Buster, both of us know that since just about everybody in the county believes she’s touched in the head, the worst that’d happen to her would be she’d spend a few weeks in the mental institute crafting ashtrays, and Grampa can always use a couple more down at the diner, so this is not that big a deal.
Heavens to Murgatroid! I just perceived something.
“Since Mr. Buster is dead, you’re gonna be the boss now. After they let ya out of Pardyville, ya can go back to live up at the farm.” The second after I say it, I also perceive she’ll never leave Georgie. Or Mama. Or the Wonders.
“I own the farm outright now, yes,” she says, snapping a bean to smithereens.
“But what about what’s his name… I forget… Mr. Buster’s son? What’s gonna happen to him?”
You don’t see Miss Lydia smile all that often since people of wisdom see more of the bad in life than we simple people do, but she’s giving it a try with the good side of her lip. “Appears that my dear nephew, Bishop, and that Yankee neighbor of yours got carted off this morning. The field boss found what the two of ’em been growin’ and called the state troopers, who then asked my permission to burn those hemp plants down to the ground.”
Well… well… well.
With Willard and Bishop outta the picture, the golden hemp treasure is fair game. Me and Billy and Cooter could go gather up that crop ’fore the troopers show up. We’ll take it up to New York and introduce ourselves around that village while Clever is recuperating from the baby coming, and when we’re done selling the hemp for lots of cash, I’ll make a stop at the offices of Penguin Books to see if Mr. Howard Redmond is at his desk. I have been dying to ask him about-
“Ya can forget all that,” Miss Lydia says, snippish.
(Told ya she can see my wheels working.)
“Did ya realize you got a birthday comin’ up?” she asks, outta the blue.
“I do.” I was thinking I’d have a party of some sort this year as I have not had one since… actually, I don’t remember ever having one. “How old am I gonna be?”
“Twenty-one. That’s a milestone birthday.”
“Ya don’t say.”
“A milestone means it’s an important event, chil’,” Miss Lydia says, all of a sudden so supremely solemn. The breeze has stopped stirring. Birds have quit their twittering. Even the cicadas are stock- still.
I really do wish I had my blue spiral notebook with me because it’s one of those times when something of great importance is about to happen. This is an almost daily occurrence at Land of a Hundred Wonders and always comes on fast like this. Miss Lydia is about to make one of her PRONOUNCEMENTS.
“The spirits have spoken,” she says, setting down her bowl and floating up out of her chair. “The time for A FINAL RECKONING has arrived. Follow me.”
What I really need to do is get over to the hospital to check on Clever and Rosie and Billy and Cooter, but since I trust Miss Lydia beyond reason, and would not ever disobey her, I go with her into the parlor that’s dim with black curtains to protect her eyes that are so sensitive they can see into the future. Candles of white burn day or night, for they are soul cleansers. And AR-TIFACTUALS OF PROTECTION are scattered across her tabletops, their chestnut faces and corn-husk bodies working just dandy to keep away evil spirits. I know there are four-leaf clovers lying beneath the cushions of her green cloth sofa, which is where we always sit when we have our VISITATIONS with Mama. And the ever-present vase full of lilies-of-the-valley looms large and reminding.
If Grampa would only come visit and see these pictures of Miss Lydia and Mama that hang on her every parlor wall, he would know how much love there is for his daughter here in Hundred Wonders. Maybe he’d stop being so bitter about everything. Maybe even his hope would spring back when he saw the snapshots of when they were blond enough to ride two to a pony. Little girls picnicking down at the lake with Gramma Kitty. Later when they are more grown, there is a photo of Miss Lydia gazing into my mama’s eyes with such pure love that you can barely stand looking at it.
From underneath the sofa, Miss Lydia removes her tattered photo album with shaky fingers. We have spent day upon day, year upon year, looking at the two best friends glued forever on these pages. And me. I’m in these pictures, too. Baby Gibby… first day at school Gibby… braids down to my bottom Gibby. She removes a photo from the album. Gibby graduating from high school. My mama’s got her arm around me looking so proud. And I’m smiling at her so Quite Right.
I say, “Did you know that back before the crash Billy and me were going to get married and…” Something like soul-shatteringsorrow is sucking the air out of the parlor and taking my breath along with it. When I look over at Miss Lydia, to see if she’s feeling the same, she’s fingerin’ that graduation picture and staring off into the distance. The sound of clattering chimes comes through the parlor window.
“Are you ready for THE FINAL RECKONING?” she asks. “Are you willin’?”
“I am willin’,” I say, even though it has just occurred to me that maybe I’m not. I have no idea what THE FINAL RECKONING is. The room has drawn darker and the wind… it’s unearthly sounding.
Miss Lydia’s eyes close and she begins to chant, “Open your heart… open your mind… open your heart… open your mind.”
I do.
“Breathe in my breath three times.”
So honey sweet.
“Allow yourself to drift away to the night of the crash so-” She steels herself. “The spirit of rememberin’ is comin’ upon you.”
I don’t want to disappoint her, but I desperately do not want to go on with this. I am feeling floaty and faraway and frightened. Untethered. Because suddenly, I’m not in her parlor anymore. Not in Hundred Wonders. Not even in Cray Ridge. I’m back in the kind of night anybody in their right mind stays home and is grateful to do so, me and mine heading down here to start my summer stay. The rain is gushing down so bad it’s erasing the highway line and our Buick’s sprouted wings more than a few times. And the sky isn’t the only one spittin’ mad. My mama’s saying in her crossest of voices, “We’re not gonna outrun this storm… Lydia… get off at the next exit. Ya got talent at findin’ motels, don’tcha, Joe? ’Specially the real cheap kind.” Daddy’s bellowing back, “Goddamn it. I’m warning you, Addy… for the last time…,” and Mama starts screaming. The driver of the car is burying her face in her hands when Daddy lurches for the wheel too late. And then there’s an explosion.
“It… it was…
Miss Lydia reaches out for me, and when I pull back, her tears come. “Addy thought that it’d do me good to come visit y’all up in Chicago to get away from Cray Ridge for a bit, and then… then we’d all drive back down here together. I knew she and your daddy’d been havin’ some marriage problems, but that whole week they fought something awful. The night… that night we were headin’ back down here, they were so upset and outta sorts they asked me to drive, and I did… but then… in all their arguin’… the rain sheetin’, I was wore out with their mad, and still feelin’ so sad about Georgie, I closed my eyes, just for a moment… a moment is all… and then the bus…”
“I… I… Is this why Grampa doesn’t want me to visit with you?” All this time I thought he was being so unreasonable. And that my daddy was the one driving. “Ya fell asleep at the wheel? Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”
“I couldn’t… I couldn’t risk losin’ ya like I lost Georgie and Addy and…” Miss Lydia breaks into the kind of banshee wailing she does when we do one of our LAYING UPONS on Mama’s grave. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I’m sorry… forgive me… I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I’m sorry… forgive me…”
'Y’ all right in there?” Teddy Smith has come up the porch steps and is calling through the screen door. “Lydia?” When he pokes his head in and sees her balled up on the sofa, he rushes to her side, lifts her into his arms, and carries her off toward her bedroom, leaving me behind and alone.
All these years of believing in Miss Lydia with my whole heart and soul. How could she? That means the ACTUATIONS, and even worse, the VISITATIONS were a lie, too. And they were the only way I had to stay close to my mama.
