Land of a Hundred Wonders

I’m not sure how long I lay there on her parlor sofa letting the torturous sad spew outta me, or how long it took before I realized that my gulping breaths, they smell so strong of lilies-of the-valley. But now I am sure that I can hear Mama’s laugh that pealed like church bells resounding inside me. She drank coffee black. Melancholy was how she felt when she was done with one of her paintings. She adored applesauce cake with a sprinkle of cinnamon hot out of the oven. The warmth of her against the warmth of me, our heads sharing a pillow. The last thing she said to me ’fore I fell asleep every night, no matter how mad or sad or busy she was, “I love you forever, my little Giblet. No matter what happens… don’t ever forget that.”

That’s when it comes to my mind that I’ve not been completely right about why my mama hasn’t been resting in peace. It is because I’m NQR, but not the way I’ve been thinking. No. She isn’t pacing heaven, wringing her strong but small hands ’cause I confuse my words and my mind wanders. Or even ’cause of the blue streak that runs through me. It’s because, ’cept for a smattering here and there, I did forget about her love for me. And there’s no way she can rest eternally until what’s been lost is found and returned to its rightful owner.

So I pick up the picture of her and me at my graduation that Miss Lydia left lying on the table, and holding it to my heart, I trumpet loud enough that she’ll hear me all the way up to the pearly gates, “Oh, Mama. Rest assured. Your little Giblet remembers.”

Birthday

Could it be just this morning that I believed the nature sounds were so much louder here in Hundred Won-ders? Like this is where it all begins and the rest of the world’s gotta put up with hand-me-downs? Now the cemetery looks desolate like any other. And the baptizing creek’s got some scummy weeds floating on top. Even the flowers don’t smell as sweet.

Me and Teddy Smith are sitting side by side out on the wood bench across the road from Miss Lydia’s house. He’s staring off yonder and I am struggling to fit together the pieces that got me to where I am right now. Mama. How right it feels to have her back cozy in my mind. And Miss Lydia, I’m thinking on her, too. I don’t believe I’ll ever be able to forgive her. Even if I wear purple every day for the rest of my life. Not ’cause she was driving the car the night of the crash. That was just an accident. That coulda happened to anybody. But having your trust snatched away from you like that? That’s gotta be about the worst thing there is. Makes me feel like I lost my grip on a trapeze, knowing I’ve got no net below. Maybe many, many, many moons from now, I’ll be able to say to her, “It’s all right, ya made a mistake, Miss Lydia, let’s have a kitty cuddle.” But maybe not neither.

“Ya know, don’tcha,” Teddy says, extending his arms, “that this, all of it, come ’bout ’cause of you and your mama? The signs.

The healings. The baptisms. All of it goes back to that night of the crash.”

I figured some of that out while we’ve been sitting here staring at the Wonder signs. Like plucking off artichoke leaves to get to the heart of the matter, all of a sudden I understood what they really meant. Especially:

WONDER # 100

SAVING THE INNOCENT IS THE JOB OF THE ONE WHO’S

GOT HOLD OF THE WHEEL

“That’s how she got herself burned,” he goes on. “Lydia’s the one pulled you away from the fiery car. If she hadn’t stumbled into a creek after the exertion of it all, she’d be ’side your mama right over there.”

I lift my head to look where he’s pointing. The graveyard. “Just like all the other lies she told me, it wasn’t a miracle that I survived the crash,” I say, bitter.

“Well, I believe, like beauty, that miracles are in the eyes of the beholder.” I could tell from the way he cradled Miss Lydia that it wasn’t the first time he had. And what she nicknamed him-the Caretaker-that name has a whole new meaning for me now. Teddy here, even if he is slow on the uptake, it’s clear to me he’s lightning quick to keep Miss Lydia safe. Would do just about anything to snatch her out of harm’s way.

“Nice visitin’ with ya, but I gotta get over to the hospital,” I say, starting to stand.

He clamps his hand down upon my shoulder. “She don’ want me to say nuthin’ to ya, but I figure long as ya know the rest… Too many secrets been held too long.” Once my bottom meets bench, Teddy gives my shoulder a squeeze like a reminder to stay put. “Ya was over here visitin’ with Lydia that night. Heppin’ her jar up preserves. Blueberry.”

What’s he talking about? Does he mean the night of the crash? No. That’s not right. We were coming from Chicago to Cray Ridge that night. “What do ya mean by that night?” I ask, hardly caring.

“The night… a bad storm was comin’,” he says, tellin’ the story like I’m not even here. “When ya got done with the jarrin’, Lydia sent you out to the barn to fetch me so I could walk ya back to the cottage ’fore the rain came. But I was busy, pitchin’ the late hay, so I told ya to go back up on the porch and that I’d be there right off. And ya said, ‘I sure ’nuf will, Teddy. I’ll wait right there for ya,’ and off ya went. After I finished off the feedin’, I hurried back to the house, but when I got there you were gone. I thought ya left without me, so I ran toward the path to catch up, callin’ out your name. I was in such a state, I didn’t even notice I still had my pitchfork in my hand.” He swallows hard. “When the thunder stopped rumblin’, jus’ for a lick, that’s when I heard your dog barkin’ and yowlin’ over in the graveyard. That’s where he was waitin’.”

“Well, a course he was waitin’. Keeper always does that,” I say, wondering why this would upset Teddy enough to make his eyes shine.

“Weren’t Keeper. It were… ’member?”

Closing my eyes, I wait for the memory of that night to appear. Surprisingly, it doesn’t disappoint. Coming to me is the aroma of just-picked-that-afternoon blueberries on the stovetop simmering away in sugar. And the feel of the smooth rubber rings from the canning jars. And there’s Miss Lydia, swaying to her opera music, the wind of the approaching storm shoving around her white kitchen curtains. But that’s where the memory fades. “I… nuthin’… who was waitin’ in the cemetery?”

Teddy’s breathing out all right, he just can’t seem to breathe in.

“It’s all right,” I say, patting his hand. “Ya can tell me.”

“It were… Buster.”

“Mr. Buster Malloy?” I ask, stunned.

“I shoulda walked ya straight home,” he says so hollow-hearted. “None of this woulda happened if I hadda.”

“None of what woulda happened?”

Teddy shifts his eyes over to the cemetery. “By the time I got to ya, he already… he was drunk. He was… Buster was tryin’ to do to you what he did to Miss Lydia all those years ago.”

Oh my goodness.

That night… that night… yes. Me and Miss Lydia were working together in her daisy-papered kitchen. When the jam jarring was just about done, she said, “Time to get ya home,” while she bustled around the kitchen putting the preserving supplies back into the cupboard. “Bad storm’s comin’. Go out to the barn and ask Teddy to walk you home, chil’. And take a scarf, it’s already startin’ to sprinkle. I send ya back with a wet head, your grampa will be fit to be tied, won’t he.”

Knowing she was right, I did do that, took a scarf out of the basket of purple ones she keeps next to her front door. After I wrapped it around my face, just one eye peeking out, I looked at myself in her hall mirror and thought, Look at me, why, I look just like Miss Lydia. And I did go out into the barn and ask Teddy to walk me home, and then came back to the porch like he told me to. And I rocked in her chair while I was waiting for him to finish feeding, until outta the darkness, a nightingale warbled over in the graveyard, which was Mama’s