Billy comes rushing out of the trees in his camouflage outfit, his arms spinning like egg beaters and wham! Sneaky Tim Ray Holloway has been outsnuck. Billy is not only an expert at concealment, he’s got some fancy Oriental moves he got taught in the army that can whip an enemy up but good. I’ve asked him recently to hold off on rescuing me until there is bodily contact in situations like these because Quite Right people know how to take care of themselves.
Getting up and brushing myself off, I tell him, “That was excellent timin’. Much obliged.”
“My pleasure,” Billy says, kicking Sneaky Tim Ray in the leg with his steel-toed boot ’cause it always takes some time for his stormy temper to wane. I don’t believe he was quite so thunderous in nature before he attended the war. He was just as tall, though. I gotta crane my neck to get a good look at him ’cause I am not over six feet by three inches. I’m a lot shorter. And a little younger. He’s twenty-three. (I did check with Grampa, by the way. I am not thirty-three years old. I’m twenty, but not for long. Got a birthday comin’.)
“Why didn’t ya use that neck-choppin’ move I taught ya?” Billy asks.
“I forgot.” I pull down my blouse where Sneaky Tim Ray matted it up. “Next time I’ll give him the neck-choppin’ move, I promise.”
He’s so easy on the eyes, Billy boy is. Reminds me a lot of my absolutely favorite movie star of all time, Mr. Paul Newman, who, if you recall, played Butch in the movie Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. That movie is a passion of mine. Clever’s, too. (Even though she’s my best friend, she goes more for Mr. Robert Redford; he’s the blond one of ’em.) Billy’s face is handsome and he’s got brunette hair like Mr. Newman’s, but he isn’t anywhere near as calm under fire. No. Billy gets worked up enough, his words’ll come out stuttery as a machine gun. And the slightest noise like a twig cracking underfoot can sound like cannons going off to his ears. He didn’t used to be this easily riled. He used to be a cool-under-fire star quarterback. WILLIAM “LITTLE BILLY’’ BROWN, JR. shines bright on those football plaques that hang in the hallways up at Grant County High School. Come every fall, I write an article in the Gazette to remind everyone in Cray Ridge how proud we should be of our Billy.
“Got a little something for you, too,” I say, removing the paper out of my briefcase. “This story’s got your daddy in it. See?”
Billy won’t look. His eyes are too busy searching the sky, the trees.
So I read to him, “Another winner for Big Bill Brown and High Hopes Farm.”
“I heard about that race already.”
“You did? Dried apple damn!” I do not care at all to be what is called by Mr. Howard Redmond of New York City, New York-scooped.
“I was up to the farm for most of the week,” Billy says. “They got in some new colts and needed the help.”
“You were up to the farm? Good job!” Since Billy’s mama died birthing him and his daddy is ashamed that he came back from Vietnam with this nervousness sickness, it’s a hard rope for Billy to tow being at High Hopes, which is one of the best racing stables in all of Kentucky. “Would you like a star?”
“Wouldn’t mind a green one if you got it.” He’s got a row of ’em already stuck on his shirt pocket, next to that nice silver one the army gave him. I got this idea from my physical therapist at the hospital. Whenever I see somebody doing a good deed, I reward them with a star. Even though Grampa says goodness is its own reward, I say it never hurts to have something shiny. Yesterday, to the best of my recollection, I gave out two of them. One to Miss Florida for giving me an extra slice of blueberry pie and another to Miss Ruth at the library for recommending that Jokes-A-Million book.
“Ya workin’ on any new stories?” Billy asks, stroking Keeper. Besides his couple of good tricks, my dog is well known for his spirit-lifting abilities.
“Nope,” I say, wishing Billy’d look at me face-on. Those stormy sky eyes of his are really something to behold. “Nuthin’ new to report.”
“Did ya get a chance to look at what I left you in the stump?” he asks.
I dig down in my pocket and pull out the locket, let it twirl off my fingers.
“Go ahead and open it,” he insists.
I do try, but sometimes my fingers on that left side of my body can still get shaky. Noticing I’m having a hard time, Billy lifts the gold chain off my fingers. “See?” he says, shy, showing me what’s inside.
There’s a picture of me on a palomino horse that I think used to be my favorite when I could still feel the cantering wind in my hair. It was taken back when I didn’t live permanent with Grampa. Can’t recall the horse’s name. But golly, my dimples are deep. Another picture, one of Billy atop a tar black horse, sits on the other side of the locket. He’s smiling, too, so that shot musta also been taken before he had to keep his eyes peeled every minute for pits full of steaks.
“Remind ya of anything?” he asks.
“Wish it did.” I gather the hair up off my neck so he can fasten the necklace with the tips of his fingers. Billy doesn’t go in much for skin touching. “Ya wanna come say hey to Miz Tanner?” I ask, because he really does need to spend more time with folks who are not me and Keeper and Grampa.
“Not today. Maybe tomorra,” he says, sorta wistful, looking at the pictures one more time before he snaps the locket shut. “You, ah… feelin’ all right about what happened?”
I glance over at sprawled-out and slobbering Sneaky Tim Ray. “Well, I’d rather he didn’t jump out at me every single time I-”
“No… no. Not what just happened. I mean, about the other night.” Billy points to the top of my legs.
I woke up yesterday with bruises on my thighs. Budding lilac now. “Oh, goodness. I’ve been wonderin’ about those. How did I get them?”
“Ya don’t recall?”
“No, I… wait a minute. Clever and me were up to the Outdoor a coupla nights ago. Could I have fallen or somethin’?” Movie watching is our favorite hobby. Shoot-’em-ups most of all. That giant sheet out there turns into something completely different in the summer, in the dark. Us two girls just about pass out with utter adoration gazing at those stars on the screen and God’s up above.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Billy agrees real fast. “Ya musta fell. Ya know how uneven that ground is up at the Outdoor.”
To quote Mr. Howard Redmond of New York City, New York: An operative must pay special attention to the eyes of a subject during an interrogation. If they are darting, this is a sign of lying. Billy’s eyes look like leaves getting chased by a rake. What’s this boy trying to hide?
Stretching his long self even longer, he says, “I got traps to tend to. See ya later.”
“Not if I see you first, little old lady who,” I yell out to his broad back that blends quick into the bushes that his laugh does not come back out of. Because Billy doesn’t get jokes anymore neither. And since his sense of humor got lost way over on the other side of the world, there is little chance of him recovering it. Poor, poor Billy Brown.
Well, I suppose it’s my Christian duty to check on Sneaky Tim Ray to make sure he’s still breathing. Reaching into my leather-like for my compact mirror, I hold it under his nose until it clouds up, a trick mentioned in the pages of The Importance of Perception in Meticulous Investigation. He’s fine. Well, maybe not fine, but he is still breathing. I turn to head back to the drive, but then, I swear, I don’t know what crashes down on top of me at times like a wave. This overwhelming desire to commit such wickedness. I’m helpless to restrain myself. I’m NQR, you know.
I command, “Piddle,” and Keeper readily obliges by lifting his back leg, smiling toothily at the steady stream spewing onto Sneaky Tim Ray’s grimy ankle.
(Already mentioned to you that this dog knows a couple of good tricks, didn’t I?)