Giggling, Sneaky Tim Ray bows his head to commence his repentin’. “Dear Heavenly Father, please forgive me. I know I ain’t been the best of your flock and I promise ya that-”
“Amen,” I say, shoving my new locket deep into my pocket. “Well, best be on my way.”
“Hol’ up there a minute,” he says, getting ahold of my shoulder and spinning me rough. “As ya jus’ lay witness to, I’ve… wha’s that, Lord?” He cups his ear heavenward. “Uh-huh… uh-huh… sure enuf.” He takes my hands into his, real gently, like we’re about to do the box step. “Ya know what He jus’ tol’ me, darlin’?”
I’m simply awful at guessing games so I can’t come up with one thing the Almighty would have to say to this black sheep on the loveliest of days. The air’s hanging heavy with the smell of cut hay and the aspen leaves are spinning. It’s a cicada year. “I give up. What’d the Lord tell ya?”
“He told me to remind ya that it’s your Christian duty to share these real nice titties with your brothers.”
“The Lord knows damn well I’m an orphan and don’t have any brothers,” I say, batting off his fingers that’ve begun tiptoeing over the swell of my double D ninnies. “You’re lyin’ again.”
“Why ya always got to be like this?” Sneaky Tim Ray whines. “A retard like you… who else is gonna wantcha? Ya should feel flattered I hanker for ya like I do.”
The treetops are trembling.
“Let go of me. I ain’t got time for this now,” I yell, pretzling in his grip. “I gotta get those eggs for Grampa and ride and…”
“Maybe you’s not the only one wantin’ to go for a ride,” he says, thick in the throat. And then real fast, for he is quick as only a small man can be, Sneaky Tim Ray shoves me to the ground and paws at my white blouse.
Don’t worry. I’m not afraid. I know exactly what’s about to happen.
A Friend Indeed
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.