favorite bird, so I figured it was a sign that she wanted me to come snuggle with her a bit, so I made my way over to the graveyard. And I was bent over, giving her stone a smooch the way I like to do, when I heard from behind me, “Well, look who’s come to visit,” and the voice sounded so much like… I got confused.
“Georgie?” I called into the pitch of the night. “That you?”
I squeeze Teddy’s hand real hard, but he does not yelp out. Somehow he knows that I need to hold on to him so I don’t drift off into a sea of ascaredness, because this is bad, this remembering of that night. This is real bad. ’Cause after I realized it wasn’t Georgie talking to me from THE GREAT BEYOND, I shouted, “Who’s there?” and that’s when he came stumbling outta the shadows.
“Evenin’, Mr. Buster,” I said, not surprised, figuring he’d come to pay his respects to his dear nephew. Lots of folks like to come around that time of the evening to visit their departed because Miss Lydia says that’s when their spirits are the liveliest. “You come to say good night to Puddin’ and Pie?”
Mr. Buster broke out bawling, and was so disheveled, his eyeglasses hanging off one ear, and I felt so bad for him because I know what it’s like to miss a loved one so bad that you just can’t even be bothered to comb your hair. So I came and knelt down next to him, patted his back. But it wasn’t comfort he was seeking, not that kind anyway, because I could see by the light of the lantern that hangs off Georgie’s stone that Mr. Buster’s pants were already half down, candies tumbling out his pocket. Keeper was crazy barking and snarling, so Mr. Buster picked him up and threw him at the pointy fence and drug me to the ground and pushed my legs apart, held them open with his smooth little hands, letting loose only once to pluck at my panties. “Lydia… Lydia… Lydia,” he chanted.
I cried, “No, Mr. Butter, you’re confused. Put your glasses back on. It’s me, Gibby McGraw.” Teddy was calling for me in the distance, and I tried to shout back, “Here I am, here I am,” but Mr. Butter closed my mouth hard with his hand that smelled of butterscotch and booze.
“By the time I got to ya, he just about had his…,” Teddy says. “I pulled him off and pierced him with the pitchfork and he fell back onto Georgie’s tombstone and broke his neck.”
So that’s how I got those bruises on my thighs. They were from Mr. Buster holding me down. And that’s why Miss Lydia had to stitch up Keeper’s head. ’Cause he got thrown up against the graveyard fence.
I lay my head on Teddy’s shoulder. “Ya killed him for her, for Miss Lydia, on account of what Mr. Buster did to her, didn’t ya?”
“And for what he done to her boy,” Teddy says so mournfully, like her pain is his. “And for you, Gibber. Ya know I’ve always had a fondness for ya.”
I bring his hand that has held me steady up to my lips. “Thank you for savin’ me, Teddy. That was real brave.”
We sit there still together for some time, until the investigative reporter in me comes calling. “I didn’t find Mr. Buster dead here in the graveyard. I found him over on Browntown Beach.” Teddy is strong, but I don’t think he could’ve lugged that fat man all the way over there by himself. “Did ya use your wheelbarrow to get him over there?”
“By the time Lydia got your dog sewed up, Billy’d come lookin’ for ya. He hepped me carry Buster’s body over there.”
My guardian angel really does need to work on his punctuality.
“Billy brought along the pitchfork and swam it out into the lake so I’d never have to see it again,” Teddy says. “He wanted to take Buster’s body out there, too, weigh it down so nobody’d ever find it, but I told him, no. Let him lie dead and cold in the same place as little Georgie.” He pulls back his sloping shoulders. “Ya best go now, Gibber. Tell ’em in town that I’m the one murdered Buster. I was fixin’ to turn myself in right ’fore ya broke Cooter outta the jail anyways.”
My voice is so pitchy sounding, practically matching his when I say, “Ya know, I don’t believe I’m gonna tell anybody in town anything of the sort. Y
I get up off the wood bench to pluck the sign out of the muddy earth and bring it back to him.
WONDER # 33
IF SILENCE IS GOLDEN, THEN FORGIVENESS IS PLATI NUM
“Everybody can go catch a green rabbit, for all I care,” I tell him.
Teddy doesn’t say a thing for a piece. But then reminds me, “Important to keep in mind that I weren’t the only one saved ya.”
I know he means
“Ya know what ya should do now? You should go into that house and make her a cup of that dandelion tea she’s so nuts about,” I say, trying to dam up the tears. “And could ya tell her… tell her that I’m not ready just yet, but I hope like hell she’s right about thyme healing all wounds.”
Teddy doesn’t answer me back, just looks awful desolate when he runs his hand down my hair that covers my scar, then gets up and walks off. But if I know the Caretaker… he’ll do his job.
The Showdown
I was thinking of ridin’ Peaches, but changed my mind. I feel like walking to the hospital. Feet touching the earth one right after another, there’s something real grounding to that, and Lord knows I’m in need. Mr. Howard Redmond states in the last chapter of The Importance of Perception in Meticulous Investigation: Writing the Story:
So that’s what I’m gonna do. Take my time to sort this all out. But NOT because I need to get my facts straight. As I wind my way down this wide-as-a-ribbon trail that leads away from Land of a Hundred Wonders toward town, like I already explained to Mama, I know that I’m not
And Grampa. He’s gonna need me here to take care of him. Setting him up on fresh-laundered pillows out on the screened porch so I can go off to cook us a big fish over the fire. Even though he never cut
So with the case solved, but not being able to report it, and Clever having a baby, but us not having the treasure to buy diapers and such, and Miss Lydia not being so miraculous after all, well, I’d describe how I’m feeling right this minute as… bittersweet. Like one of Candy World’s green caramel apples. Now don’t get me wrong. I still got hope. After all, it does spring internal. (
