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Authors: C. L. Bevill
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plum.”
Brownie got his notepad out and found the pencil and wrote it down. “We’ll get back to that later.”
“Do you know where the Boomer farm is?” Janie asked.
“Shore. Take a left. Then a right. Then another left. That’s the corner where Old Man Turner’s Model-T used to sit rusting until Pappy Garvin came by one day and burned it up. I think Pappy Garvin used to drink from the Durley’s stills, and you ain’t never sure ifin you’re goin’ to get alcohol or alcohol with lead poisoning from them stills. Anyhow, ifin you pass that spot then you’ll have to go around the corner and cross the river and come back on the other side. Then you’ll have to turn down the place where Newt’s pigpen used to be. Biggest dang porkers I ever did see. One of them done gored Newt, and the next week everyone was eting bacon.” Miz Holmgreen paused to chuckle. After she finished chuckling, her eyes turned predatory. “And how’s Bubba?” she added with a simper.
Brownie felt mildly icky. The elderly woman had just said Bubba’s name with a definite leer. It was a similar expression that his father made when he chased Brownie out into the yard and said not to come in for a half-hour or an hour if his father was feeling perky. Then his mother would giggle and prance down the hallway. Typically Brownie would have spied on them to see what the big deal was, but he had a feeling that he didn’t really want to know that specific secret.
Finally, Brownie said, “Bubba seemed right busy today.”
“Busy,” Janie agreed.
“I got to go,” Miz Holmgreen said as she withdrew her head into the sedan. “I got to go to the store. I’m right low on Cheetos…and some other stuff.”
Brownie and Janie tried to follow the directions, but they ended up agreeing that the elderly woman probably didn’t rightly remember where the rusting Model-T had been, much less Newt’s pigpen.
They next ran into Lloyd Goshorn, who was walking down a country road on his way to something or other. Brownie remembered the man from Bubba talking about him. He was a handyman who worked for locals for trade and some cash as the case warranted. They asked him for directions.
“Shore. Shore,” Lloyd agreed. “Bubba ain’t around, is he?”
“No, Bubba ain’t around,” Brownie said.
“Boy tried to run me down,” Lloyd complained.
“He was in a hurry,” Brownie said. “I recollect it were something about saving Sheriff John’s life.”
Lloyd rolled his eyes. He was a tall, gangly man in his fifties who smoked perpetually. He paused to extract a cigarette from a pack in his shirt pocket and lit the new one from the mostly smoked old one. Both children watched as he smoked two at once, clearly not wanting to waste the last dregs of the old one. He talked around the cigarettes in his mouth, moving them expertly as he spoke. “You two doodads motor down the way,” he said, pointing with a yellow-stained finger. “Then you go off shillyshally on that first lane. Say hey to Miz Basil. She’s a right purty lady, and she makes a mean set of barbequed ribs. Sometimes I get to et indoors with her, but that’s beside the point. Then you dillydally down some road that starts with a D. Darwin. Dooley. Dumbhead. Something like that. Ifin you run into Mr. Yutu, then you done gone too far. He’s the fella who comes from Cal-eee-forn-ya or such. Odd man. Likes to grow acorns. But the Boomer’s farm is about a hundred yards down that road that starts with a D.”
Brownie sighed. “Thanks?”
Lloyd set off and waved as he went. He flicked the old butt into the road, and Brownie paused to extinguish the butt and put it into a pocket. Janie stared at him oddly and he said, “Give a hoot. Don’t pollute.”
They found the farm by accident an hour later. Janie stopped to look at a mailbox that was leaning into the tall grass on the side of the road and tripped over another mailbox. She pulled it out, wiped off some mud, and said,
Brownie got his notepad out and found the pencil and wrote it down. “We’ll get back to that later.”
“Do you know where the Boomer farm is?” Janie asked.
“Shore. Take a left. Then a right. Then another left. That’s the corner where Old Man Turner’s Model-T used to sit rusting until Pappy Garvin came by one day and burned it up. I think Pappy Garvin used to drink from the Durley’s stills, and you ain’t never sure ifin you’re goin’ to get alcohol or alcohol with lead poisoning from them stills. Anyhow, ifin you pass that spot then you’ll have to go around the corner and cross the river and come back on the other side. Then you’ll have to turn down the place where Newt’s pigpen used to be. Biggest dang porkers I ever did see. One of them done gored Newt, and the next week everyone was eting bacon.” Miz Holmgreen paused to chuckle. After she finished chuckling, her eyes turned predatory. “And how’s Bubba?” she added with a simper.
Brownie felt mildly icky. The elderly woman had just said Bubba’s name with a definite leer. It was a similar expression that his father made when he chased Brownie out into the yard and said not to come in for a half-hour or an hour if his father was feeling perky. Then his mother would giggle and prance down the hallway. Typically Brownie would have spied on them to see what the big deal was, but he had a feeling that he didn’t really want to know that specific secret.
Finally, Brownie said, “Bubba seemed right busy today.”
“Busy,” Janie agreed.
“I got to go,” Miz Holmgreen said as she withdrew her head into the sedan. “I got to go to the store. I’m right low on Cheetos…and some other stuff.”
Brownie and Janie tried to follow the directions, but they ended up agreeing that the elderly woman probably didn’t rightly remember where the rusting Model-T had been, much less Newt’s pigpen.
They next ran into Lloyd Goshorn, who was walking down a country road on his way to something or other. Brownie remembered the man from Bubba talking about him. He was a handyman who worked for locals for trade and some cash as the case warranted. They asked him for directions.
“Shore. Shore,” Lloyd agreed. “Bubba ain’t around, is he?”
“No, Bubba ain’t around,” Brownie said.
“Boy tried to run me down,” Lloyd complained.
“He was in a hurry,” Brownie said. “I recollect it were something about saving Sheriff John’s life.”
Lloyd rolled his eyes. He was a tall, gangly man in his fifties who smoked perpetually. He paused to extract a cigarette from a pack in his shirt pocket and lit the new one from the mostly smoked old one. Both children watched as he smoked two at once, clearly not wanting to waste the last dregs of the old one. He talked around the cigarettes in his mouth, moving them expertly as he spoke. “You two doodads motor down the way,” he said, pointing with a yellow-stained finger. “Then you go off shillyshally on that first lane. Say hey to Miz Basil. She’s a right purty lady, and she makes a mean set of barbequed ribs. Sometimes I get to et indoors with her, but that’s beside the point. Then you dillydally down some road that starts with a D. Darwin. Dooley. Dumbhead. Something like that. Ifin you run into Mr. Yutu, then you done gone too far. He’s the fella who comes from Cal-eee-forn-ya or such. Odd man. Likes to grow acorns. But the Boomer’s farm is about a hundred yards down that road that starts with a D.”
Brownie sighed. “Thanks?”
Lloyd set off and waved as he went. He flicked the old butt into the road, and Brownie paused to extinguish the butt and put it into a pocket. Janie stared at him oddly and he said, “Give a hoot. Don’t pollute.”
They found the farm by accident an hour later. Janie stopped to look at a mailbox that was leaning into the tall grass on the side of the road and tripped over another mailbox. She pulled it out, wiped off some mud, and said,
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