Land of a Hundred Wonders

The Hideout

Billy’s just the opposite of me. A person who DOES NOT need stimulation of any kind. When he’s far off from the hustle and bustle of life, hugged up secure by Mother Nature, he feels less perturbed. He’s done a nice job of housekeeping Blackstone Cave. Even though he won’t move outta his tent down at the creek and back up here ’til first frost, his larder is ordered and well stocked. The floor swept clean like you’d expect from an army man. This was a good choice as a hideout, sitting like it does at the top of a hill where you can see down to both Browntown and Land of a Hundred Wonders. Which is probably one of the reasons he chose it as his winter home in the first place. Nothing can sneak up on him here.

Clever’s snores are bouncing off the cave walls. She curled up on a sleeping bag right after we filled our bellies with cowboy beans. I rubbed her back and sang that “Hush Little Baby” lullaby while Billy went and scouted what’s goin’ on in Browntown. That was so brave of him. When he came back up the hill, lookin’ sooty, he told me, “You can quit your worryin’. It’s not Miss Florida’s house or Mamie’s or any of your other favorite places that’s burnin’. It’s the dump. That’s why it smells so bad and the smoke’s so thick. It’s all them tires.”

“The dump’s on fire?” I asked, picturing that swell of trash that welcomes ya to Browntown.

“And a couple of those shacks sit next to it.”

“Are they workin’ on puttin’ it out?”

Billy sets his head to shakin’. “It’s the damnedest thing, Gib. The coloreds… they’re all dancin’ and drinkin’ round that fire. Like they’re celebratin’.”

“WHAT?”

“I think they set the fire themselves.”

“Oh, Billy, that’s silly!” He must be havin’ another one of his confused spells. “Why would they do somethin’ like that?”

He didn’t have an answer.

Now I’m locked on what’s looming behind him. Our names slashed across the big black boulder that sits outside the mouth of the cave. GIBBY and BILLY are lassoed by a heart of red paint. We’re lying side by side, but not touching, on a blanket in front of the campfire.

Noticing my gaze, Billy says softly, “The rock’s the reason I kept askin’ ya to come up here with me. I heard that if a person who’s lost their memory is shown something familiar, something real important to them, that sometimes it jars their brain.”

Tossing a kindling stick into the campfire, I ask him, “We used to be more than just friends?”

If he had a hat, it’d be in his hands. “Ya could say that.”

I look back up at the boulder. CLEVER is painted off to one side, opposite GEORGIE. Down at the bottom is COOTER. It’s funny how our names still shine so bright, the moonlight glancing off them. You’d think life woulda worn them down some. Like it did us. None of us are what we were back then. Most of all-Georgie.

Billy’s so desperate for me to remember. He’s running the tip of his tongue over his lush lips.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Nuthin’ seems to be comin’ back.”

“It’s all right,” he says with a downhearted smile. “Maybe it takes a little time, is all.”

I feel so horribly bad for him. Doesn’t seem like a person should be able to forget that they loved someone even if they are NQR. Important information like that should be stored in more than one place. Why hasn’t Clever told me about this romance between me and Billy? Golly, maybe she has.

There’s an explosion at the bottom of the hill that makes me think of the crash. The both of us startle. Billy says, “Rrreminds me of…”

“I know, I know.” Even though those gooks were America’s enemies, and he was just doing his job to keep the rest of us safe, he felt so bad about that bloodshedding that he came apart at the seams. That’s why the army sent him home early. Billy wears his heart on his sleeve now. “Ya did what you thought was right for your Uncle Sam,” I remind him.

“It was a bbbad thing to do… all that kkkillin’.”

What sad sacks we are. Him wishing I could remember and me wishing he could forget.

Be real nice if Grampa was here right now, he’d say something so meaningful. Smart words that would make a direct hit to Billy’s heart. Because they both got damaged by war-Grampa on the outside, Billy on the inside-those two got something to talk about on nights like this. When certain things mean more than others. I bet Billy has not been taking his calming medicine. He can get extra weepy like this when he doesn’t.

Pointing to the western sky, I exclaim, “There’s a shootin’ star! That’s a sign, plain as day, that the Lord is forgivin’ you from the bottom of His heart.”

He won’t even look.

“Ya know what I learned in the army?” he asks.

“How to bounce a quarter off a bed and sneak through the woods silent as a vine?”

“Yeah,” he says, like those skills aren’t nuthin’ to be proud of. “But I also learned that when it comes to people, we’re pretty much all the same. No matter what the color of our skin or the slantiness of our eyes. We were all scared over there the same amount.”

“I would have to agree with you,” I say, thinking mostly of the color of skin since I don’t know anybody with slanted eyes ’cept for a cat of Miss Lydia’s she calls the King of Siam. What difference does it make what somebody looks like on the outside? The same things make life worth living for all of us, don’t they? A crunchy walk in the woods, your dog by your side. An afternoon on the lake, when all you got to do is think trout and one hops on your line. I guess some white folks believe the coloreds are different feeling on the inside ’cause they’re so different looking on the outside. That’s just not true. Coloreds got a whole lot of heart and a whole lot of soul. And they make the best damn pork barbecue.

“What ya thinkin’ about?” Billy asks, so full of hope.

“About the coloreds and how if what you said is true, ’bout them settin’ that fire on purpose, what bad trouble they’re gonna be in.”

The silky hair under Billy’s arms is twirling in the breeze. His bare chest is brown and smooth as a pine table. Swiveling his head back toward our names in the heart, he says with such yearning, “Anything at all comin’ to mind?”

“Not yet,” I tell him, but the campfire, the rock, it all seems so familiar. Something is jiggling my cents memory… something I can’t quite… and then suddenly, it’s like I’m watching the movie screen out at the 57. Oh, look… there’s Billy and me. We’re riding through a summer hay field, laughing, touching. Sweet-smelling clover is coating the air. And then the scene changes and we’re swinging off the Geronimo rope down at the beach… and then we’re lying around a campfire just like this one and I can feel the crackling heat on my cheeks. Yes. Here at Blackstone. His arms around me. In more than a friendly way. Our names entwined. Rock solid.

Sweet, sweet Jesus. I really am remembering after all. Only this time it isn’t about Clever getting her driver’s license.

Billy turns back to me, not seeing what I just saw in my mind. Us. “Ya given any thought to what you’d do if Grampa… if he…?” He shakes his head. “All I want ya to know, to remember is… he’s not the only one cares for ya,” he says in a tore-down way.

“Please… please don’t cry… ’cause I think it’s… I believe something is coming back to me. Not in a jar like you said, but…”

Raising those lovely eyes of his to mine, he must see true love radiating outta me because he doesn’t hesitate at all when he reaches out for me. Wraps me in his arms like a long-hoped-for gift. How could I have ever forgotten his warm cheek pressed against mine. These satin kisses. The home sweet homecomin’ feeling of Little Billy and me.

The leftover smoke from Browntown is mixing in with my sidekick’s musky scent. My man, who’s curled close, musta woke up to stoke the fire and add some wood ’cause it’s still flickering. “You asleep?” Clever whispers.

“No, I was just checkin’ for holes in my eyelids.” (That’s what I always say when she asks me that.) Rolling outta Billy’s arms and into hers, I ask, “What?”

“It’s about time,” she says.

“Now? You’re havin’ the birthin’ pains now?”

Clever raises her eyes toward Billy. “I meant it’s about time you remembered him. He’s still got the engagement ring, ya know.”

“I do indeed,” I say, showing her the sparkly band I got on my finger. That’s why Billy kept leaving me all those rings in our secret stump in the woods at Miz Tanner’s. And that jar of rice? That was a good hint. (Just in case you’re not familiar, that’s what ya throw at people after they get hitched.) “You knew all along we were plannin’ to get married, didn’t ya? Did ya tell me?”

Clever’s breath is hitching when she answers, “I… we… when you never said nuthin’ after the crash, when you didn’t even recognize Billy, me and him and Grampa and Miss Jessie, we got just everybody to go along with not tellin’ ya about the wedding plans ’cause we thought the shock… it might be too much for your NQR brain to handle. We didn’t want to make ya worse, ya know? Did we do wrong?”

“No, no, y’all did just fine. Please don’t cry,” I tell her, catching one of her tears with the tips of my fingers.

Billy stirs. Sets his hand on my hip.

“Sure you ain’t mad?” Clever asks, shivering some.

Like Grampa always says, secrets bear down hard on a person’s foundation, and she’s kept this one for so long. Even though I really do wish she woulda told me, I cannot stand to see her crumbling. “I’m sure, Kid.”

She draws her eyes close to mine. To see if I’m telling her the truth. “All right, then,” she says, satisfied. “Now we got all that past business put to bed, we need to talk about the future.” Clever places the palm of my hand on her tummy. On her baby. “I don’t believe the two of ya have been formally introduced. Butch, if you would be so kind,” she says in her asking-a-favor voice. “Please say hey to the newest member of our gang. Miss Rose… Rosie Adelaide.”

“Rose? ’Cause of Grampa’s flowers?”

Clever gives me her chipped-tooth grin.

“And Adelaide… after my mama?”

When she says, “Ya know how I always favored that name,” I try to answer with a lot of joyfulness, “Nice to meet ya, Rosie Adelaide. Charmed, I’m sure,” but memories come sneaking up on me-one of my grampa in that hospital bed, maybe dying, and another of Mama, already gone-and like a thief in the night, sorrow steals away all my words.