Old Enough | Chapter 7

Chapter 7
IRIS KELLY AND BODIES

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Miss Valjean wasn't at the museum when Neal ran his route on Monday. Since he didn't have to worry about her giving him orders, he took his time in front of the new art display. Last year Miss Miller's assignment had been to render an interpretation of an animal or a bird you wish you could be. Interpretation means what it is and render means making art. Also, his mother says Miss Miller has a sense of humor. Maybe so but Pete hated the assignment. He said he didn't want to be an animal or bird although some day he might. He said he wanted to be a cornfield and that's what he rendered with his new acrylic paints. When he handed in the painting, Miss Miller gave up. She said it was too good to turn down. Acrylic paints come in tubes. You squeeze out globs of color and mix in the water right on the paper. If you're Pete, you might use canvas shoes or a bedspread instead of paper and instead of brushes, you might use sticks, rocks, string and glue. Since Mariah bought him these paints, you can't tell what Pete might use or do.

As for Neal, he'd rendered the Old Man again in charcoal. Wished he could see, wished he could be; for him, the animal or bird choice remained easy-peasy. Also, the drawing had turned out way better than the one done in first grade but you should get better at what you do. If you don't, you should do something else. He likes charcoal because black is his favorite color. Poor Miss Miller told the class black is the absence of color. Well, Neal sort of understood her but when he and Pete found a black butterfly, he asked Pete to paint it. Pete stirred water into red, blue, green, brown, orange and every other color he could find until the black was right. Then he painted the body like a small cigar and the midnight wings with their thin blue stripes and the feathery feelers coming off the top of the head and tipping to the sides. Neal took the painting to school and Miss Miller had to give up again. She said Pete should think about his own show. She said black could be Neal's favorite color which means black's a color after all; in fact, Pete says there are lots of black colors if you look for them and he's the artist so he ought to know.

Black isn't always great. A black and red ladybug lit on top of his wrist. He felt its teensy feet crawl underneath. Okay, he's been bitten twice by black and yellow ladybugs. Some people don't believe him. Well, if you're one of them, you'll be sorry when it happens to you because it's a big old bite. The marshal believes him. "They're beetles, after all," he told Aunt Ida. Even though Neal hadn't yet been bitten by one, he flicked the black and red circle off his arm. Hey, he didn't hurt her one single bit and you might as well do what you can to keep safe from harm.

He could hear Bud's tractor so he walked around the building to say hello to his new captain. Now that Delaney stays away and doesn't play, Bud's the new captain of the Milo Mules and he's a good one. Both Neal and Pete made the team, no sweat. Neal plays second and Pete's out in left field like he wanted. Bud says he can pitch but he has to find a catcher. He says they have their work cut out for them but they're improving. Alicia visits more often. When she comes to practices, Neal has to remember to keep his eyes on the ball. Playing for the Mules is pretty near perfecto except for Delaney's absence and two other pieces of bad news. Guess who's in right field? Did you guess Iris with Bill Patton, Jr., next to her as usual, in center? Neal almost freaked but it didn't seem to be a problem for others so he didn't complain, not even to Pete, and he won't. If you are the only one with a problem, you need to shut up about it; you might lose your best friend if you don't.

Around Bud's head swallow squadrons flew formations and snagged lunch from the whirling gnat crowd. Robins and starlings ran and hopped and dug ahead of and behind the tractor. Starlings are slower and smaller than robins and they came over here from England and nobody much likes them but they hang in there. Bud cut the engine to idle and Neal went over to ask the usual "what up and where?"

"Ready for the first game?" Bud asked. "I've been watching your hitting improve. Once a week isn't near enough for practice but it's the most I can manage now I'm part-time cleaner for Pork Ridge Farms. Wish I could give up mowing for baseball but I can't. Good thing the team can practice without me. So, you all ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be," Neal said. You can say things like this about yourself and Bud pays attention. Also, he doesn't laugh. High over their heads the swallows swung west or left and mobbed a redtail hawk. "What do you want to do when you grow up, Bud?" You can ask serious questions, too. Bud never laughs at you.

"They call it a small world," Bud answered, "but I guess I won't know until I see more of it, maybe light some place nobody knows my name. Grandpa, now, he expects me to farm especially since my daddy isn't here to do his part. Of course, my daddy's doing his part fighting in Iraq or Afghanistan or Iran or wherever they send him next but as grandpa says, somebody's got to keep the home fires burning and there's always a war over there. Hard to understand why we always fight if we're free, isn't it? Anyhow, it wouldn't help so I don't tell grandpa I don't know what I want to do or be." Bud held out an open pack of clove gum. Mariah says the Sanchez Store may be the only place in the whole country where you can buy cinnamon, clove and licorice gum. Aunt Ida says you used to be able to buy all three, by the single pack, at the Boonetown five and dime. Now there is no five and dime in Boonetown and the other stores sell normal gum, 10 or 50 packs at a time.

Neal took one stick to put in his pocket; he's no pig.

"What are your plans?" asked Bud, peeling a wild cherry twig.

So Neal explained how he and Pete meant to go to the University of Missouri Ag School and work at Fairwell Whitetail Farms for Delaney. While he talked, he wondered if any of this could happen after what had happened and maybe Bud wondered too as he chewed on the twig because his eyes got kind of dreamy.

"Sounds like a good plan," he said. "You all sure do like those deer! Listen, next fall when I'm not so busy, the two of us'll hike to a place where the Old Man comes in the early morning. There's a deep slough and persimmons for him to eat. He gets a drink and rubs his head and back on a sassafras tree. Have to be quiet so we don't spook him. Now, you all have to keep the place a secret. I don't want anyone laying for him and picking him off with a rifle. I could have shot him with an arrow more than once but some creatures aren't meant to be killed." Bud pointed at the hawk. "It's what's right is right and has nothing to do with some archery or firearms law."

"Count on me, Bud; I won't tell anyone and thanks!"

"Got to get at those banks. Come late October, remind me." Bud twisted the key.

You wouldn't have wanted your finger between his foot and the pedal when he stomped on the gas. When he mows or combines or walks or climbs in the country, Bud wears thick brown boots with cleats and heavy metal toe covers. The marshal, who'd worn the same boots when he was Bud's age, got called a clodhopper. This is mean and Neal better not hear his captain called a clodhopper. Still, Bud's toes are protected from machinery and he hops over dirt clods when he's in the fields and over creeks when he's in the woods. Sometimes words are okay in the beginning until people make them mean. Bud cut a totally straight row. The ground birds lined up. The tractor roared and churned. The hawk left; the swallows returned.

Time for Maple Street. Neal only patrols Maple Street every other Monday. Why? Because Mrs. Leopold thinks if you don't live on the street, you don't belong there. She lives in the brick house on the corner of Maple and Main and rents out the four small frame houses that trickle down to the River to six truckers. There are five men and one woman by herself in the second house off Main who doesn't speak to Aunt Ida. Mostly the truckers are on the road. Neal doesn't know their names. Mr. Watch would know. After they pull into town and park their rigs in the lot that he leases to them, the first thing they do is go check on Mrs. Leopold because Neal's mother says she's a character and the truckers really like her. She's little and deaf and only wears her hearing aid when she feels like it. His mother had her for a third grade teacher and she was a character then, too. Maybe if you're a character at the start, you stay that way. Anyhow, after they see that Mrs. Leopold's okay, the truckers sleep until their next run or go to the boat to relieve road stress. They eat big breakfasts at the café when they're in town so they're good for business.

Also, they're very clean. You hardly ever see trash on Maple Street and if you do, it blew there. Neal stopped to inspect a scary looking mushroom growing in the ditch. The mushroom was white and powdery with bloody red strings hanging from the cap down the sides. Wur! He bet his bottom dollar it was an Amanita muscaria like the one in Mariah's field guide. She'd been telling him what to eat and what not to eat so he wouldn't starve when he got lost in the woods. He didn't need her help because he wasn't going to get lost in the woods or anywhere else but sometimes it's easiest to let his sister wear herself out. Sour grass is okay. Wild plums and raspberries are good. Once he and Pete licked a salt block Bud had placed in the park. If you want to know how too much salt tastes, lick a salt lick but look out because you might be sorry afterwards. The thing is Neal would way rather eat stuff from home than stuff you find in the woods or fields. Anyhow, his sister had made him look at two pictures, side by side: Amanita rubescens, which is brown and tan and fine if you like mushrooms, and Amanita muscaria, which is red and white and can kill you dead. To the top of the hill and down Main Street he ran before he stopped to breathe. No, a mushroom wasn't chasing him. Besides, to die you have to eat or at least touch one. Hey, he just doesn't like to be near poison.

Speaking of poison, he skipped past the Kelly house. Here's a true fact. He could beat Iris in a foot race. The race won't happen but if it did, he'd win. She must have been in back making more money. He won't beat her in that race. Nobody will. Probably she'll be a trillionaire some day. When she isn't studying to be smarter, she's raising chickens to eat and rabbits for show and selling dolls and doing everything she can think of to put dollars in the bank. Since her mother died, it's just her and her dad and he works all the time. So does Iris when she isn't showing off. Neal can understand rabbits and chickens. Rabbits are cool and most people eat chickens and eggs. Mariah buys manure and dolls. She says the dolls are clever and the hand-sewn costumes are exquisite. Neal thinks they're dumb but ladies buy them, two or three at a whack, and Iris gets richer -- this he has to admit.

He was testing his stopwatch in the café kitchen later that morning. If you're a kid doing something important for yourself, that's when you can count on grown-ups asking you to do something dumb for them. "You, young Neal, run an errand. Get me a dozen eggs and two nice fryers from Iris. This week she's offering a 2-for-special on fryers. Look alive now and make sure you all get all 12 eggs from her."

Summer had barely started. He was on vacation from school and the Milo GP. He did not wish to see Iris. He did wish Aunt Ida would do her own food buying.

"Do I have to pay her for everything again?" he asked; sometimes even when you know the answer to the question, something inside of you makes you keep trying.

"Of course you all have to pay her; why, I swan, you all'll be the death of me yet; here's $1.75 for 2 fryers and 12 eggs and get along before I lose my temper, do!"

"We need more Sacajawea dolls with the beaded skirts; we sold the last two."

Mariah reached in her jumper pocket for money. She gave him three dollar bills and two quarters -- another $3.50. Manno, over $5 he had to hand to Iris Kelly!

On the porch rail were naked parts -- arms, legs and body pieces. Bald heads over blank faces waited on the picnic table with brushes, stir sticks, boxes of wigs, trays of eyelashes, little jars of sequins and glitter, quart jars of powdered dye. Iris frowned under her raggedy bangs until Neal showed the money and even then she didn't smile. She finished loading the kiln in her torn shorts and Willie Nelson T-shirt from when he sang in Marshall. Neal could have worn his Woody Guthrie T-Shirt but it was in the laundry. Woody Guthrie died before Neal was born but sang for people, too, and the T-shirt was black with blue lettering. Also, the sleeves weren't missing and there wasn't a burn hole in the back where the name began.

"Avand whavat cavan wave davo favor yavou, mavy lavittavle mavan?"

Wur! Watching her lick the tip of a scruffy paintbrush and twist the wet hairs, Neal thought about an answer. The first time he'd heard Iris speaking AV, he'd gone straight to his sister. If the question is about weirdness, Mariah usually knows the answer. He was way sorry he'd asked her when she'd made him learn syllables but syllables aren't too hard if you listen to what you say. Finally she'd explained the AV code. Well, it's simple. You stick "av" between the first letter and the rest of each syllable unless the syllable begins with a vowel and then you stick "av" before it. Anyhow, he knew AV language but that did not mean he was going to speak it with Iris -- especially since he was taller than her and definitely not her little man!

Here's the crazy thing! His mother believes he and Iris should be good friends. She says they have a lot in common. She's talking about dead parents and the Milo GP. You don't tell your mother she doesn't know what she's talking about but it doesn't work like that. Even if totally identical things happen to you, you still may not like each other. Actually, you may not like each other one bit. Mariah says life is easier for kids like Pete from normal families with a mother and dad who really are the mother and dad. Mariah says Pete's fortunate. "Each year there are fewer normal families," she says with her eyebrows raised; "and in another ten, just you wait."

"This is for two fryers, one dozen eggs and two dolls. Mariah wants Sacajawea dolls." If you're doing business, you do business. You don't mess around. Proud of his pronunciation of the doll's name, Neal waited to see if Iris would attempt Sacajawea in AV language. This would have been like her but she didn't. Okay, he might try later or he might not. What would Iris say now? She stood there staring at him, licking the brush, fingering the paper money, jingling the coins. He looked at his boots and got brave. Sometimes you get brave; sometimes you don't. It depends. Sometimes to learn more you have to ask an enemy, not a friend.

"So, Iris, why do you bother with chickens if you make more money off dolls?"

Dipping the brush in a bottle of rubbing alcohol, Iris lifted it out. With her left eye screwed shut, she examined the twisted tip. "People will always eat. Maybe they won't always play with dolls. Consider the possibility of a doll flu epidemic. Got to keep my hand in, kid, and my options wide open. Rational economics is the name of the game I play and you still don't have a clue, do you?" She shook her shaggy head and then stared at him some more while she talked at him some more. "If I opened an Ebay account and sold the dolls on the net, I'd make twenty times as much. Your sister understands. She's been talking to me about it. She's smart and might help me. There aren't many women her age who are smart as well as savvy."

So? And what did this have to do with him? Nothing! And what would Iris say next? You never know. Neal knows this much for sure. Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick is all he can say after one-on-one communications with her.

"Come with me," she said. Boyhowdy, he did not want to! But, like a crazy zombie doofus, he followed and there he was watching while she and the meanest rooster in the world went into battle. Iris raises Rhode Island Reds the old way in a fenced pen with brooder house and straw nests in bins. Her chickens are the color of a red fox; the hens lay brown eggs that taste the same as regular eggs. Scooping up feed and a hickory stick, Iris opened the gate and marched into the chicken yard. The rooster cut twice at her legs and shifted hard to her rear. He pecked like a drill and scuttled around to her front while she wielded him off and scattered feed behind her. A bunch of half-grown chickens ran over to eat. Iris lunged with the stick like a sword. She poked the rooster, then withdrew, then poked again, using the stick on him like a goad. Only the whites of his eyes showed as though he might explode.

"Back!" she said. "Back!" She snapped the ground with a whip crack.

Spinning in place, she heaved the stick over the fence and grabbed two of the birds scrabbling for the feed. Holding them in her arms, she raced through the gate. Dropping them, she latched it. Retrieving them by their necks, she did full circles with her wrists and both bodies stiffened. She draped their stretched necks over a stump and slit their throats with her red pocket knife. Then she turned the dead birds loose to twitch and bleed. "Before she died my great-grandmother used to make me chop first and let the birds flop around without their heads. But I don't see as it makes a difference to the taste; besides, this is my business and I'd rather wring necks than chop off heads although I admit either way the chicken's dead."

Screech is a good word for the noise from the rooster who was having an even bigger fit. "He's got two more good reasons to hate me," Iris said. "The niceties of killing don't register with him." She bent down and stood up. "Here," she said, "Aunt Ida doesn't expect me to pick and clean for that price." Neal took the warm yellow feet, two in each hand, by feel. He didn't look. He doesn't like to look at death. He doesn't like death to be that close. Anyhow, now that Iris had finished with her chicken killing he had to ask her for help which seemed totally gross.

"What about the eggs and dolls?" he asked. It's pretty amazing what taking care of business for other people can get you into. Going back for a wagon and returning so Iris could make more money was something Neal positively did not want to do.

"Yavou havave avall yavou cavan mavanavage, davon't yavou, lavittavle mavistaver? Relax; I'll bring the eggs and dolls later when I visit your sister."

Okay, felt like a peanut but at least he could take off and wouldn't have to watch and listen to any more of the awfulness Iris Kelly had going on in Milo, Missouri on a nice summer day. Hey, maybe he wouldn't have to see her for a while. You never know. Good things can happen. Anything can get better if you wait long enough.

"I don't like killing, you know; attachments are easy and killings are rough!"

With kavillaving on his brain, Neal kept his mouth shut -- a smart tactic in enemy territory. He still didn't look at what he carried. Why should he? A handsome billy goat with a brown ribbon looped around his neck walked with them to the porch. "Like this one," Iris said. She scratched under the billy's chin. The billy rolled his gray and black and white eyes. "Daddy says he has to go because he's not earning his keep but Gay Billy's the sweetest guy in the world and I don't care if he doesn't like nannies. He smells good too, especially for a billy, and eats more Sericea lespedeza than any of the domestics. Of course, he's an exotic but why should that matter? The practice is universal." She raised her eyebrows at Neal until they half-disappeared into the bangs. What was she doing? Practicing to look like Mariah? Wur! What a joke on his sister!

Whatever she was doing, he didn't know what she was talking about, another good reason to keep quiet even if you're with a friend which he definitely wasn't. Maybe sometime he'd ask Mariah about billy goats that don't like nannies. Gay Billy was very sleek and clean. Neal gladly dropped the chickens and sat on the grass to do his own chin scratching while Iris checked her rabbit cages. She raises rabbits for show, not eating. She wins ribbons at the Salt Lick County Fair and prizes at the State Fair. Well, who doesn't like rabbits? Iris might be sort of okay really. Maybe, like Mr. Jasper used to be for the marshal, she was just one heckuva dose for Neal.

"People raise these for food but not me. Oh, I could but I'm glad I don't have to. Yes, it's the little things." She and a smoky black rabbit with gray feet and ear tips were nose to nose. Telling bucks from does is hard but it was easy to tell this rabbit needed serious petting. Neal picked up the chickens. Manno but he was tired of them! He laid their bodies beside the stilt leg of the rabbit cage. Gay Billy had followed and scratching under the billy's chin with his left hand, Neal reached with his right through the mesh and stroked the awesome fur softer than River mist.

"Sometimes I groom them with a cat brush; rabbits love to be rubbed and stroked and scratched; rabbits could be the quavintavessavenshaval havedavonavists."

Wavur! Anyhow, after they left Gay Billy and the rabbits, they raced to the porch and Iris won but Neal had the chickens. She rattled off numbers she called handicaps but she agreed it was a tie. The thing is would Neal's mother and Aunt Ida let him have a goat or rabbit? Okay, rabbits since you don't have one rabbit. He wasn't sure about goats. He'd need to find out. You should know your facts or you'll be sorry. It's probably okay to have one goat but isn't there usually a goat family?

Iris climbed the steps to check the dials on the kiln. The kiln is hooked to power in the kitchen but you never know. The marshal had to issue a special permit to Mr. Kelly. Iris might act like she's in charge but the permit and business license by the back door are in her father's name. She came out of the house with a book. "This is what I want to discuss with your sister." Wavur for sure this time! In case she wanted to discuss The Three Marias with him, Neal boogied so he'd hear no more. Because her mother once taught at the college doesn't make Iris a professor!

He looked back and there she was with a dead carp. Iris buries dead fish near her chicken pen -- not too near, not too far; Aunt Ida says this is a time-honored way to keep the hens happy and the rooster sharp.

Overhead, turkey buzzards grazed the town. Some days they do this, hoping for the best. It doesn't mean something died although usually something did because buzzards cover a large area where lots of things live so lots of things die. Look out! Wasn't Neal lugging dead bodies? Well, they weren't dinner for the buzzards. Iris had yelled after him that he'd better hustle so the birds could get cleaned and plucked before they spoiled. Wur! Like that would be his fault and probably it would. No way would Aunt Ida blame Iris. Here's a true fact. Time spent with her even in the middle of cool animals can wear you out. What Neal wanted now was a cool drink. First he delivered the chickens and listened to the complaints about where he'd been and what he'd been doing. Then he went into the café. His sister gave him a crème soda. He is allowed three a week and only three. He easily could drink three a day but like with the olives, his mother's firm about pop and candy.

Okay, the night before Mrs. Sanchez had turned Mariah's hair into a billion teensy braids with sparkles. His sister turned around and around so the braids stood out from her head. "How do I look?" she asked. "Crystals, dummy! Bling-bling!"

"Okay, I guess," he told her when she stopped turning.

She wore her Missouri Tiger T-shirt and leather mini-skirt and sandals. Neal followed her to the movie side. She felt good or she never would have given him the soda. When she feels good, Mariah can be generous so he decided to hang around in case. Since the marshal put in the glass divider, she has her own space. Ho! Who wouldn't feel good? It's great to have your own space. Your bedroom isn't the same. Well, maybe it is. The marshal had run the divider the length of what used to be the hotel lobby. Out of pine and plywood, he'd built a small counter with shelves behind it for the movies, for what Mariah calls her VHS and DVD inventory. The desktop pc monitor is raised and framed. The entertainment center is under the counter. Both are totally under her control. There are two 27" flat screens for the movies, one in the northwest corner on her side and the other in the northeast corner for café and bar customers. The screens are mounted on racks secured with toggles and bolts. On her side, Mariah rents, orders, sells and runs movies. She sells Missouri Lottery, Show Me Five and scratch tickets and Iris's dolls. She can see into the café and bar but curtains partition her off. Here's a true fact. The more the better of your own space. Also, this is really a true fact if you're in a busy place.

Neal asked about Gay Billy. Mariah giggled. She doesn't giggle often and it made him mad. He was leaving when her face got serious. She said animals and birds are like people. Sometimes males are attracted to males and females are attracted to females. "Attraction in a sexual sense," she said, "like the marshal and mother. Gay is the common word to describe the attraction; do you understand, little brother?"

Well, he did, sort of. "But they can't get married and make babies," he said. Ho! That's why Gay Billy wasn't earning his keep. Mr. Kelly needed to increase his goat herd. He needed grown-up goats who did what they should to make a baby one. Instead of being a father and finding a mother, Gay Billy was just having fun.

"Welcome to an enlightened era. In some states gay people can and do marry and can and do adopt children. Studies show that same sex couples are exceptional parents more often than not, which doesn't surprise your sister the least bit."

Suddenly his sister was on her high horse; well, he wasn't ready for gay people and since adoption had to be different for rabbits, Neal asked her about gay rabbits.

"Do they exist? Sure, they do." Mariah was looking like she knew all about it and maybe she did; okay, he gave up and decided to risk more of the people thing.

"Are there gay people in Milo?" he asked; hey, you can't help wondering.

"Yes, fortunately," said his sister. "Shall we move on now? Some lessons are best learned over time." Oh, well, no big. He thought he could see that people couldn't earn their keeps by making babies. There are plenty of people babies. Also, keeps are beds and boards, right? So aren't there other ways for people to earn keeps? Anyhow, if you're a boy who wants to marry a boy or girl who wants to marry a girl, who cares except you and the person you want to marry? You know what? Neal really didn't care who the gay people in Milo were. He told this to his sister.

She handed him Kansas City, a movie she'd asked their mother if he could watch so long as she provided parental guidance. Mariah's no parent and the writing on the jacket seemed boringus but Neal was willing because Harry Belafonte, Jr. is in the movie and he knows a good story about Harry Belafonte, Jr. He looked up and out the window just in time to see Sheriff Jackson's squad car pull up and park and the trooper who was driving stay put. Mariah hustled to open the door -- blaving-blavingaving in her T-shirt and leather skirt. All the action made Neal's head hurt.

In came the sheriff, bowing taking off his sunglasses and hat.

"Have a seat and I'll locate the marshal for you," said Mariah, pouring his coffee and bringing him sugar and cream before she started for the kitchen to do that.

Neal's sister has good manners when she likes you. She walks like their mother only she's taller and faster. Sheriff Jackson stared as she bling-blinged her way across the floor. He watched her all the way to and through the kitchen door.

The marshal came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a rag. He must have been helping Aunt Ida and Neal's mother pluck and clean chickens. He looked at his right hand, wiped it and looked again before offering it to the sheriff. Mariah returned and crooked her finger at Neal. He could tell arguing wouldn't work so he said good morning and followed her back to her dumb cataloging and leaving the sheriff with the marshal across from him, his fox face very friendly. He really likes Sheriff Jackson partly because of Harry Belafonte, Jr. and fond memories. Neal handed Kansas City to Mariah and sat where he could see the two men. Sure is a good thing his sister doesn't know the story; she'd probably go off on her sevens.

Here's what happened and you'll see why it's weird the sheriff showing up when he did. In 1970 the marshal was berthed off Long Beach. He and his buddies got shore leave and rented a Ford Thunderbird and went on a wild tear. They drove to Las Vegas and got drunk and rowdy. The marshal threw 23 straight passes (sevens or elevens or making points) at the craps table and 23 straight passes are rare. Then he and his friends landed on their keisters after security tossed them out of the Riverside but when they passed the front desk, the marshal saw Harry Belafonte, Jr., big as life. He was tall and looked and acted then like Sheriff Jackson looks and acts now. Sheriff Jackson makes the Milo job easier for the marshal and Neal. The county sheriff is assigned out of Kansas City in a community interchange program. They hope Sheriff Jackson's assignment will never end. Like everything, there are lawmen and lawmen, some good, some bad. There are law women too -- that's what Mariah would say. Well, she's right and the same goes for them, okay?

"See what I'm up to here? Rearrangement and prominent repositioning of the Altman collection. No reason we can't push the most substantial Missouri artist of the century. Not since Mark Twain has there been so rare a talent from the Show Me state. You heard it here, pup. Art with a capital 'A'!" Manno! Did his sister ever get tired of talking about art with a capital "A" or small "a"? Neal made a face. "Big, black and beautiful." Now she was whispering. "Young Harry Belafonte, only darker. If I was in the market but no." She shook her head. Her braids whipped around like she was caught in a tornado and one of them whacked Neal's shoulder. "First, the thesis. Second, figuring out what to do. Write? Film? Direct? Produce? Third, ensuring total material comfort for the rest of my unnatural life. Then and only then, a man. That is the plan with a capital 'P' and I am sticking to the plan!"

When Mariah gets like this, you need to move away from her. You learn these things when you live with people. She might go on forever about her crazy future and Neal didn't want to hear it. He pressed against the glass divider to lip read. The sun from the front window shone on the marshal and sheriff drinking their coffee. "Clever," the sheriff said about the two-person table Mr. Watch had made from an old whiskey barrel. There are ten of these tables until Mr. Watch finds more barrels; then he might make more tables; Mr. Watch says you never can tell.

"Jake's smart with scraps," said the marshal, "always been a natural handyman."

Sheriff Jackson has a ton of fans. This is because he does a great job. Also, he stood when Neal's mother came in with a fresh pot of coffee and Aunt Ida appeared with a pan of buttermilk biscuits. "Sit down, sit down," they said but he didn't. Except for the mayor, the ladies or women or whatever like the sheriff's great manners. "Aren't you all partial to sorghum molasses for a tide over? There's chicken and dumplings for the main meal. Be pleased if you'd stay." Aunt Ida set the biscuits on the table and hurried back to the kitchen for the butter plate and sorghum. "He's an example of old-fashioned gallantry," Neal's mother told the marshal after she'd met the sheriff. "Good thing for me he's a young man," the marshal told her. Now he tugged his earring and jounced his left leg 90 miles an hour. Probably he was wishing he'd stood but he says you have to time these things right. At least he has opening doors figured out so long as he doesn't open one for Mariah by mistake.

"Bless this fine food, Lord, and the ordinary business to follow;" the sheriff's voice coated the room like molasses on biscuits or vanilla almond frosting on spice cake.

"Of course," Mariah buzzed in Neal's ear, causing him to bump his forehead on the glass so hard he was lucky he didn't pass out, "good plans are made to be broken. Going to Kansas City," she started to sing very softly, "Kansas City, here I come."

He freaked and skittered away to settle by the bar in his secret place where he can see and hear but can't be seen or heard -- well, not easily. Private and secret places aren't the same but you use what you have. With his tongue he explored the loose molar swinging from his sore gum. Okay, maybe it isn't secret if you use what you have but you can't use what you don't have or you get in trouble for stealing. He crouched with his knees touching his nose and his eyes closed for a rest. Dreaming and toying with the tooth, he waited for his boss and the sheriff to talk business.

"Toodle-oo if you all need anything." Your eyes sure pop open when you hear Aunt Ida. She's not loud like the mayor but her voice hangs in your ear and echoes off your skin. She left with his mother for the kitchen and chickens. The marshal poured himself more black coffee and nodded at Mariah who was behaving for a change. "That one's getting a kick out of her little empire like I hoped she would," he told the sheriff. "Divider required some engineering." He sounded very proud of the layout. Neal took another look because he'd helped; it was a fine job, no doubt.

Sheriff Jackson nodded and smiled. He has a nice smile. After he spooned on sorghum and ate his last biscuit as if he wished it wasn't, he leaned forward and put his hands on the table. "First, marshal, let's talk about Trinity Clark, the girl who disappeared last year. Correction, make that woman not girl. She might have been a girl when she disappeared but she's over 21 now. She was last seen with her father, evidently a big honcho back east and a man who refuses to leave me and my clerks alone. He's been calling Kansas City and complaining to my superiors about the county's complete lack of cooperation. All this is something you need to know."

Neal's mother came out of the kitchen to seat two of the men truckers at the other end of the café. When she has customers, she spreads them around. Anyhow, the sheriff didn't stand because she didn't come near him. That's how it works. Chewing on a toothpick, the marshal waited to see what the sheriff wanted. He knows to wait for information and orders. So does Neal. If the person in charge is smart, you're better off waiting for what they have to say. If the person in charge isn't smart, you shouldn't be in the job and you're better off finding yourself a new one and if you can't, well, you may have to learn some other way to earn your pay.

The sheriff leaned forward and put his two index fingers together under his chin. "Tell you what I'd like to do, marshal. I'd like to advise Lewis N. Clark to clean up his own eastern generated domestic mess. I don't think for a minute anything criminal has happened to his daughter. She was fine physically and mentally when she applied for and got her Missouri driver's license. What I suspect is she had an opportunity to ditch her father and used it. They were probably on the way to Kansas City, maybe at the airport. In any event, I see no reason to believe Trinity Clark is doing anything against the law in the County of Salt Lick or State of Missouri. If Clark wants a woman hunt, he ought to hire private help for a fee."

"However, career men don't always do what they'd like to do," said the sheriff, "or they become contractors and I don't have a free hand in this case. Strictly between us, I'm having the Reader republish last year's information. Same picture and general text: please notify the Salt Lick County Sheriff's Department if you've seen this girl, etc., except I'm changing the girl to woman. I don't care whether the father likes it or not. Also, at year's end, I'm closing the file on the daughter or my name isn't Van Jackson. I wanted you to know what I'm doing before the Reader comes out. I didn't want you to wonder why I'm resurrecting this old history now."

"Tell you the truth, makes a world of difference to hear the skinny from you before the fact of the matter and I appreciate it," said the marshal. "People around here get excited if they don't know the whole story. They think they need to know the reasons behind everything that happens. I'm glad you told me what's going on because if anyone asks, I can tell them." His right leg had begun to jump. Would he like to race outside and have himself a smoke before he goes crazy? Probably.

"While we're on the subject of Lewis N. Clark," said the sheriff, punching out the name like he was calling bingo numbers, "I've done a little research. Is there anything worth a dime that he doesn't have his voracious eye on? I guess his game plans for the state shouldn't worry me but they do. Why can't the man buy up everything in sight somewhere else? What's left in this part of Missouri to sell?"

"Since Juanita sent him packing, around here the Jasper-Fairwell-Sykeston property could be it. Sorry. Got to call the property as I see it or I forget the details. Let's see. Clark's working a Whitetail hunting operation across the River. Or rather, he's got the mayor working it for him and she's got Clete Dobbs and Dwayne Emmett working for her. You know I don't have much time for those boys. Still, that's Birdie in another county and not my problem so I try to look the other way. Clark has bought himself a lot of acreage, some of it in Milo, some on the other side of the River and beyond. Like I said, he's still angling for the Jasper-Fairwell-Sykeston property. And land is only one of his interests. He bought an old World War I airplane museum over in Jeff City. He's got St. Jo people overhauling a riverboat and intends to start weekend cruises. He has an idea for reality TV in Milo, maybe with nudity -- one of those shows where people set up for hardship with no modern conveniences and we watch to see what it takes for them to stay alive. Of course, I hear about Clark from the mayor, who serves as his local agent. You heard from her honor lately? I guess not or you'd have been in touch with me."

"That woman is a sorry horror," the sheriff said. "The last we talked was when she called me on my private line and demanded that I bring in the National Guard on Trinity Clark. I completely lost my temper. I don't see how you put up with her."

"Nobody has a kind word to say about her but they keep on electing her. Guess they think she's doing her job. Sure am sorry to hear that she bothered you and glad she isn't bothering you still. Frankly, I don't see how the judge was able to live in the same house with her before his stroke. Of course, I don't see how he married her even if she was the belle of St. Louis. Got to be easier on him now he doesn't know what she's doing. Her latest, outside of catcatching, is having me protect town and area interests by gigging Philomena Fairwell and Horace Sykeston into selling. The Jasper-Fairwell-Sykeston property could represent the last holdout against Clark's land gobbling in these parts unless you count Long Hollow and he's never shown much interest in Long Hollow, which, I guess, shouldn't surprise us. You know the property I mean, right?" the marshal's foxy face got red and excited.

"Not sure that I do, no," said the sheriff, shaking his head.

"Well, Clark wants the works," said the marshal. "He wants the mansion and grounds, River frontage leased from Sykeston and the old Tom Jasper deer hunting parks. Year before last, the best bucks in this corner of the state came from Fairwell Whitetail Farms. After Tom's death, Mrs. Fairwell and Sykeston sold the herd to Clark for cash and we had that River crossing using barges as a deer stop. That's how Clark got his starting stock for the Noonday County business under Clete and Dwayne with the mayor semi-overseeing and himself, as always, on top."

"I remember," said the sheriff. "It was in the Reader and quite an operation, apparently the operative word for Clark. But what accounts for the mayor's interest? Why should it matter to her horrible honor where the deer go?"

"Guess Birdie would rather see Lewis N. Clark's money spent in Milo."

"Watch yourself; the woman's dangerous! Listen, there's good news for us."

The sheriff unsnapped his shirt pocket and took out two pieces of notepaper. "The county prosecutor left me study results showing reduction of methamphetamine production/sales in or around Long Hollow, marshal. Mind you, nothing official."

"That is good news;" the marshal's legs were still and now he was smiling.

"Second piece of unofficial news, just so you'll know not so you'll take action, is somebody claims to have seen Milton Easily in broad daylight in Sweet Springs."

This was big news only Neal couldn't quit thinking about naked people. Once you start thinking about naked people anywhere, it's hard to quit! But in Milo? What would Pete say? Neither cares much for reality TV which seems to be life when it's the worst. What's fun about watching and hearing or smelling, tasting and feeling that? Of course, it would be fun to get paid like the lady survivor from Marshall. Well, not fun but you don't need fun with money. It's nice to have them at the same time but not necessary. After you survive and get the money, you can use some of it to treat yourself to fun. Maybe this isn't rational economics but it sounds right so maybe it is. Neal isn't the rational economics authority. Also, he doesn't want to be.

The marshal shook his foxy head and said to the sheriff," you'd think Milt would have the good sense to head east, west, north or south -- anywhere but here."

"There are people with a serious addiction to the heart of the heartland, marshal; post 2001 statistics indicate more of them are congregating among us each year."

The men were quiet and so was Neal. If he saw his uncle, how would Bud feel?

"One final item," said the sheriff, "to satisfy my own curiosity so you're under no obligation to answer. The Air Force technician from Long Hollow still missing in action, Culpepper -- how long has that family lived in these parts? The information doesn't coalesce with what I know to be true. Otherwise, I wouldn't trouble you."

"Been Culpeppers as long as I can remember -- grew up with Raleigh."

"Strange is all I can think of to say."

"How's that?" The marshal's legs began; the fox became more of a nervous cat.

"As an amateur student of rural Midwestern history and black history, I have to wonder why the family remained. Conditions for black farmers have been grim for two full centuries. Surely they cannot have improved recently what with internationalism and the new trade treaties. Aren't her people black farmers?"

"And teachers. Not many small farmers of any color left, are there? Anywhere?"

"It's better now," said Neal's mother who'd come back. She refolded and stacked napkins; this was very weird since the napkins were already folded and in a stack.

"For farmers or for blacks?" asked the sheriff, on his feet way fast.

"Sit, please," said Neal's mother, now folding one-handed and rubbing her neck with the other; "we're proud of our local churches and schools, integrated at last."

The sheriff smiled like he might pat her on her head and say "there, there" but he didn't and Neal was glad. The marshal walked the sheriff to his car where the trooper waited. Manno! Poor guy! Here's a true fact. Some people are easy to forget. As the marshal and sheriff went out, Mr. Sykeston arrived and Mariah glided by, poking Neal in the ribs. She led Mr. Sykeston to the games table, which is a picnic table at the other end of the bar. The two of them play Scrabble once a week for a penny a point. Neal wanted to stomp and kick and shout out loud that gambling is illegal. He'd probably get a side ache from his sister's bony finger.

"Let's play for whatever you have on you," said the blaving-blavingaver!

Mr. Sykeston hitched his getalong. "Mariah," he said, "greed is morally wrong."

The marshal stood next to Neal to watch. He knows they gamble but says there are worse crimes. Mariah won the coin toss for who starts. She played zebus and wrote down 52. She likes to keep score. Some people do. Maybe after he practiced Sacajawea in AV, Neal would look up zebus in the OED. Savacavajavawaveava, he said to himself three times just to be sure that he could and so there, Iris Kelly!

"Is he married?" asked Mariah. She played zebras.

"Divorced," said the marshal. Mariah already had 86 points and Mr. Sykeston hadn't even scored because he'd exchanged letters instead of taking his turn. Anyhow, they weren't talking about him and he seemed to know this. Look out, Sheriff Jackson, you're the one! Savomewavone avis avaskaving quaveshavins avabavout yavou and who knows when Mariah will be done with her questions?