Lesley Kagen - Land of a Hundred Wonders

“Ya don’t wanna play cards. Ya wanna go to Browntown?” Clever asks, shooing off the baby subject and moving back onto the gadabout subject. “I could get a little hooch off Cooter.”

Just in case you don’t know any Negroes, you definitely should get to. I am acquainted with quite a few of them because Miss Florida Smith, our helper at the diner, she is the Queen of Browntown even though the rest of Cray Ridge does not treat her like royalty. Except for when they are eating some of her pie. I am not allowed to go over to Browntown at night anymore. Miss Florida told Grampa last week to keep me away until things simmer down. But staying away, it breaks my heart. The way that place smells of barbecue and how the houses are hugged together so close that you can hear when somebody is mad at somebody or when they’re giving each other a little sugar. All the little children running around with their nappy hair and dusty toes. And that music. That low-down music.

But…

Grampa was clear on the subject, and if he finds out I was over there, he won’t call me Gibby girl for a week. He’ll call me Gibson, and only if he has to tell me to do something of an emergency nature. The hell with him! -the creeping thoughts are nudging- Go! You love Browntown. And you might could come across an awfully good story. Yes. It’d be worth getting into trouble for an awfully good story. That’s exactly what I need right about now. This Miss Cheryl and Miss DeeDee article is feeling a mite stale.

“Gib?”

“Yeah?”

“I’d be a good mama,” Clever says, real wretched.

“I know, I know you would.” She has always been good with the little ones. Gives them free cookie cones, which is one of the reasons she’s always in Dutch with her boss.

“Knock knock,” I say, ’cause besides offering her a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup straight out of the can, or five dollars, it’s the only other way I know to cheer her up.

“Who’s ttthere?” she says, struggling.

“Butch.” That’s her nickname for me. It’s from our special movie.

“Bbbutch who?”

“Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. The both of ’em. Right there. On your doorstep. Wouldn’t that beat all?”

She fans her hand out on the screen. I do the same. Her heart is pounding in her thumb.

“Come with me,” she says, snorting up the sad.

Even though she’s pretending she wants to go to Browntown to get some hooch off Cooter, that’s not what she really wants. Even though Clever’s been busy with Willard for months, when the going gets rough, she’ll run to Cooter lickety split. The two of them’ve been running hot and cold for forever. And if she can’t locate him , she’ll settle for a different kinda lovin’ from Miss Florida, who’s been a second mother to her.

“Well?” Clever says, snotty now ’cause she’d prefer having her eyes pecked outta her head by hungry crows than say please . “I ain’t got all night.”

(You gotta admit. She’s irresistible.)

“Oh, all right, Kid.” That’s my nickname for her . I set my blue spiral back under my pillow, lower the lantern wick, and slip on my sneakers. Keeper and me are extra careful with the porch screen door, praying nature noise will cover up its squeak.

Once out on the lawn, I call softly into the dark, “Where are ya?”

“Down here,” Clever calls back. “At the pier.”

When I join up with her, she reaches for my hand and holds it firm across her belly. I cannot believe I haven’t noticed how round and hard it’s become! Have my powers of perception taken a vacation? Then again, she has been wearing a lot of these flowing-type outfits instead of her usual short-shorts and T-shirts. Something strong ripples under my palm. “For crissakes, what the hell did you have to eat tonight?” I ask, taking my hand away quick. “It’s really comin’ back on ya.”

“That’s not supper, that’s the baby movin’ around. It squirms like that day and night. Don’t ya know one thing about how this all works?”

While certainly not an expert, I did see that filly getting born just a couple of weeks ago. “I know some .”

Clever looks awful disappointed. She counts on this investigative reporter to keep her up on current events. “Well, knowin’ some is knowin’ more’n me,” she admits. “The only thing I know is one of these nights I’m gonna wake up in fits of pain and after a while the baby’ll slide out.”

Poor, poor girl. She probably doesn’t know what a mess this birthing is going to make either. “When that night comes, ya might wanna change into some work clothes, kiddo,” I explain as she undoes the rope that’s holding the boat safely to the dock.

We’d usually take the path through the woods over to Browntown, but Clever, being weighted down with child, has decided the boat would be quicker, I guess. Keeper and her are already snuggling close on the middle plank, so I set myself down next to the outboard. A wide moonbeam is making the lake look unzipped.

“Don’t start the motor up. Grampa might hear,” Clever bosses. “Row.”

For once, she’s right. The Importance of Perception in Meticulous Investigationclearly states: At times it may be crucial for an operative to commit an act of subterfuge. Think like a leopard.

Once we’re up close to Browntown Beach, I pull the oars into the boat and we glide the rest of the way. Clever splashes into the lake first, followed by me, with Keeper bringing up the rear. It’s so damn sultry tonight, even the frogs are complaining. And the cicadas, well, they don’t appear to know the meaning of the words “enough already.” I’m beginning to get that wormy feeling in my stomach. Maybe I shouldn’ta agreed to this. We pulled up the boat not too far from where Mr. Buster is rotting away.

Clever taunts, “Race ya,” and rushes off toward the trees that the colored music is dripping out of like sap.

Should I tell Clever, my dearest and oldest friend, about finding his dead body? She could have some ideas. Every once in a while she gets a bright one. Like how she figured out how to get us into the 57 Outdoor for free by outfitting me in a two-sizes-too-small angora sweater. Our thumbs and my double D’s stuck out quite nicely on the highway. (I wouldn’t recommend the trunk of a Fairlane as a mode of travel, but Paint Your Wagon was worth every bit of that greasy ride. That Mr. Clint Eastwood certainly’s got an awful lotta mumbling charm.)

Then again, if I tell Clever about finding Mr. Buster, I might as well go ahead and plaster the news on the billboard outside of town, because as much as I love her, and I do with every inch of myself, the girl is NOT well known for her secret-keeping ability. No. There’d go my investigation, and writing my awfully good story is still #1 on my VERY IMPORTANT THINGS TO DOlist.

“Gib?” Clever’s hurrying ahead down the path that runs along the shore, still impressively swift despite her swollenness. “What’s takin’ ya so long?”

I can’t see her face, but I don’t have to. I know it’s radiating excitement, and if you could see her heart, it’d have a crazy ole grin plastered across it. Clever gets like this whenever she’s near Browntown. Wilder.

“Be right there,” I yell, true to my word, ’til a mewling sound coming out of the bushes next to the path stops me cold. Lifting up the low branches, I can see a tabby kitten huddled in the dirt, looking scared as can be. I recognize her as one of Miss Lydia’s from her cat Sheba. How’d she get out from underneath the porch? Shame on her mama.

"C’mon,” Clever shouts from farther down the path, her head bobbing through the bushes.