Land of a Hundred Wonders

Mr. Charles Michael Murphy

It’s not until after I come in the cottage back door and set the egg basket down on our kitchen table that I realize that me and Keeper have come home without my black leather-like briefcase. I left it in the bushes back at Tanner Farm. “Doggone it,” I shout, indecent mad at myself for forgetting.

“Where you been?” Grampa calls in a persnickety voice from the screened-in porch. He can get like that when he wakes up from a nap. “I just got off the phone with Jessie. She said you left more’n an hour ago.”

“I… I…” I remember the lousy look Sheriff Johnson gave me when Miss Jessie went to retrieve my egg basket for me. I also recall Keeper yapping at snoring Sneaky Tim Ray when we snuck around him in the woods. But then… oh my goodness.

I will not tell Grampa. He’ll only get red in the tips of his ears.

Like I mentioned earlier, I usually don’t keep secrets from him, but in one of the chapters of The Importance of Perception in Meticulous Investigation, Howard Redmond states quite firmly that oftentimes, in the midst of an ongoing investigation, one must endeavor to conceal certain facts, so one might have to Prevaricate: Stray from the truth. Even from our loved ones if necessary. (For their own protection, you understand.)

“I went over to Miss Lydia’s,” I lie, stepping out to the porch. Grampa’s perched on the edge of the flowered wicker sofa. Rumpled up. “Please don’t get mad.”

Well, for godssakes, this is so UTTERLY discouraging. Why didn’t I tell him I stopped by to see Reverend Jack at the Methodist church? Or bed-ridden-with-lumbago Nellie Wilson? Ya know, someone who’d make me look all saintly. Not someone like Miss Lydia, who’s got squirrel skulls hanging off her trees that clang together when a storm’s coming and make a much better sound than you can ever imagine. Not someone who Grampa despises.

Straightening up, Grampa shoves out through the screened door, letting it slam hard behind him. “I told ya time and time again to stay away from Lydia,” he shouts back at me. “And Hundred Wonders.”

Wish I could admit what I really did was go back to check on Mr. Buster Malloy’s dead body on Browntown Beach. (The flies have gotten to him some.)

Not wanting to, because when he gets tempered like this, being around him’s ’bout as much fun as batting a hornets’ nest, I follow him out to our matching wood chairs on the lawn. I keep a stack of flat rocks under mine to use on perfecting my skimming skills. The lake’s green and smooth as a chalkboard. Baby waves making their way through the cattails, always a fine place to catch pollywogs. And the cicadas are calling to one another from the woods, sounding as desperate as I’m feeling. “Those goddamn fish bitin’ today?” I ask him.

“You’re wanderin’ off the subject and you’re cursin’,” he says, yanking his knife out from the leather sheaf that hangs from the tulip tree. Being a well-known whittler, Grampa was once asked by a museum in New York City to bring his figures up there for a show of folks art. I was about crushed flat when he told them, “I’d rather be skinned alive and pulled behind a buck-board of runaway horses.” I’d been hoping to have lunch with Mr. Howard Redmond. I had a few questions for him about: Surveillance.

“Why don’tcha want me to spend time with Miss Lydia?” I ask, cocking my wrist and letting loose with a skimmer. “She was Mama’s best friend.”

“How many times we gotta go over this?” Grampa says, slicing hard on the donkey figure he’s promised me for my birthday.

“Can we go visit Daddy’s grave one of these days?” He’s not buried alongside Mama and Gramma Kitty. He’s Up North with his people. “I’d like to show him a coupla my best articles.”

Grampa quits his stroking. Breathes in the aroma of the sweet-smelling roses that surround the cottage this time of year. “No.”

I have asked Miss Lydia time and time again to have a VISITATION with Daddy like she does Mama, but she gets so agitated when I bring him up. Like Grampa, she harbors horrible feelings toward Daddy. I perceive that’s because the both of them hold him responsible for causing the crash since he’s the one that was driving. But I don’t blame Daddy. I got a memory of him building me a soapbox derby car that he painted #1 on. “I’ve asked Miss Lydia to check and see if Daddy-”

“Lydia’s off her head,” Grampa says, back to hacking at the wood with a lot of vigor.

“What do you mean by that exactly?” I cannot imagine why he says that. Miss Lydia is one of the most completely right in her mind folks that I know, but I don’t say that to Grampa. He’d only get more cantankerous than he already is, or worse, give me his famous silent treatment.

“Lydia was never right again after she lost her boy.” As soon as Grampa says it, I can tell he wishes he could take it back.

“Where’d she lose him?”

“In the lake. He drowned.”

“But you lost a child, too, and you didn’t go off your head,” I remind him, in case he’s having another leaky memory moment.

“People’r different. Some can stand things. Some can’t.” His knife on the pine goes sha… sha… sha. Wood commas are dropping at his feet. “If I lost you…,” he says, so soft I can barely hear him.

“Now you’re just bein’ plain silly, Charlie. You won’t ever lose me.” I inch my lawn chair closer to his. “You’re well known for being extremely organized.”

“There is a world of danger out there, Gibby girl. Just like them cicadas, ya might think you got plenty of time to kick up your heels, and in fact, you got nuthin’ of the sort.” I know he’s remembering about my mama ’cause he’s got that particular lilt to his voice that is more soulful sounding than Mr. Otis Reading.

“Just because I am NQR does not mean that I cannot take care of myself, ya know.” I fling my skimmer too hard and it sinks straight off.

Grampa shoves back on his cloud hair. His shoulders are wide, but he’s lanky at the waist with hands that’re full of hot grease scars. And he walks with a limp and a drag because of his fake leg, which must be hurting since he’s been rubbing on where it’s attached to his knee.

“Achin’?” I ask, setting my hand atop his.

“It’s fine,” he says, dropping his mad. “How you been feelin’?”

“Good as g-o-l-d.” Wish I could, but I never bother telling him anymore how I really feel. He’d only say what he always says. ’Bout me learning to play the hand I was dealt. Or the other one he’s started up with lately: “It’s time for ya to accept the fact that you’re gonna need to saddle up and ride harder than most.”

First off, I don’t really enjoy card playing all that much, ’cept for the cribbage game Miss Lydia and me have every Wednesday morning after we pick flowers. And second off, I don’t need to saddle up and ride hard. All I need to do is lope along. A nice easy pace. Giving me plenty of time to take in the scenery, just like Mama and I used to. Riding double, pressed together like one. A wildflower necklace lying warm against my neck. I know he’s got my best interests at heart, but if I can be honest with you, my grampa’s sort of a Gloomy Gus.

Resheathing his whittling knife that’s so sharp I’m not allowed to go near it, he says, “Hungry?”

I listen in on my stomach. “Sounds like it.”

When the weather is warm like it is, at the time of day the crickets and frogs tune up, we eat grilled perch or trout or whatever else has not outsmarted him that afternoon out on the lake. Sometimes with jolly red tomatoes, and just-picked sweet corn that’s still got that clumpy dirt smell, and maybe some churned ice cream for dessert.

“Already got the coals heated,” he says, heading toward the grill.

Upon hearing that, Keeper drops his stick at my feet, letting me know he’s ready for his evening fetch and go. (This is his favorite hobby next to sucking eggs.) “Ready-set?” I shout, tossing his stick into the lake as far as I can, and when he brings it back, I throw it again, despite feeling awfully bad for loafing like this. What I should be doing is working on finishing up that Miss Cheryl and Miss DeeDee story so I can get busy investigating the murder of Mr. Buster. I cannot tolerate the thought of Mama chewing her fingernails about me.

“Chows up,” Grampa calls after a bit, walking our plates to the picnic table. “Wash your hands.”

After sliding them into the lake and wiping them off on my jeans, I sit down across from him at the table he made from scratch. The cornbread is warm, the catfish crispy. “The sheriff was at Miss Jessie’s today,” I say, helping myself.

“Use your fork. What for?” he says, all of a sudden cranky again. Grampa does NOT care for LeRoy Johnson any more than I do. Says the man is a born and bred bully, same as his daddy and his daddy before him. And even though that’s true, I also suspect that jealousy, sometimes known as the green-eyed lobster, might be rearing its ugly head tonight.

“Peaches and I had a wonderful ride this afternoon,” I say. “And that new filly, she’s really something.”

“Gibby.”

“Yup. And then…”

“Focus,” he says, ripping a hunk off the cornbread and jabbing it in the clover honey. “Why was LeRoy up to Jessie’s place?”

“Mr. Buster’s gone missin’,” I say, sliding a sliced tomato into my mouth that’s sprinkled with dressing all the way from Italy. “The sheriff came by to talk to Miss Jessie about his disappear-”

“I heard there was some to-do up at the Malloy place,” Grampa interrupts. His eyes look like the deposit slot down at the bank. “Don’t be gettin’ any ideas on using your powers of meticulous perception to go snoopin’ around in this matter, hear? And don’t talk with your mouth full.”

“Why shouldn’t I go lookin’ for Mr. Buster?”

“Just don’t,” he barks out like the drill sergeant he used to be.

For what seems like close to eternity the only sounds are the far-off motors on the water and forks scraping against the tin plates cowboy Grampa loves so much because they remind him of stars at night that are big and bright deep in the heart of Texas.

Finished eating, he dabs at his mouth with his paper napkin. Says nicer, “Ya still wanna get the board out after we clean up these dishes?”

“A course I do, Charlie.” I lay my hand on his whisker sprouts, rub ’em to let him know I forgive him using his hut-to voice. “Ya know, ya could-”

“Shhh. Hear that?”

“Eeee… eeee… eeeeeee. Eeee… eeee… eeeeeee.”

“Cooper’s Hawk,” Grampa says with a lot of know-how, because not only is he a whiz at whittling, he watches birds, and can tell the call of a red-throated loon from a common loon without even looking up. “Look, there he is.”

The hawk’s caught a breeze above the cottage next to ours. Something squirming in his mouth. I know, I know, it’s all part of God’s grand design, but I just can’t stand seeing that kind of helplessness, so I lower my eyes down to the Flemings’ gray cottage. They were our neighbors for years and years, but they moved to town after Miz Comfort Fleming broke her hip when she fell on the slippery pier. They lease out their place now to strangers for extra money.

When Grampa mutters, “Useless,” he isn’t referring to the hawk. He means Mr. Willard DuPree, the most recent next-door renter who moved in right after Christmas, which is sort of a peculiar time to show up in Cray Ridge ’cause there’s not much going on around here then. But Mr. Clayton Fleming told Grampa that Willard paid cash for a year in advance, so that was fine with him. Grampa does not fancy our neighbor one iota. First off, Willard smokes hemp. Even worse, he doesn’t have a job, from what I can tell. In fact, most days our neighbor does nothing but lie around in the “contemplating” hammock he’s slung up between two yellow-woods. Right this minute, I can see his behind pushing through the knotting and scraping the top of the grass that should’ve been mowed two weeks ago. This sort of Indolence: Inactivity as a result from disliking work can really get under the skin of a man like Grampa, whose calluses have calluses.

“Eat,” Grampa says, lighting up with his Zippo. “You’re startin’ to look like a bedpost.”

I take another sneak peek next door. Lord. Grampa would have an apoplectic fit if he knew that Willard has been attempting to teach Clever and me how to play strip poker, which I’ve come to believe doesn’t have so much to do with cards as Willard taking the opportunity to show off his pecker that he has named Lord Sparky. Clever is dazzled. I suspect that the two of them might be having hot sex, which I think doin’ before you’re married is a lot like eating supper before sayin’ grace. Contrary to common sense. But Clever, she dropped out of school in the ninth grade, so she is not entirely educated.

Grampa’s stacking up his dirty dishes on one end of the picnic table, his cigarette dangling from his lips. “Ya feelin’ all right? Ya seem on the distracted side lately. More than usual.”

(Oh, if he only knew. Considering how he feels about him, my grampa’s going to be thrilled to the nub when he finds out Mr. Buster is not missing, but dead. I can barely rein myself in from letting him in on the secret!)

“Stop frettin’ about me and start sayin’ your prayers, Charles Michael Murphy,” I shout. “I got a feelin’ I may go down in Scrabble history tonight.”

Giving me a low-watt grin, he pulls open the screen door. “Don’t forget to feed him,” he says, and him and the dirty dishes disappear inside.

I got leftover catfish and a slice of cornbread on my plate for Keeper so I set it down in the grass for him. This time of day a breeze likes to tickle the lake so the tips of the willows are etching smiles near the shore. My bangs are ruffling.

Our neighbor calls over in his shovey accent, “Is he gone?”

“Yes, Willard, he is.”

I attempted to write aWelcome to Cray Ridge story right after he moved in, but Willard dodged every single one of my questions, which I found odd since folks are usually quite enthused at the thought of seeing their name in the paper. What I eventually got him to admit was that his favorite color is gray and that he’s from the New York area. That last part got me excited. I asked him if he knew Mr. Howard Redmond. Willard answered he might, but in his line of work he meets so many different people. “Ya don’t say,” I said. “And what line of work might that be?” Ya ever see a turtle reverse into his shell? Like that.

Remembering my neighborly manners, I holler over, “How they hangin’, Willard?”

Only the hawk calls back.

“Willard?”

Nothing but the breeze in the trees.

He probably fell asleep. Willard does that a lot after he smokes hemp. He also eats Mallomars by the ton.

“ ’Bout time,” Grampa says, when Keeper and I join him at the kitchen sink. Tied around his neck, he’s got the Chief Cook and Bottle Washer apron that I gave him last Christmas. “Ya hear me? Do not go stickin’ your nose into that tobacco farm’s business.”

“And why exactly would I wanna go sniffin’ tobacco plants?” I ask, rummaging my hands around the soapy sink water.

Grampa shoots me one of his inspecting looks and must like what he sees ’cause he goes back to humming along with the singer who he admires beyond sense, Mr. Johnny Cash, who I do not care for one bit. I prefer the Beatles eight days a week, but Grampa won’t let me listen to them because he says those boys are nothing but long-haired goo.

Doesn’t take us long to finish up, there’s just the two of everything. He hangs his apron on the nail, and says like he does every night, “Pour a coupla glasses while I get us set up.”

Playing Scrabble is another one of the “stimulations” of my brain that Grampa tried out when I first got out of the hospital. When he was still hoping I could get Quite Right again. It’s become a habit now. Every single night he gets out the board from the top shelf of the bookcase and we head out to the pebbly card table on the porch. At first I made words that looked like this:

Drg.

That’s drag.

Or:

Whol.

That’s wool.

So, of course, while I was still rehabilitating, Grampa whupped me good most nights. (Not to brag, but I believe I have turned that table on him but good.)

After getting down two of the leftover blue metal glasses we gave out last year at the pumps to folks using Premium, I top them off with his tart lemonade and follow him out to the porch. The last of the sun is skimming the top of the water. Soon the skeeters’ll be out, which is why we have a screened-in. I pick the prickers out of Keeper’s coat while Grampa takes the board out of the box, lights the brass lantern, and lets me blow out the match.

“I like your locket,” he says, jotting down our names on the score-keeping pad.

I had completely forgotten about it. I open it up to show him the pictures of Billy and me from long ago.

“How’s he doin’?” Grampa leans back in the folding chair and lights up another.

“You should quit smokin’.”

“That right?”

“Yes, it is. I heard a New York City reporter, a Mr. Frank Reynolds, say on the television news that smokin’ might cause cancer.” There is a lot of tobacco growing in Kentucky. Around here especially. Our colored folks count on getting paid to pick that crop so they can feed their babies, so I hope I misunderstood that report.

“Reynolds, eh?” Grampa inhales deeper than usual. “With a name like that you’d think he’d be all for lightin’ up.”

That must be funny because he’s apple-doll puckering.

“I gave Billy a star today,” I say.

Grampa wriggles his hand around in the Scrabble box, searching for just the right tile. “Has he been spendin’ any time up at his daddy’s place?”

Grampa has affection for Billy and likes to keep track of his whereabouts, too. He believes that Billy should make up with his daddy, which I think Billy might be willing to do if only Big Bill Brown did not look at his son in a way that squeezes whatever gumption his boy’s got left right out of him. Why ever does he do that? Even the most ignorant of us know that kin is the most important thing in life. If they don’t love you and accept you for what you are, you might as well go hunting without a gun.

“Billy told me he was up to High Hopes just this week,” I report.

Grampa picks out his first tile. "Y.”

“I can’t remember why.”

“No, I meant… what’d you get?” he asks, leaning across the board. I show him my D. “Low letter goes first. That means you.”

“For crissakes, I know that, Charlie.”

Nature’s started up its nightly concert. This time of night the lake reeks of leftover gasoline and heat and… uh-oh. Hemp. I can tell Grampa is smelling it as well. His shoulders are book-ending his ears. Don’t want him getting all crabby again, so I make my move.

“Double word… twelve,” he says, jotting it down. “Where’s your briefcase at?” He reaches across the board and adds on an l-y to my d-e-a-d.

“I don’t know.” I add on m and n on top and below the a, making it deadly man. “That’s twenty-five points, right?”

Grampa takes a last pull off his cigarette and snubs it out on the heel of his boot. “Ya gotta be more careful with your things. That camera wasn’t cheap.”

We got some cash from the Champion Bus people after their driver stalled out his bus in the middle of the road and Daddy ended up bouncing off the back of it. But Grampa’s right, that’s no excuse to be careless. He says he won’t live forever, and that money will take care of me when he’s gone. My stomach clenches badly when he brings it up, at dusk mostly.

Studying the board, I say, “I’ll look for my camera tomorrow. ” Even though I know where the briefcase is, and that the camera’s inside it, I don’t tell him. See that? That’s something I’ve perceived to be different in my mind recently. Like this afternoon with the sheriff? When I didn’t tell him how I already found Mr. Buster dead on Browntown Beach? I think that shows that I’m getting more Right already and it’s a good thing. But I’ve also perceived something else not so good going on lately. Unsettling thoughts are creeping around up top. Nudging me, whispering how wearisome Grampa’s bossy ways can be sometimes. Wouldn’t you just love to cut loose a little, Gibby? You’re not a child, you’re a grown woman! Christ Almighty, that makes me feel ungrateful. All that old man has done for me, and here I am thinking these willful thoughts. I should be horse-whipped.

“I keep a close watch on this heart of mine. I keep my eyes wide open all the time,” Mr. Cash bellyaches out from the parlor.

Grampa says, “As usual, that man is full of good advice,” while he searches the board.

“Do you think you and Miss Jessie would ever get married?” I’ve just laid down w-e-d.

He draws his hand up onto his chest with an agitated look. Swallows down some of the TUMS he keeps in his trouser pocket. (He’s got a fondness for greasy hush puppies.)

“Ya know, one of these days I’ll get Quite Right again and I’m gonna wanna start livin’ by myself,” I say, glancing upward and winking at Mama. “And when that day comes, it’d be nice for me not to have to worry about you anymore.” After I move to my own apartment in Cairo, I wouldn’t enjoy those walks in that wavy desert heat half as much unless I knew Grampa had some company to keep. “It’d be nice for you to be spoonin’ with Miss Jessie in that big brass bed of hers, don’tcha think? She’s quite fond of Scrabble. I asked.”

“Don’t get your hopes up on neither one of them subjects,” he says, irritable again because loud from next door, Willard’s favorite musical group is complaining about getting no satisfaction.

Grampa cups his hands and bellows, “Turn that caterwauling down, ya jackass.”

Willard obeys straight off because even I know that smokin’ hemp is against the law. Willard knows full well that Grampa could turn him in to the sheriff, but not that he won’t. “Grown men should know what’s right and what ain’t right in their hearts. Shouldn’t need no laws or a blowhard like LeRoy Johnson to remind ’em,” is what my old cowboy lectures whenever the subject comes up.

Two lemonades and a bowl of strawberry ice cream later, Grampa is tallying up the score. “Two hundred twenty-seven to one hundred fifty-four.”

“You or me?” I ask, trying to get a look at the score sheet.

“Don’t matter who won,” he says, scrunching up the paper in his fist. (Poor, poor Grampa. Isn’t that what folks always say when they lose at something?) “You sleepin’ out here tonight?”

“I am, but not right off. I gotta finish up my story.” I reach behind me for my extra blue spiral notebook that I keep under my porch pillow. Wish to hell and back I hadn’t forgotten my leather-like up at Miz Tanner’s.

“Not too late,” Grampa says.

“Nightie-night, Charlie. Think about what I said about Miss Jessie’s big brass bed.”

He walks stiff into the house. He’ll splash water on his face in the bathroom. Sit down on the wooden chair next to his bed and unstrap his leg. Have a sip of peach schnapps. “Be sure to brush your teeth and say good night to you know who,” he says, out of the darkness.

He means Mama. Grampa’s hung her paintings all over the cottage walls to help me remember more of her. She was well known for her dreamy watercolors of horses, rearing and playing, kicking and galloping. Mama was an artist. A woman of Refinement: Elegance. Grampa tells me her paintings still sell for a pretty penny up in Chicago. Because she is dead, that makes them worth more, which pains me some days, so bad. There’s photographs of her, too. Winning blue ribbons for her art. Holding a fish on the pier that’s bigger than she is, with the kind of smile that makes you wanna smile back. My mama was my grampa’s only child and the love of his life. Though I probably loved my daddy as well, I know she was mine, too. If only I could net more than a handful of memories of her. Like the feel of her powdered cheek on my fevered forehead. The way her velvety braid tickled the tip of my nose when she tucked me in. Some nights, when I can’t take not remembering her anymore, I lay my face onto the grazing mare and filly painting above my bed, hoping to feel something she left behind. But I should be fine tonight. I got my story to keep my heart out of that longing territory. And a job to do.