Vera told us if we’d wait while she closed up the store, she’d give us a lift back home. I told her thank you for the offer, but we had to make a stop, and then E. J. and I ran out of Slidell’s before she started getting into the blow-by-blow account of how Sam came to be my uncle.
Half-uncle, really.
Now I know why Beezy hates Grampa as much as I do. She’s the gal they’re talking about in one of those “Hell has no fury like a woman scorned” situations.
How come I haven’t put this together before? I should’ve figured this out. One time when we were driving home from church the Mudtown way, we slowed down in front of Beezy’s place. Woody and I stuck our arms out the window and yelled, “Mornin’.” My grandfather turned to Uncle Blackie, who hardly ever goes to church because he doesn’t have a conscience that needs cleansing, that’s why I remember this trip. “Ya see that, son,” he said. “There ain’t much left of her now, but that nappy used to be fine. Legs like a nutcracker. Hardy har har.” Grampa saying something that nice about a colored person was so out of the ordinary that Woody and I talked about it later. She decided he must’ve been paying Beezy a good-at-lifting-furniture compliment since he’d just come from Mass, and that sounded about right. But that wasn’t what he meant at all.
Then there’s how Woody and I feel naturally close to Sam-that was another hint. And the way Beezy treats us like we’re her family. I thought her special kindness towards us was just a holdover from when she worked up at Lilyfield taking care of us when we were teeny-tiny, but it’s so much more than that. Woody and I are sort of her grandbabies.
I’m not angry at Beezy for not letting my sister and me in on all the spit swapping she did with Grampa Gus. I know why she never told us on one of those sultry nights on her porch when all sorts of secrets come out. She was afraid that Woody and I would think poorly of her. I confess, I do a little. Shucking oysters with our grampa shows a real lack of taste on her part. He probably tricked her. Did the same exact thing to Beezy that Blackie did to Louise Jackson. Those men seem to know just what to say to a girl to get them to do what they want, especially Grampa, who has years more experience being a horse’s ass. Gramma refers to our town as Sodom and Gomorrah, and I’m beginning to see her point. Does she know about this long-ago dalliance between Grampa and Beezy? Or like all the other skullduggery that involves the Carmody men, has my grandfather managed to keep it buried?
Man laughing and jukebox music, the sound of pool balls hitting against one another and the tantalizing smell of burgers is coming out of the open door of Elmo’s Bar as E. J. and I scurry by.
I’m so hungry my stomach thinks my throat’s been cut, which means Woody’s must, too.
I wouldn’t feel right eating without her, so I pass E. J. his egg salad sandwich and keep the other two in the sack. “We gotta make this quick,” I tell him as we turn the corner onto Main Street.
E. J. says, “Are you all right? Ya know, about what Vera told us about your grampa and Beezy and Sam?”
“I guess I am.” I’m miffed that Sam didn’t let us in on the secret and I’m shocked, but it’s a good kind. I’ll get a huge grin out of Woody when I tell her. Maybe she’ll even start talking again, that’s how thrilled she’ll be. I bet E. J. is feeling swell about our newfound relative as well. When he marries Woody, Sam will be his uncle, too. He doesn’t look so happy right now, though. I say to him, “A penny for your thoughts.”
“Don’t got a penny.”
I’d explain, but I’m worn down right to my tread. “What’s on your mind?”
“Your mother.”
“Me, too.” I wish I could’ve read that note she left for me and Woody. Vera said it was beautiful. I’ll look harder for it as soon as things settle a little. That note must be the one Sam keeps asking me to keep an eye out for.
“What if the sheriff begins thinking that Sam had something to do with your mama’s… ummm,” E. J. asks as we make the turn into the alley that runs behind the shops on Main Street.
He means her death. It surprises me more than snow in August that he figured that out. I might underestimate our sidekick sometimes. “He’d need proof of wrongdoing.”
E. J. follows me as I turn into the narrow alley. “Like what?”
I think back on some of the cases that I observed in my father’s courtroom and on Mannix. “Like maybe something that belonged to Mama being found over at the Triple S. Something that would point to foul play.” That gives me the quivers. “But that’s not gonna happen. Mama was Sam’s best friend.”
I come to a halt and tell E. J., “Here we go.”
The bottom half of the moon is aglow with the nicest smile, but it’s not shooting off enough light to help us make our way through the junk that’s scattered in the backyard of What Goes Around Comes Around. I got to switch on my flashlight. A mangy cat is giving himself a bath on a cushionless divan. A bunch of chairs are stacked on top of one another and leaning against the pile are rusted signs that folks find on the highway and bring to the owner of the shop, Artesia Johnson, who is a soft touch. By the wink she gives me at Mass, I know she leaves the back window of the shop unlocked so I can come look for Mama’s stuff from time to time. A real generous heart beats beneath Miss Artesia’s blubber. (She’s heavy set. She’ll tell you it’s her glands, but all you got to do is share a blanket with her at the church picnic and you’ll know right off it’s her mouth.)
“Cup ’em,” I tell E. J. I shake off my sneakers and place my foot in his hands.
With one good boost, I’m halfway through the back window and I wriggle the rest of the way through.
The shop is much spookier at night than during the day, when it already gives me the willies. It’s the mannequins. They don’t have faces. One of them’s wearing a nice red, white, and blue jacket. Besides a scarf of Mama’s, I think I’ll get that jacket for Woody. She’s going to be so excited when I inform her that we got a big new relative. She’ll probably make me sing some stupid show tune to celebrate. Or a patriotic ditty, now that we got our very own uncle Sam!
There are tables upon card tables of discards set willy-nilly around the shop. Egg beaters are mixed in with mohair sweaters. Beaded purses are lying on top of typewriters with missing keys. Miss Artesia’s got the antique jewelry and more valuable items set out in a display case. There’s one of Clive Minnow’s Confederate buttons that he found with his metal-detecting device. I missed his funeral when Woody and I spent all that time up in the fort grieving Mama. I’m going to borrow this button, too. Miss Artesia won’t miss something this small. Once everything calms down around here, I’ll take it to the cemetery and push it into Clive’s mound. He’d like that.
A selection of scarves is hanging on a coat hanger right above the jewelry case. The third one from the left, that’s one of Mama’s. I never took them home all at one time because having them sitting in a pile in the fort felt too final. By leaving them here, I could pretend, the same way I was doing about everything else, that someday Mama and Woody and me would come by to pick up the rest. I slide the scarf off the hanger and hold it up to my nose, but the scent of her is long gone. The pink chiffon smells like spaghetti and meatballs now. Miss Artesia’s favorite. Woody won’t care. She’ll just be glad to have something of Mama’s. And it is Italian.
“Shen!” E. J. calls through the back window. His mouth sounds full and like he’s saying, “Then!” He must’ve already started eating
It’s probably Miss Johnson remembering she forgot to put out the goose lamp above the cash register when she closed up. That’s all right. I don’t care if she finds me rifling through her wares. It will give me the opportunity to thank her for her patience and understanding. There’s a jingling, then a rattle at the back door. Like she is having a hard time fitting the key into the lock, but then the door opens and closes hard.
“Hey, Miss Artesia,” I call in that direction, so I don’t startle her. “Don’t be scared. It’s me, Shenny Carmody. I’m just picking up something for my sister. I’ll pay you back.”
But it’s not Artesia Johnson coming out of the dark back hallway looking all forgiving. Somebody else is standing in the glow of my flashlight.
It’s Curry Weaver.