Lesley Kagen - Land of a Hundred Wonders

Clever’s stomach grumbles.

“Sounds like ya need some chicken noodle soup,” I say, swinging my legs outta the lake. “Straight from the can, just the way you like it.”

“That sounds real good,” she says, stuffin’ the rest of her belongin’s back into the sack, but folding the map up neat and sliding it into the top of her swirly skirt. “And then what say you and me go firefly catchin’ like we used to. When we got a jar full, we’ll take ’em up to Miss Lydia and she can make a feel-better potion for Grampa. You’d like that, right?”

When I don’t answer, when the tears come again, she gathers me into the kind of fierce hug that Clever’s well known for. The kind where she’s not so much hugging as holding on to ya like you’re a life preserver. “He’d expect you to saddle up and ride hard, and here ya are feelin’ all sorrowful,” she says. “Ya gotta be strong for him, Butch. C’mon.” She takes her bag up in one hand, my hand in the other. “I’m starvin’.”

When we pass his Adirondack, I run my fingers down the wood. Give it a smooch right where his head falls against the grain. Clever’s right. I am feeling sorry for myself, and like Grampa always says, feeling sorry for yourself never gets nobody nowhere quick.

“Maybe instead of takin’ the fireflies to Miss Lydia, we can take ’em straight to Grampa and they could be his night-light?” I say.

Clever gives me a playful shove. “Now there’s the rootin’-tootin’ cowgirl I been lookin’ for.”

We’re almost to the cottage when a reedy voice says outta the shadows, “Good evening, ladies.” A few steps closer and I can see it’s none other than Willard DuPree, sitting cross-legged in the thatched chair to the side of the screened-in. Bare-chested and twirling one of Grampa’s roses between his fingers. A yellow one.

I’m not sure how Clever’s feeling about him now, but I don’t want to take any chances. “If ya stopped by to find out if we wanted to play strip poker, we don’t,” I say, tugging on her.

Getting up, Willard breaks the rose off its stem. “Actually, I stopped by to beg your forgiveness, Carol.” When he’s done settingthe flower in her hair, he circle pets her globe tummy. “After a thorough examination of my conscience, I’ve changed my mind about giving up the baby and wanted to rush right over and tell you.”

Clever says, swooning, “Oh, Willard, I knew you’d change your mind.”

“Can’t you see he’s jukin’ ya?” I say, choking her wrist. “He doesn’t even have a conscience, for crissakes.” (I’m pretty sure I know what Willard’s after and it isn’t Clever or the baby. Or even hot sex.)

“I… I miss you,” Willard tells her, crocodile tears watering his whiskers.

Clever wrenches out of my grip and rushes to wrap him up in her arms. She can’t see it ’cause she’s got her face buried in his scrawny chest, but even if she could see his trickery smile, she’d be helpless to fight off those love feelings. It’s in her blood to surrender to men. “Ya sure?” she asks him. “ ’Bout the baby, I mean.”

Pointing to her belongin’s bag, he answers, “Do you have my map in there, sweetie?”

(Just as I thought.)

“No. I got it right…” Clever fidgets in the top of her skirt.

“She’s not your sweetie and she doesn’t have the map.” I don’t want to say it, but I have to. It’s for her own good. “She gave it to me for safekeepin’.”

Faster than I’ve ever seen him move, Willard shoves Clever off to the side and takes a giant step toward me. “Hand it over.”

“Why, I’d love to, Willard, but for the life of me I can’t remember what the hell I did with it. I’m NQR, ya know,” I say, not looking at him, but eyeing Clever, waiting for the realization of his two-faced phoniness to dawn across her face. It’s out of the corner of my eye that I see him whipping his arm back, his palm wing-flat.

Clever springs into action, wedging herself between us. “That’s all ya really want, ain’t it? The map? Well, then take it, you… mealy-assed liar,” she cries, flinging it at his feet along with the yellow rose.

Willard tells her with a winning smile, “Once again, I’d like to apologize. I completely misjudged you, Carol.”

“Really?” she says, hope bobbing back up into her watery eyes.

“Really.” Willard bends down to retrieve the map. “It turns out you’re only about half as dumb as I thought you were.”

Hearing him laugh wicked like that, before I know it, I’m yelling, “AHA!” and my hand is coming down hard across the back of his spindly neck with one of Billy’s Oriental choppers that lays him out flat.

Nobody talks to the Kid that way.

Nobody.

“I’m so sor-” I try to tell Clever.

“Shut your trap,” she hisses at me as she snatches the map outta Willard’s fingertips.

Now, I know she could use a hug, no matter how bad she’s behavin’, but I dare not touch her until the sorrow is done sweeping through her. She’ll beat the snot outta me if I try something pitiful like that.

Boy, what a stimulating idea!

Willard’s already struggling to his hands and knees, so I put my arm around Clever tight, and aim her like a weapon. Just like I knew she would, she gets hot as hell, spinning and lashing out dervishly, eventually landing a solid kick in Willard’s stomach that deflates him like a day-after-the-party balloon.

Once Clever’s got her breath back, I ask, “You all right?” even though I know she’s fine. (She’s blessed with high recuperative powers.) I also know exactly what she’s about to say. That’s the way it is with sidekicks.

Sure enuf, she hawks and spits, landing a goober square in the middle of Willard’s forehead, then goes ahead and quotes the BEST movie line of all time: “For a moment there, I thought we were in trouble.”

Raindrops keep falling on my head. Pouring down, really. What have I gotten myself into? Besides all the churning worries about Grampa, now there’s this treasure map situation. And I haven’t even started investigating who murderd Mr. Buster. Jesus alive, Miss Florida is right. You get one problem solved, and another rears its head. (The head belonging to Willard this go-round.) I confess, this is one of those times I thank heaven for my NQRness, since I’ll probably disremember these troubles in the bat of an eye. Fifteen at the most.

Clever is sitting at the kitchen table feeling somewhat Discombobulated: Confused.At first she wanted to beat Willard some more, but two seconds later, she wanted to kiss on him. I wouldn’t let her do either, so she’s acting mopey, but asking for seconds, a good sign. Now it’s my turn to chase the sad out of her heart, the same way she did for me. And I believe I’ve come up with a pretty good plan to do just that.

“Under no circumstances are you to give Willard that map,” I say, setting the soup down in front of her. I gave her most of the noodles since she’s eating for two. “You and me and Billy are gonna go up to the Malloy Farm and find that treasure, and when we do, you’ll be rich beyond belief and won’t have to give the baby up to the social.”

Clever slurps, sighs, says in her most dramatic of all voices, “Don’t think I’ll be feelin’ up to a treasure hunt anytime soon.”

(Don’t be fooled. She’s inherited a bit of her mama’s theatrical baton-twirling nature. Alongside that, while the good book tells us not to judge lest we want to be judged, truth is, Clever doesn’t resemble her name all that much. She needs some time to let the plan sink in.)