouldn’ta with Gus the handyman last year.

Grampa reads aloud from theLove, Love Me Do column: “There’s word in town that Reverend Jack, the Lord’s help, and Loretta Boyd, owner of Candy World, are sweet on each other.” Giving me an almost apple-puckerin’ smile, he says, “Good,” and flips to the front of the paper to read the lead story, the Miss Cheryl and Miss DeeDee one. All of a sudden Grampa doesn’t look so amused.

“Ya gotta stop describin’ Hundred Wonders like it’s some sorta miracle place. Folks are gonna get the wrong idea,” he says, testy.

“I’ve seen things up there that you wouldn’t believe,” I protest. My feelings get hurt that he never takes me at my word. Miss Lydia tells me it’s because Grampa got wore down after Gramma died, and when a short while later my mama died, and then when I almost died, his faith just eroded away. “Land of a Hundred Wonders is a miracle place. Miss Lydia does all sorts of heavenly things for folks who-”

“Lydia is nuttier than one of Loretta’s caramel apples and Hundred Wonders is nuthin’ but a third-rate-”

“But I heard you tell Miss Jessie once that if I ever get quite right again, that’d be a miracle.”

“I meant a different kind of miracle. Not like what Lydia is up to. What she call them things? Actuations? Visitations? All she’s doin’ is salving her guilty conscience. Enough is enough. I’m headin’ out there this afternoon and havin’ some strong words with her.”

“Is havin’ words all you’ll be doin’ with her? Maybe you’re the one’s got a guilty conscience. I heard that you and Miss Lydia were an item at one time.”

“Why, that’s… that’s nuthin’ but hog swallow! True, I loved that girl, but not in that way.” He looks like he might blow a gasket. “Where’d you hear that?”

Gathering up my reporting supplies and jamming them into my leather-like, I reply tart, “A reporter never reveals her sources.” (Clever.)

Grampa is stubborn as a new bottle of ketchup, but I can hold my own, too. Smacking his palms down hard, he slides out of the booth. I chase after him, even though I’m feeling toward him a way I can’t ever remember feeling. Hollerin’ from the diner’s back steps as he stomps toward the truck, “Ya gotta stop coddlin’ me. How am I ever goin’ to get quite right if you keep ridin’ rough-shod all over me, every minute of the day? Let me do my own thinkin’.”

“Sharper than a serpent’s tooth ungrateful is what you are,” he shouts, slamming the truck door hard behind him.

I could spit, that’s how infuriating he’s being. “What’s wrong with me spreadin’ my wings a little?”

He’s staring straight ahead through the windshield, mouth straight and white as a highway line. “You comin’?” he yells, gassing the engine.

“No, I am not,” I yell back.

Without so much as a see ya later alligator, he charges out of the parking lot, tires spinning and exhaust smoke spewing.

“The hell with you,” I shout, shaking my fist. “I can do just fine all by myself. You’ll see… you… you… goddamn peg-legged-fishin’-cowboy-whittlin’-bird-watcher.”

Hiding and Seeking

Completely peeved at Grampa, I dropped the paper off at the library myself, then swung by Rudy’s Bait Shop to pick up Clever’s things. Now I’m sprinting down Lake Mary Road like I’m gettin’ chased by a wet hen. I mean it, the hell with him. Bossing me day and night, giving me those disappointed looks of his. I’ve had him clear up to here, I tell ya. I even threw away the egg order. Let the customers eat scrambled dirt tomorrow, for all I care.

I’ve got my briefcase in one hand, Clever’s belongin’s bag in the other. Maybe I shouldn’t, but I take a peek inside and see a once red, now pink sweatshirt, Cray R dge Bul rogs peeling across the front. Ratty jeans. Two pairs of stretched-out socks that don’t match at the heel. But there is also something so extraordinary, something so thoughtful that I’d never believe that selfish, selfish Janice Lever would be capable of sending it along. It’s Clever’s prized possession. The movie poster she got at the county fair of Paul Newman and Robert Redford in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid that used to hang above her mattress in the apartment. (Like I mighta mentioned earlier, that is our most absolutely favorite movie of all times. None other even comes close. We got to watch it every single night for the weeks it was up at the Outdoor ’cause Clever was allowing pimply Dennis Franklin to touch her heinie around that time and he ran the ticket booth out near the road, so all we had to pay for was popcorn.)

We can say almost all the words by heart. For me, who can’t recall the day of the week without checking my underwear, that’s quite the accomplishment, wouldn’t ya say? That movie means something Profound: Penetrating into the depths of one’s being to the two of us. Might be Butch and the Kid’s fine friendship. Maybe it’s the strong cowboy atmosphere. I’ve thought about it and thought about it, and I’m still not entirely sure what it is that stirs us so. All I know is that movie makes Clever and me feel like a double anchor resting secure on a sandy bottom, so I put the poster back into the belongin’s bag with a lotta careful.

I’ll show Grampa. Keeper and me are on our way to the beach. Mr. Buster Malloy will be lying there in the sand, more’n likely a little riper. Being at the scene of the crime should help me set the tone for my story once I solve who done him in.

The Importance of Perception in Meticulous Investigation says: Journalists must make sure their readers feel as if they are witnessing a reported event firsthand. Your article must have the right tone. What that means is you wouldn’t want to sound too cheerful when you write Sugar Jenkins’s obituary. Telling your faithful readers how unusually clean he looked in his white Sunday suit and wasn’t that creamy coffin the most interesting of choices? No. You’d want that obituary to be sorrowful as can be, and not have the same tone as the story you wrote on the 4-H fashion show.

Squiggly heat is coming up off the road and the cicada noise is pecking alongside my mad. When I gear down to get my breath, I can hear him. No, not hear him. Feel him. I don’t recall if I had Billy radar in