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.)
I didn’t want to turn on the lights, in case Willard could see us once he came to, so the cottage candles are flickering in the night breeze that’s coming off the lake, the parlor curtains floating inward like spooks.
“You wanna play a game when you’re done?” I ask.
Picking open another cracker pack with her gnawed-to-the-moon nails, she says, “Don’t feel much like that either.”
That’s fine, because the second after I asked her, I realized that seeing the Scrabble board, smelling the score pad, they’ll only twist up my heart worse than it already is. Memories are already waving hello to me out of every nook and cranny. His whittling knife is sitting out on the side table alongside the Peaches carving he’s been working on for me. I put on one of his Johnny Cash records, so he’s singing a love song as I head toward my briefcase. Wouldn’t do me a bit of harm to start writing some on that Mr. Buster is dead story. Background, at least.
“Baby’s makin’ a fuss tonight,” Clever says. “Come over here and feel it.”
“I already did down on the pier, didn’t I?” I say, reaching for my leather-like offa the sofa.
Lifiting up her shirt, she says, “Not on skin, ya didn’t. C’mon. Ya gotta get friendly with it.”
I kneel down in front of her, and she shows me where to place my hands on her hard tummy. “It doesn’t like me,” I say, feeling the kicks.
“It don’t even know you,” Clever chuckles. “That’s just what it does. ’Specially up against my ribs.”
“Goodness. That’s really something, isn’t it? A miracle.”
Clever radiates proud. “I’m not givin’ this baby up no matter what anybody says. Already got a name picked out and everything. ” She weaves her fingers through mine. “I changed my mind. We gotta go after that treasure. Ya still game?”
“A course I am, Kid. First off, what we gotta do is-” I start up, but am so crudely interrupted by a hell of a ruckus at the cottage door.
Bang-bang. Bang-bang.
’’Y’all in there? It’s Sheriff Johnson checkin’ up on ya, Miss Gibby.”
Bang-bang. Bang-bang.
I lay my fingers across Clever’s lips. She shakes them off, and yells out, “Nobody’s home.”
The brass knob on the cottage door circles back and forth, forth and back. Followed by a jumpy jiggle.
“Keep quiet, goddamn it,” I tell her, heading toward my bedroom window that looks out on the porch. My neighbor is standing out there next to the sheriff with a shit-eating grin on his face. I tiptoe back into the kitchen. "LeRoy’s got Willard with him. They’ve come for the map.”
Clever shoves back her chair and starts to get up. “I’m gonna open that door and turn Willard in to the sheriff.”
“No, you are n-o-t,” I say, pushing her back down.
“But smokin’ hemp is against the law,” she says, struggling against me. “He’ll have to take Willard down to the jail.”
Bless her heart. Having a baby must make you get amnesia because Clever knows damn well the law around here can’t be trusted. She’s had plenty of run-ins with the sheriff that have ended with less than favorable results. I so wish Grampa was home. He’d sock LeRoy Johnson clear off our porch with a one-two punch.
“Open up in there,” the sheriff yells, louder and meaner.
“No matter what, they ain’t gettin’ the map,” Clever says, tough. “Just like you said, I need that treasure for the baby.” It’s either candlelight or desire flickering in her eyes, can’t tell which. “Hey, I know what we gotta do! We gotta go on the lam to Bolivia! Just like Butch and the Kid did.”
“I believe there’s a large body of water between here and there. Don’t ya think a boat’d be more appropriate?”
“No, goin’ on the lam doesn’t mean… ya, ya, a boat would be fine,” Clever says.
Recalling the language problems Mr. Cassidy and Mr. Kid encountered in the movie, I say carefully, “Maybe runnin’ off to Bolivia is not that smart ’cause neither one of us knows how to speak much Espanol.”
“But… but…,” she sputters.
“Maybe we could invite Senor Bender to join us.”
“Siiii,” she says, grinning. (Clever has always considered the Senor one hot tamale.)
Bang-bang. Bang-bang.
The knock this time is no joking matter. Those two are not going to give up on their idea about getting in here.
“Then again,” I say, “Grampa’s in the hospital and I need to keep track of him and I don’t recall there bein’ any telephones in Bolivia.”
“But… but…”
“I didn’t say we can’t run off. We just need to run off someplace closer. Someplace that’s got pay phones, all right?”
“I got a good idea! We could go over to Browntown. They got a phone at Mamie’s.”
“No, that’s not a good idea.” Browntown woulda seemed like a fine place to lay low before Vern Smith warned me about the coloreds not liking us whites so much anymore. “Give me the map,” I say, not at all trusting Clever when it comes to matters of the heart. If Willard starts in again on how sorry he is, and how much he wants her, I know her, she’ll hand over the map faster than Secretariat does the quarter mile.
Clever slides the paper out of her skirt and into my hand, not complaining at all when I lock it up in my briefcase. “If we’re not going to Bolivia, and we’re not goin’ to Browntown, then where in the hell are we goin’?” Clever asks, hands-on-hips belligerent.
“Let us in or I’m gonna knock this goddamn door down,” the sheriff shouts. I can picture him out there huffing and puffing.
“Well?” Clever asks.
“I believe Land of a Hundred Wonders would do us just fine, Kid.” I haul her up out of the chair, push her toward my bedroom. “Vamanos!”