Old Enough | Chapter 9

Chapter 9
GAMES

It's hard to tell a story when there's always a new war. Thavis avis ava favact. The marshal says blame fascism or terrorism; they're the same. Also, after Tunisia and Egypt it looks like Hezbollah and the Israelis just might do their own fighting in Lebanon and Israel. Oh, well.

On Monday when he ran his route, Neal detoured through two vacant lots and Riverside Park. His mother had asked the marshal. The new rule was he could detour for a while if he wanted. You don't often see human long bones, she said, and he might need lots of space to get over the shock. Neal wasn't sure how long this would last. He meant to make hay while the sun shines. He stopped to scratch Rufus and jumped up and down some. Jumping is exercise plus he was excited. Forget about long bones -- remember the treat ahead!

Propped against the wall by Cabin B were two winter sleds with no runners, one water ski with no buckle and a training bicycle with no chain. Old magazines bundled and tied with twine were piled in plastic crates stacked by the open door. Lucy Watch came out with a rusty ice skate. She held the skate by a broken wheel and way out in front of her like it might bite. She had her nose screwed up like she smelled something bad. "He won't miss this anytime soon, right?" She was asking Neal. He didn't answer because you don't have to answer questions like that. Naturally Lucy and Mariah are friends. Mr. Watch has the junkyard and rents space over the café but Cabin B is stuffed with interesting stuff. While tempted, Neal didn't wait to see what more Lucy might throw away. He didn't hang around to watch Lucy Watch ransack her father-in-law's inventory mainly because the rusty skate made him sad. It reminded him of the skateboard park that probably won't get built. The marshal says the mayor worries about questions of liability whenever the liability is hers. Questions of liability are questions you do have to answer.

Sadness can't last forever so Neal punched a fun button. Pete and Jaime waited by the Odyssey. Good. Today the marshal was buying the three of them boards at the Wal-Mart Super Store in Sedalia and taking them to the skateboard park in Sedalia. Neal, who'd lived in Sedalia, had not known of this park. Maybe you never know everything about where you live. Anyhow, last night in the Sanchez Store after the marshal told Mrs. Sanchez and Mrs. Rivera that good ballplayers deserve rewards, you could see Jaime's mother thought he was a real weirdo but Mrs. Sanchez thanked him and eyeballed Mrs. Rivera hard. Pete's mother can turn people around fast if she wants to. Later when he was supposed to be elsewhere Neal had heard the marshal tell his mother the trip might take Neal's mind off the you-know-what. Bud was invited but couldn't come. Bud had to harvest hay. "Bud works too hard," said the marshal to Neal as the four of them buckled in and drove to the highway.

Choosing wears you out. Neal finished first. He picked a black board with a white streak down the center. Jaime chose a rainbow colored board. Pete went back and forth between a coppery colored board with brown trim and plain dark purple. "I like that purple," he kept saying until finally the purple won. The boards were standard built and ready to go. That's what you want but better check the label underneath to be sure because you never know.

It seemed like they stood in line 100 years before the marshal could pay and they could load up the truck, drive to the park and get rolling. Then it was fun as anything until Neal skinned his knee on the retaining wall doing a practice kick fly by. A cup of blood oozed out and it hurt like crazy but he didn't cry.

There was no first aid kit. The marshal said he ought to have noticed. He said he'd fix the problem so as to handle the present situation and be ready for the future. Well, Neal meant to ask his mother to buy a replacement kit for Neal's future and here's why. The marshal's kit has old-fashioned Iodine that burns like fire and tape that tears your hair out by the roots when you try to peel it off. Neal still didn't cry. The marshal isn't mean. He just doesn't know any better. Pete and Jaime were gloomy about going home early. To cheer them up, the marshal treated at McDonalds in Marshall. They took their burgers, fries and shakes to Jim the Wonder Dog's Memorial Park. Jaime had never been to the park. He didn't even know about Jim. Not until Neal told him.

"Jim had a dog's second sight," Neal explained. Then Pete drew Neal with his injured knee standing next to Jim's statue. He used the marshal's blue pen and orange burger wrap. He made Neal look like a stupid Halloween doofus but the marshal liked the drawing. He stored it in the glove box in the truck next to the first aid kit filled with pain. Okay, maybe Neal was just getting grumpy. This happens when you're expecting fun and get a serious injury.

"You boys still hungry?" the marshal asked. "When I was young, noon was the main meal. We called it dinner and stuffed ourselves. Then we worked like fools until dark and stuffed ourselves all over again at the suppertime bout."

"Mariah told Aunt Ida," Neal said directly to the marshal so Jaime wouldn't get the idea he was talking about him; "that if you're bound and determined to pig out you'll turn into a blimp unless you're also prepared to work out."

All the way home the marshal shouted hip-hip-hurray for bikes and dissed boards. He got totally boringus. Neal was embarrassed for him. "Something about a bike, boys, how you move your arms, legs and torso, how you gather yourself together and pull forward. Not a question of what is easy or hard."

"You pull forward on a board." Pete was asleep and Neal turned to Jaime. "Don't you?" Jaime wasn't sure and Neal gave up; sometimes you have to.

Maybe it wasn't his day. You never know when it is and what can you do if it isn't? Anyhow, that afternoon he was in the shed stomping cardboard flat and got a splinter the size of a toothpick in his left foot. Okay, maybe not that big but big! In the utility room he found his mother folding sheets and listening to Pete's mother talk. Pete's mother was sitting in their old lawn chair with her feet on a bench and her arms crossed over her stomach. "I'm not happy about it," she said while Neal's mother folded and listened. She didn't mean Neal's splinter that she examined and plucked out with tweezers taken from her apron pocket. This first aid didn't hurt a bit! "You'd think we'd have had better sense. For us the time is plain wrong." Mrs. Sanchez rose and groaned. She walked over to the medicine cabinet and selected a disinfecting bandage without tape -- the kind you spray on, the only kind to use. "This was a very smart idea," she said, "so it doesn't tear out the hair." Neal pretended to leave but he hunkered down in the shadows to hear more and to watch his mother bring together corners, making a square, another square and another square.

"That's why I divorced the first one," said Mrs. Sanchez, back in the chair with her arms crossed and her feet up. "The jerk thought the more, the merrier. Another roll in the clover. Pregnant the moment a birth is over."

One thing for sure you can say about weekend road warriors is they are great for emptying your head of what you don't want to remember. Also, it never hurts if your mother is happy. That evening after a bum day Neal finally had some luck. Warriors in town for the Lion's Club Hog Roast stopped in for a couple of pieces of Aunt Ida's patriotic pie and a few beers before heading home to Kansas City. His mother likes warriors from Kansas City, St. Louis, or, hey, New York City. They are never drunk and rowdy and tip well. This year she'd been afraid they'd cancel their trips what with gas costing an arm and a leg so she was totally glad to see and hear their arrival. In the evening, after the last bike roared off, she played Scrabble with the marshal and Mr. Watch. His mother seldom plays games and Neal was curious. He decided to watch even though Mayor Pride was across the table drinking hot tea and tapping on her laptop. The mayor never plays games. Every minute or so, she'd look up from the screen and glare at the rest of them. Once she spoke but Neal couldn't hear her. Whatever she said made the marshal mad; his fox face screwed up white and tight and his fox eyes flashed harsher and fiercer.

"You're talking business off hours, mayor, and kibitzing. If I wake in the AM, I'll tackle business tomorrow. Meanwhile, kibitzers haven't appealed to me since the country dissed the Poles and Hungarians to our shame and sorrow."

The mayor wore dark purple; her hair was bright red. Neal thought of Ham in the maple trees. Dark purple and bright red do weird things to one another. Without much luck, he tried to imagine these colors together on his mother.

She hummed softly while she waited. It was Mr. Watch's turn and you can count on him to be slow. Neal's mother never minds if people are slow at Scrabble. The marshal minds but spends the time rolling. He never lights up inside, not even in the truck or cabin but likes to be ready in case the need strikes him. He jounced his leg and arranged his coffin nails in a neat pile.

"If you insist on killing yourself," said the mayor, "why not do it with style?"

"Leave him to it, please, Birdie. More rolling results in less smoking." Neal's mother smiled her now I mean what I say smile. The mayor wiped the laptop screen with a paper napkin, swatted an imaginary fly and wrinkled her nose.

"For pity's sake, Juanita, leave the world alone and it'll straighten itself out too, I suppose. Are you oblivious to economic reality? While you people play games, I'm drafting a most discouraging report to an astute businessman. That's what Lewis N. Clark is: astute. He pays for and expects results and he is completely fed up with Milo and with Salt Lick County for our failure to cooperate in locating his daughter and for inherent problems in the Jasper-Fairwell-Sykeston property sale negotiations. Unless we find the daughter or someone breaks through to Philomena or Horace Sykeston, we lose in this neck of the woods. We lose an astute man's money and influence for good."

"Say, mayor, ever consider taking yourself away for good? Come on, Jake!" The marshal pocketed the tobacco and papers and jounced his right knee.

"Does your tea need hotting up some, Birdie?" Neal's mother knows how to interrupt a fight without making people madder. Neal wondered about a new project for the mayor. Hey, what about her tackling the skateboard park in spite of questions of liability? Should he suggest this? Nah! Totally bad idea!

"Do you mind?" Mr. Watch asked a letter. He held the tile right under his nose so only he could see it. He might be slow but he cared the most about who won the game. You could tell. Neal's mother cared the least. She left for the kitchen and he followed her. If you feel like being with your mother and she doesn't say get lost, why not go for it? At the stove stood Mariah, legs fixed apart and both hands wrapped around the handle of a wooden spoon, stirring something thick and delicious-smelling in the Dutch oven. "Navy beans and ham hock," she said. "Fyi, a three-person game is no challenge. Manno a manno is the best contest. You have more draws and you evenly split the letter pool. Trust me; I've done my homework at Scrabble school."

Personally, Neal would rather play Monopoly. There instead of letters you have money.

Lifting then lowering the dripping spoon to stir more, Mariah stayed at the stove and acted like she knew it all and maybe she did -- about Scrabble anyway. Cutthroat Scrabble is what she and the marshal play. When they go at it, the game can last days and you're supposed to leave them alone while they play. At least, that's what Mariah says. The marshal doesn't say that. He isn't like that. So far his highest score is 586. Mariah won't tell hers. She says she once had 600 plus in Columbia but can't remember the exact number. Sure! Still, she's probably the only person in the county who can beat the marshal in a serious game one on one. Mariah doesn't play games for fun.

Yesterday after church had been another time Neal felt like sticking with his mother even when Mariah told him to disappear. "You wouldn't expect an old sailor with his background to know a word game." She gave up chasing Neal off. "He says he got the habit when serving on the USS Jason in the 70s since there was nothing else to do on long watches when the real work was done. The guy has an enormous vocabulary. And he's full of sea stories, isn't he?"

Today his sister laid down the spoon and picked up her latest book. She was reading Wouldn't Take Nothing for My Journey Now because it mades her cry. Okay, why would you read something you know will make you cry? Totally weird! On accident, maybe, but not on purpose. Anyhow, she came back into the café with their mother and Neal only Mariah went straight to the bar with her book. She won't watch Scrabble when Mr. Watch is playing. Mr. Watch poked at the marshal's cigarettes. They weren't in his way but he acted like they were. Then he played "tassels" but only scored 8 points plus the 50-point bonus for using all seven of his letters. "I had three durn esses! Hey, I say didn't I?" he asked the last new letter he drew. He held the tile close, squinted, told it he didn't know what to do and then asked if it knew.

"Goodness, Jake, poor pitiful you!" Neal's mother was being funny. Look out! Nothing funny about who just came in the door. "Some folks are born mean," says Aunt Ida. Without asking and still reading, Mariah uncapped a Bud for Clete Dobbs. Their mother says she knows how to manage him. Mariah says it's her job. Clete Dobbs took a swig and like a tarantula, slouched over to the table. Neal moved closer to his mother where he planned to stand his ground.

"Hoddo, mayor; hey, marshal, any news for folks on who it is you all found?"

"Sheriff's office has sent samples to Jeff City for laboratory testing. Sheriff says the remains could be one year, 50 years, maybe older -- likely female. You know Missouri River sludge erases features, dead human or animal."

"So how come your fancy sheriff don't think it's Mr. Lewis N. Clark's little gal whose picture I hear they're getting set to run again in the Salt Lick paper and who disappeared from the face of the earth about a year ago, marshal?"

"Nobody owes you an explanation, Clete, but listen good and I'll try. Last summer Trinity Clark applied for a Missouri Drivers License giving RR 1, Milo, Missouri as her residential address. Last fall she registered an address change to another county. She has proved her date of birth to be legitimate which makes her 21 and no girl as everyone who needs the information has been told. Finally, Sheriff Jackson is sure the remains are at least a year old."

"Marshal, could you exhibit some responsibility for the sake of novelty? You're quibbling over months? Do you realize she might have returned after the address change and met with trouble then?" The mayor had to get in her dig but Neal wasn't surprised at what she said. After the uncovered remains, when the night shadows woke him his first thoughts were of Trinity Clark. He thought about how she was bigger than Delaney so she would have big bones. He didn't plan to tell anyone. You don't tell people all your thoughts. They'll say you're not yourself and give you yucky medicine and hire special staff to guard you and maybe put you on a beet and carrot juice diet. Ham Fairwell might have trouble remembering this but Neal knows when to keep quiet.

"I heard that, mayor!" snorted Clete Dobbs; "tell him what's what. Give it right to him!" Manno! Why didn't the marshal make both Clete Dobbs and the mayor hush their mouths and leave? He was the town marshal, wasn't he?

"Very interesting idea, mayor, even if the idea doesn't suit the facts." The marshal ignored Clete Dobbs. "Think we should rebury what's left with an anonymous stone?" he asked Neal's mother. "Nobody's claiming and it's okay to use a Milo Cemetery plot. Preacher Jones has agreed to say a few words and has talked to the other reverends and pastors which helps me out a lot."

"Reburial seems the most civilized, sensible and kindest thing to do."

"Good, I'll let the sheriff know and I'll notify Timmy the Digger too."

"I suppose the city will pay?" asked the mayor.

"Isn't this," answered the marshall, "what the indigent burial fund is for?"

"I suppose so." The mayor sounded worn to a frazzle. Well, good! She wore everyone else to a frazzle. Now she knows how it feels. You can't go on and on and on forever. People get tired of it. They get fed up and want you to quit.

Using "as" in "tassels", Neal's mother made "ax", "xi" and "si" with her "x" doubled twice. The marshal and Mariah use "xi" a lot. You need to know teensy Greek words to win at Scrabble. "Will," said his mother as though the mayor wasn't there, as though Clete Dobbs wasn't mean and ugly, as though she hadn't made an awesome play. "I've seen Trinity. I've seen her recently."

"Did she come here?" quizzed the mayor, her red and purple self perking up.

"No but Will, I know I've seen her somewhere; mayor, hand me your cup."

"It'll come to you," the marshal told Neal's mother. Using "ta" in tassels, he made "ut" and "pax", twice doubling his "p" with a jounce to his knee and a foxy nod. Actually, in Scrabble there are lots of teensy words to know period.

Mr. Sykeston arrived with an armload of VHS tapes and DVDs. Like Clete Dobbs he headed for Mariah at the bar who showed him the book that makes her cry. She took it with her, using her finger as a bookmark, as she led him to the movie side where he made two stacks of his returns on the counter. Mr. Sykeston began to talk, raising his little round shoulders, wiggling his little head and waving his arms. He held out his hands with the palms up and he resembled Ham. He paced in a small space and frowned as though he was about to solve for the problem of the universal galaxy curve or die trying. "Like a puppet strangled on its own string," whispered Neal's mother to the marshal. Wur! What did she mean? Anyhow, Neal could have cheered. His mother never criticizes and even his mother thought Mr. Sykeston was weird.

Look out! The marshal was staring over his head and giving it away but Neal could feel Clete Dobbs at his back. Maybe he can't feel music but Neal can feel creepiness. Too late, he remembered that you should have at least one wall at your back and in a really tight situation, you should be dead center in the V spot of a corner. Ham Fairwell knows this rule. You can have with you your blocks, crème soda or whatever so long as you are dead center in the V. Well, Neal was not dead center in the V. Like he was a baby toy, Clete Dobbs picked him up, set him aside, pulled out a chair and plopped himself down, boxing Neal in. Next he shoved the marshal's pile of cigarettes towards Mr. Watch. Neal was sure the marshal would take action but then Mr. Sykeston limped over with a DVD. Mariah came, too, with her unhappy book. Mr. Sykeston said good evening like he was performing on a stage. He passed around the movie named The Tin Drum starring a boy named Oskar about Neal's age.

"Marshal, I've been meaning to ask. Have you read Australian World War I veteran, expeditionist and subsequent mystery writer Arthur W. Upfield? Are you familiar with his glorious creation, Detective Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte, educated half-aborigine sleuth? Now, friends, there's truth. "

The marshal's mouth snapped shut. Neal's mother peered at Mr. Sykeston and shot Neal her this is no place for you look. Neal stared at the Scrabble game. Hey, he couldn't move, could he? No, but he could smell Mariah's Tabu and Mr. Watch's Old Spice boiled bone dry in a pan. Clete Dobbs slurped and burped. Gross! You're sunk when you're stuck and bad smells are close!

"Is half-aborigine politically incorrect or offensive?" asked Mr. Sykeston.

"No, I'm just sizing up the possibilities and observing the direction of the conversation," Neal's mother said, "like any old woman with a young son."

She wasn't so old and Neal wasn't so young. Also, no matter how old she was or how young he was, why talk about their ages with weird Mr. Sykeston?

"Good lady, I humbly and sincerely beg your pardon. No harm intended, I assure you. My clumsy question refers to a simple similarity, perhaps of interest to me alone, given my peculiar proclivity for the laws of chance and mysteries of life in coincidental circumstances governed by nonsense and sensibility. Like Marshal Will, Upfield's Down Under sleuth, known as Bony to his friends, by the way and by, rolls his own in batches and poorly. Upfield wrote the Bony books in the early 1900s. They contain precisely the soft and certain racism and sexism to be expected but a simple similarity across one century exists. Do you see the analogy or should I simply cease and desist?"

Silence is louder than noise after someone weird talks a long time and stops. This is a true fact unless you're asleep because dreams are different. Neal's mother looked away. So did Mariah. Mr. Watch looked like he'd sold a cord of hardwood for twice what he'd paid. Clete Dobbs was the first to make a noise. He blurted "hooh!" and gulped Bud. The marshal gripped the table edge and looked ready to do something as soon as he knew what the something should be. The game was on hold indefinitely and Neal still found it hard to breathe.

"Here's what I think about you and your Bony books," the marshal told Mr. Sykeston, "I think you sent me a package and I want to know if I'm right."

"Another curious collection of simple similarities, isn't it, unless you object to perseverance and oversight. Surely not. Fascinating to match up your sterling qualities with those of the beleaguered Florentine marshal. I've also weighed your responsibilities against those of law enforcement officials in the nation's capital as represented by the daughter of the sole president claimed by this state. She persevered mightily in selecting the east coast over the heartland. Marshal, I meant no disrespect by the anonymity. I hoped recreational fiction might lighten your considerable load for which I have enormous sympathy."

The marshal held onto the table with his white knuckles. "Don't need load lightening from you, thanks, but as a favor, could you speak straight?" Now Neal's mother was very unhappy; Mariah and Mr. Watch weren't sure what to be; Clete Dobbs swigged Bud and leaned closer; all Neal could do was wait.

Mr. Sykeston isn't the waiting type. This was good because when you can hardly breathe, you need someone to act even if the action is talk. "Listen, my friend," he said to the marshal, "to use an old expression, you and I got off on the wrong foot. I feel as responsible for the interests of Tom's grandsons as their great-grandmother does. I'm doing everything in my power to protect them under onerous circumstances. At the risk of interrupting an important competition I ask you to take cognizance of this." Mr. Sykeston sort of smiled since Scrabble isn't really important. Well, it is if you play for money like he and Mariah do. Money is important; this is probably true if anything is true.

The mayor jumped in. "If you feel responsible for those boys," she said, "why not facilitate the Fairwell property sale to Lewis N. Clark and turn them into millionaires?" Next she swung and hacked on Clete Dobbs. "Your employer has legitimate concerns about his daughter and appreciates your assistance but watch your alcohol intake and manners." One thing about the mayor is she hacks on everybody. When she hacks on your enemies, it's totally great to have her on your side. She may not be there long so enjoy it. She turned back to Mr. Sykeston. Her voice got nicer. "Lewis N. Clark wants to do a lot for this town and area. Can we collaborate? If you can secure a temporary medical release that I speak for my husband, I will proceed with the estate settlement to entail. The court could then clear the record and allow the property sale."

"You can't act for the judge, Birdie," said Neal's mother, "what a bizarre idea!"

"Your uninformed criticism and interference are unwelcome, Juanita. To continue, Mr. Sykeston, my petition for guardianship or conservatorship, whichever is determined best, has not yet been initiated. However, property disposition doesn't cease because a lawyer becomes infirm. I can take the matter to court at once and get it expeditiously heard. Just say the word."

"Now, mayor, Tom Jasper's probate papers are public record. Seems to me that's all there is to that." Look out! Mr. Watch was huffy and puffy. "Am I right?" he asked a letter or maybe it was one of the blank tiles you use for any letter. When Mr. Watch takes on the mayor, nobody wins but that doesn't mean they don't have a bang-up fight. You can't help but enjoy watching even if you are being squeezed to death in a place where you can't breathe right.

"Let me phrase this carefully," said Mr. Sykeston; "I will not interfere in the administration of Tom's estate or serve as an interested party to the estate settlement." Mr. Watch looked like he had trouble hearing Mr. Sykeston or maybe he heard him fine and didn't understand what Mr. Sykeston meant.

The mayor heard and understood. "Fine!" she snapped, "then you and I, sir, are done! There are other fish in other ponds. Lewis N. Clark isn't limited to this backward hamlet." Neal could see her laptop screen with the grid of tiny glowing boxes and graphed lines making up words and sentences. His mother sat down. Great! Now if he could just figure how to escape from his condition of entrapment without her noticing since it had to be way past his bedtime. Oh, well. You can get used to anything; he even might get used to the smell.

"You all know, don't you all, that Mr. Lewis N. Clark will pay big to find his daughter? Right, mayor?" Clete Dobbs was trying for the mayor's good side while talking to Mr. Sykeston. "All worried papa wants is information. You don't have to catch the gal and bring her in. Just tell the mayor where she is."

"All common knowledge," snorted the mayor, "early on we publicized this."

Dwayne Emmett banged through the door and banged over to his boss. Diesel fuel, nice alone, is totally sick making when mixed with boiled Tabu and Old Spice. Neal considered slipping under the table and causing himself serious pain. He tested out too big for that route and began to hold his breath again.

"Listen and listen good, everyone," said the marshal. "Sheriff Jackson is your man. Know anything about Trinity Clark, you can go straight to him. Want to learn anything about her, you can go straight to him, too. Now, Clete, you and Dwayne finish your brews and pack yourselves on out of here. If you don't, I am going straight to Sheriff Jackson about you. Got no problem at all leaving it up to him whether to put the two of you away for a time in Salt Lick or have the sheriff across the River come get your sorry selves and throw you in the Noonday County clink. I mean business, boys." When the marshal finished and stood, Neal's stomach jerked. But Clete Dobbs and Dwayne Emmett left right away so you don't have to be tallest -- what the marshal said worked.

When certain people leave the scene, things are better. They just are. You can count on it over and over. Mr. Watch started to sing Show Me the Way to Go Home and stopped. "When you got time, give me five quick pick tickets for tomorrow's Show Me Cash draw," he told Mariah. She yawned and handed her book to Mr. Sykeston. "Have you heard the cicadas?"she asked. "They're early this year." "Mrs. Bridge calls them locusts," said Mr. Sykeston. "Yes," said Mariah, "and wonders where they go. Don't tell me what Mrs. Bridge says; I know more about movies than you and more than you want to know."

"Had a hunch, bet a bunch," Mr. Watch told the mayor. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained," he told the five dollar bill he handed to Mariah. He was in a gambling mood. Gambling is why his other son and daughter-in-law won't let him see his grandchildren or them see their grandfather. He plays the lottery and the quarter slots on the boat. Mariah says he doesn't lose that much; Neal's mother says nobody's perfect; the marshal says it's his money and he has a perfect right! Mr. Watch says gambling often helps him pass the night.

Neal's mother remembered he was alive and the time and walked him to the house. Fireflies flickered. In the garden a fox jumped to munch and crunch. Foxes crave phosphorous, Mariah read in The Wild Mammals of Missouri, a good book on nature for sure. Not even Pete can do a better gray fox picture.

Aunt Ida called out to them from her front porch. "You all come join me," she said in a furry, slurry voice. "Come make this poor old sinner feel better. I never should have said that about young Neal being tone deaf. I have talked to the Lord and that was an evil, evil thing for me to say. I have prayed hard for His forgiveness and I surely do pray for yours." She opened her arms so Neal got ready for blackberries and Evening in Paris. Usually you don't feel you have a choice if relatives want hugs. This is a fact. Sure, you can stand there like a rock with your arms stiff at your sides but usually you hug back.

"Talked to the Lord, Aunt Ida? More like talked to the cordial. Still, looks like you're forgiven. I'll be back in a sec." Neal's mother followed him upstairs to tuck him in. He's too old but there are times when you need to let mothers do stuff or they get very unhappy. His mother had enough on her mind to make her sad and gloomy. Neal wanted her to be smiling when she left his room.

He dreamed nothing and it was Sunday morning. Aunt Ida says two people in Milo do not worship and Mr. Noland might have cause but Mariah has none. Aunt Ida and Neal's mother go to church and the marshal and Neal tag along willingly. On Sunday mornings in Milo church seems the smart place to be.

"Agent, want to talk to your sister, a private chat. Can you handle that?"

"Sure." Sometimes you say yes and behave naturally when your stomach is full of slimy slugs. Neal was positive any private chat would be about drugs.

"Catching her after church; your mother understands the need. Agreed?"

"Okay." Hey, what besides sure and okay was an agent supposed to say?

Neal had an hour to decide which was more important: not listening to the marshal talk to his sister or listening so he could help save his sister from drugs. Look out! Did Preacher Jones have second sight? It was plain scary when she delivered her sermon on dope and talked about the people going deaf and blind. You would have thought that she was reading Neal's mind.

The preacher had more time to fill now without Nurse Comfort at the organ. Both Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Culpepper had gotten tired of playing poorly so the box sat silent while the preacher lit into dopedealers and dopedoers good and hard. Methamphetamine busts had been happening more often, she preached with her gray eyes blazing. In fact, Salt Lick County busts were at a record high. Neal knew this. Last week's Reader had carried an article on the latest arrests. That family was Baptist but the preacher didn't care. She didn't care if they were First Free Churchers in her own congregation. She went to work on all the dealers and doers and Neal was glad he wasn't one. "County reflects state," the marshal told Neal's mother in a low voice. "Fire and brimstone," Aunt Ida said in her regular voice, "praise the Lord and good riddance." Neal figured the preacher's message might be meant for him so he listened very carefully. He already knew what to watch for on his daily route: needles, powders, smells, canisters. He did not know what to watch for in his sister.

Speeding home, he raced upstairs and rummaged deep in his toybox under the dinosaurs. He was taking time-off from Bugle Ann but books make good cover if you're observed and questioned. He stationed himself in his favorite spot behind the bar. One great thing about a room with lots of furniture and shelves and counters is most of the time you can listen and not be seen. If Mariah and the marshal went to the movie side, Neal would have to change positioning. But he got lucky; they stayed here and he could hear everything.

"Got two things on my mind, Mariah. First one is you should stop smoking marijuana." Okay, Neal couldn't bear it and peeked through the rails. The marshal hadn't even changed his Sunday suit. Why was he in such a hurry to talk to Mariah about drugs? Was he crazy? Did he think the talk was going to be fun city? After draping his Hong Kong jacket across a barstool the marshal waited in his white shirt and pressed trousers with his hands behind his back. His legs can't jounce as much when he stands so this was a good move on his part. He looked more like someone you wouldn't mess with if you were smart.

"And just how do you know I'm smoking marijuana?" See. Neal's sister never makes it easy. She doesn't like to be told what to do or even to be told what you think she's doing. Today was not a "bling-bling" day for her. Would that have helped the marshal? He looked like he could handle the interrogation although Mariah did, too. She wore a towel over her hair and saggy, soggy sweats. Her hands and arms were wet to the elbows with soapy water. She was cleaning the taps. Their mother says she does this too often. Mariah says she poured beer in a Columbia tavern and found a dead rat wrapped around a happy hour cart's rubber wheel. She says if she's willing to scrub out the taps weekly their mother should be grateful and complain about something real.

"You only come so far from where you've been and where you are. Haven't forgotten the times when public TV aired no commercials, before Nam era vets turned into codgers and duffers. I can smell it, girl; that's how I know."

"Whoa! Now, listen to me, law and order man. Don't let your marshalship go to your head. So I blow a little weed! You are attacking my one and only vice. If you want to throw me in jail, go for it. But outside of this herbal medicine for emotional assistance, I put only healthy things in my system. No pills and no alcohol! And no cigarettes which are far more damaging than doobage!"

Like his way bossy sister, Neal waited to hear what the marshal would say.

"Jeopardizing your mother's business isn't damaging? Okay, your turn to listen to me. I ought to run you in and next time I will. What you're doing is against the law. Change the law if you can but until you do, obey it. Use your head. Think about the effects on your little brother if you should be arrested."

Neal wasn't little; like the marshal, he waited to hear what Mariah would say.

Just in time, his sister said, "okay." Neal had been about to explode. Hiding can be a bummer when you need to speak. "You score," said Mariah, "but I resent your nervy interference in my life. You are neither friend nor relation."

"Glad that's over and done. Second piece of business is I need your help."

"Swell. Pinch me. Do we dance? First, you threaten; next, you ask assistance."

"Want your frank and honest opinion. What's the story on Horace Sykeston?"

Mariah laughed hard. "Why do you persecute that poor little guy? He might mess with exotic plants and send anonymous gifts but he's no druggie and he's certainly no dealer. You suspect him because he's a jumpy little man. You of all people should understand that means nothing." Neal could barely hear her now. She must have moved from the bar. Her voice grew softer or farther.

"It's the youngest kids I worry about," she continued after returning, "kids Neal's age. Something nasty was going on with bath salts last summer. It stopped but we'd all like to hope it won't happen again. I'm not talking about Missourijuana buzzes here, marshal. And on meth -- what I can't fathom is why no one is caught cooking. I mean read the Reader. In Salt Lick County alone they bust a lab every month. The State of Missouri has a record high of busts. When will Milo merit more attention? Speed is an ugly killer. I am asking you to get tough! Raise a ruckus, if you need to, and do your stuff."

"Wish it were that easy, Mariah," said the marshal, "but I follow directions. True about the bath salts and speed dealing around town. But the sheriff has the one problem at least temporarily solved and speed dealing is way down."

Later that afternoon Neal asked his sister if she wanted to walk down to Mr. Noland's place. She squinted at him but she said she couldn't think of any reason why she shouldn't enjoy such a nice day. They collected Molly and left Rufus in the pen. It was tick season and he gets tons. They start out tiny and black and line up behind his ears, then grow fat with blood and turn gray. Mr. Watch makes them let loose by lighting their rear ends on fire. Neal watched. Once was enough. It really was a nice day. He had his Jonagold. Mariah had her Ozarkia. In the park she stretched. He tossed the Frisbee. He is no way as good as Jaime but Molly put up with him. Also, he and his sister talked about a whole bunch of junk, something they never do as a rule. It was very cool.

The museum clock and Mariah sang eight notes she called "mi, do, re, fa, fa, re, mi, do". Neal believed her. Why not? Next the clock sang five notes by itself. When the Noonday County courthouse was demolished, Mr. Watch salvaged and repaired the clock and gave it to Miss Valjean for the museum. "Adds pizzazz to the town, doesn't it?" asked his sister. Mariah likes pizzazz. She likes to sing with clocks too so why not let her? You might as well let people do what makes them happy if it doesn't hurt you. It's a snap to do.

They started home. Mariah halted on the rim around the fish farm. "Now I wonder what you know who is up to?" she asked and raised her eyebrows. Funny what you forget. Mariah's curious about Mr. Noland. Maybe she's a little afraid of him. He doesn't have much to do with women. He won't rent movies or buy lottery tickets from Mariah. He won't sell the mayor his caves or his land or Miss Valjean his headdress. Well, that's Mr. Noland's business.

Noland's rim is the place to take a break if you like birds. Rim birds eat fruit, seeds and bugs. This might sound gross if you like bugs, not to eat but just as bugs. Pete likes to draw bugs. Of course, he likes to draw birds, too. Anyhow, rim birds are excellent to watch especially thrashers that forage in the grass and swing their heads side to side. Bud's mowing partners or swallows hunt Noland's rim with creepers, flickers, mockers, thrashers, woodpeckers. "The mayor would curl up and die for his Downey," said Mariah after they left and were nearing Aunt Ida's sweet corn but Neal had quit listening to his sister.

The dog fox didn't notice their approach because he was entirely too busy.

"Be quiet!" said Mariah unnecessarily since Neal already was quiet, totally.

They stood without moving and stared. The fox lay on his belly in his fancy black stockings. Hind legs stretched out, he held an uncovered treat in place between his front feet. He faced south but looked east to west and north back behind him without seeing them before he resumed his licking and gnawing.

"So what kind of a bone would he have?" Mariah whispered. "I don't know and I don't want to know," Neal yelled. Did he mean to freak his sister and scare the fox? No, but that night the marshal said it was okay to lose it on occasion and he was doing a great job and no one could ask for a better agent and Neal slept until morning with no dreams of remains or shadows to box.

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