Deep Down Popular Page 5

  We stop in the yard to rest under a big maple tree with its skirt of shade draped around it on the ground. Conrad sits down on the grass with his leg and brace kind of flung out in front of him.

  After doing nothing at all in my opinion, Quentin Duster throws himself down on his back and takes a deep breath. “Ah, sure feels good to relax,” he says. “Wish we were at the festival already and somebody was bringing me five sausage sandwiches laid out on a tray. We should have got a ride. Could somebody tell me what we went this way for anyway?”

  “I could sure use a Vicious Viper Virginia Sausage right now,” says Conrad. He puts his hand under his chin and props up his nice round face.

  “Conrad,” says Quentin Duster, “I don’t think you could handle the Vicious Viper. For that matter, the Saucy Sally Sandwich would probably put you out of business too.”

  “I wouldn’t know about the Saucy Sally Sandwich,” says Conrad, looking sweet and sleepy, partly closing his eyes, “’cause they only sell those to third graders.”

  “Well, Conrad,” says Quentin, “as far as grades go, I’d say you drove your bicycle like a first grader right into the river. That’s what I’d say.”

  “Quentin, about the bicycle, let sleeping dogs lie. And if we really are going up there, we better go ’cause it closes at five,” I say, and then I clear my throat because I can’t believe the words came out on their own, kind of normal sounding. I clear my throat again.

  “You know what I want?” says Conrad, stretching his arms up toward the sky. “I want one of those green German hats that the people that work up at the festival wear.”

  “Well now, you’re out of luck, Conrad. That’s just your tough turkey ’cause nobody gets those hats unless you work up there. People hand them down in families,” says Quentin, standing up and putting his hands in his pockets. “Sorry, but that’s just the way it is.”

  “Let’s get going. We can head down through the logging trail across the field by way of a cutoff,” says Conrad. “That’ll take off fifteen minutes right there.”

  Quentin follows Conrad onto the road and I go up to the house and hop up on the porch. I pass quickly along the windows in front. I have to know if those playing cards are still in there. I kind of peer through the window into the dark front room and I see right away those cards are gone. But now there are four empty cans of soda tossed around on the old table.

  We’re just getting to the top of the hill. The sky is a freshly washed blue, cleared out by all the rains and snows and winds of winter. The redbuds are in bloom along the edge of the field, and when I look back I can still see that old house with the warm wind blowing around it.

  Conrad’s in the lead now, setting a slow pace because of his leg brace, and I don’t mind walking even though I’m a running kind of girl. Conrad’s in the lead, then me, and then hippity-hoppity four-feet-tall Quentin Duster keeping up, keeping up.

  “By the way, Conrad, when you gonna get that old ugly thing taken off your leg?” says Quentin, handing us both part of a beat-up Charleston Chew candy bar.

  “Can’t say for sure,” says Conrad. “Doctor doesn’t really know. Might be going up to Charlottesville next week to see a new doctor.”

  “If it were me,” says Quentin, “I’d just take my daddy’s saw and I’d cut that old thing right off my leg and I wouldn’t go to any stupid doctor.”

  “Not sure yet which doctor we’re gonna use. Might have to have an operation. Might even go with somebody experimental,” says Conrad.

  “Making you part guinea pig, Conrad,” says Quentin.

  “Maybe,” says Conrad.

  As soon as I hear the word doctor, my heart starts going like a four-wheeler, one of those fast little allterrain machines Granddaddy wants to buy but Mama won’t let him. Bringing a doctor into the picture is something I didn’t consider. After all, here I am getting a chance to breathe the same old air as Conrad Parker Smith’s breathing all because of that leg brace. And I know it’s sounds awful, but I’d sort of just as soon the leg brace stays right where it is. I pick up a rock and I send it halfway to heaven.

  Conrad pushes farther ahead of us into the brush. He’s easy to spot through the leaves ’cause he’s wearing a tie-dyed pink-and-yellow T-shirt with a sunburst pattern that says on the back SUPPORT OUR TROOPS. His mama tie-dyes so many T-shirts that I’ve never seen him wearing the same message twice. Some say GET OUT OF IRAQ and others say just the opposite. His mama wants to sell T-shirts, so she’s got a selection for everybody. Conrad ends up wearing the ones that don’t sell, so I don’t even know which side of the war he stands on and I don’t care either.

  Suddenly I get all serious as we’re walking along and out of nowhere I say, “My sister, Melinda, wants to read one of my poems at the state fair in the Miss Junior Teen contest and she’s going to be saying it’s her poem.” And I fairly beam with pride, like I’m puffed up, like they say in church, “Thou shalt not be all puffed up.”

  Conrad says, “You want your older sister to read your poem and say it’s her poem? You want people to think she wrote your poem?”

  “Well, yeah,” I say. “Why not? I can’t be in that contest.”

  Quentin starts to make one of his wise-off comments about my appearance when Conrad claps his hand over Quentin’s mouth. Then Quentin bites Conrad’s hand and they start laughing and tumbling and rolling in the dirt, acting all stupid. I don’t pay it any mind. I just stand there leaning against a tree with my arms crossed waiting for them to stop. Now they’re lying on their backs laughing like a couple of hyenas.

  Conrad’s pink-and-yellow shirt is all covered with dirt. Conrad is the only boy on the face of the earth who can wear a pink T-shirt and carry it off. Doesn’t bother him in the least. Doesn’t even faze him. You know what that is? That’s deep down popular.

  “Are we getting closer or farther away from those sausages?” says Quentin. “I mean, Conrad, are you one of those people who can’t find their way out of a paper bag or what?”

  “This trail goes down through the woods and comes out right by the festival,” says Conrad. “Before you know it you’re gonna be up to your ears in onions and fried peppers.”

  Now the logging road is taking a turn over a small hill and then dips down into the lazy spring woods. Just as we’re coming around a bend on the shady path, a great long-legged heron lifts up over the trees and flies toward the river. Quentin is singing off-key, “Zippity doo dah, zippity ay. My, oh my, what a wonderful day. Plenty of sunshine heading my way …”

  Conrad says, “And first place choral award goes to …”

  Suddenly Quentin stops. “Hold up a second,” he says. “Did you hear something or is it just me?” We quiet down for a minute and stand there. Yes, we do hear something, something coming from the middle of the enclosed, tucked-away field. There are woods on all sides of that field — maples, oak, a few birches in among the redbuds.

  We definitely hear something. It’s a knocking sound. Yes, something is in the field. I look at Conrad and Quentin and they both look back at me.

  “Now, what do you suppose that noise is?” says Conrad, laying his head back easy and slow.

  “Fifty-four woodpeckers working on the same tree,” says Quentin, throwing one of his hare-brained rocks up and away into nowhere.

  “Hush, now,” says Conrad, looking back at us. “You know what we’re doing? We’re making a discovery. Teacher’s gonna be real pleased. We’re just doing our homework.”

  Leg brace or not, Conrad’s a natural-born leader. He pushes a few branches back that have grown across the logging trail just like Lewis himself would have done.

  I can’t say Quentin looks much like Clark now, huffing and puffing and throwing himself around. As we get nearer, the knickety-knocking noise gets louder.

  Now from the darkness of the woods we can see the sunlight in the field, and fifty yards from us in the center of the field we see something. It’s big, kind of long and tall, and half wrapped up in a pl
astic tarp that’s blowing around. It’s high up on wheels, and somebody’s standing there wearing a pair of greasy coveralls.

  “Dibs on this for my discovery report,” whispers Quentin. “I could pull an A with this one.”

  “Is that Tiny Bailey?” I say.

  “Yes, ma’am,” says Quentin. “Wears size eighteen shoes and he’s a fifth-year senior up at the Vocational Center. They call him ‘The Engine’ up there ’cause he likes to work on stuff. My cousin knows him.”

  “Well, Quentin, with friends in high places like that, next thing we know you’ll be hosting your own miniseries,” says Conrad, putting his arm over Quentin’s bony little shoulder.

  “Yeah, and I’m gonna get me an A on my report. Maybe I’ll even get on the honor roll and get to go up to Roanoke and eat ice cream with the smart kids,” says Quentin.

  “Could be,” says Conrad, “miracles do happen.”

  “My report is going to be so great, I might be asked to give a speech for the sixth-grade graduation this year,” says Quentin.

  “Well, Quentin, if you’re gonna talk the talk, you better walk the walk,” says Conrad. “I heard you never do your homework at all.”

  “What do you think Tiny’s doing?” I say.

  Around here, not much goes on of any interest. Once in a while we see a deer. Quentin’s daddy saw a bobcat in broad daylight a while back. You hear coyotes at night but you never see them. The biggest thrill we had this winter was when Granddaddy won double bingo twice in one night at the Russell Lee Senior Center and came home with a new Weber grill and five fancy picnic place mats cut in the shape of a burger on a bun.

  “Maybe he’s repairing an alien spacecraft that landed here by mistake,” says Quentin. “It’s long and skinny and it’s on wheels. Could be alien.”

  “What’s a big old guy like that got a name like Tiny for anyway?” says Conrad.

  “He’s the great-nephew of the Bailey brothers,” says Quentin.

  “’Cause he’s big. That’s why they call him Tiny,” I say.

  “How do you know?” says Conrad.

  “’Cause I write poems and things come to me. My granddaddy says I’ve got three eyes,” I say.

  “Yeah, and they’re all crossed every which way,” says Quentin, smiling at me and crossing his eyes.

  “Hush now,” says Conrad, “we’re making a discovery. This more or less fell in our lap. Let’s move up a little closer to see better.”

  When Conrad makes a suggestion, it always holds water. We move forward. We sit down in the ferns and bushes and we watch Tiny working. The noisy blue tarp makes it harder to see anything, and we keep fighting over what he might be doing. We also try to take notes for our discovery report without any paper. Finally we write a few things down on the back side of the Charleston Chew candy wrapper. Quentin continues to stand firm on his stupid space-alien theory. I don’t say anything about the cards and cans of soda I saw up at the old house.

  “We need to come back tomorrow with my granddaddy’s digital camera,” I say.

  “No, seriously, Conrad,” says Quentin, “what do you really think Tiny’s doing? I mean, why would a teenager like that be working down here in this out-of-the-way field, if he wasn’t hiding something?”

  By the time we get back on the path, it’s getting late. We don’t say anything more about Tiny Bailey. We just kind of let that simmer in a covered pot. Like Mama says when Granddaddy starts talking off-the-wall politics, “Put a lid on it, Granddaddy.”

  “Let’s keep moving,” says Conrad, rubbing his tummy and looking up at the sky. “Sausages are calling my name.”

  “Yeah, come to think about it,” says Quentin, smiling up at Conrad, “I did hear some voices calling out Big Idiot, Big Idiot, Big Idiot.”

  The trail turns out to be longer than Conrad remembered. We get caught in a bunch of bushes full of burs that are blocking the way and we end up yipping and yapping down in the woods like a bunch of junkyard dogs. I just skinned my knee and I know my mama will have a fit. She’ll say stuff like “Jessie Lou, if you skin your knees one more time, you’re always gonna have to wear dark panty hose and full-length skirts when you grow up.”

  Finally the trail breaks through the woods. We’re right at the highway, and we can see the big green flag pumping back and forth in the wind, displaying the words CABANASH COUNTY KNOCKWURST SAUSAGE FESTIVAL.

  There’s an evening mist starting to form over the field, and there are strings of plastic lanterns glowing in the almost dark. Because we’re so late some of the booths are closing up shop, but we get in line and we secure a sandwich each, hot and bubbly and juicy. Quentin can’t wait and tears into his right away.

  We sit on the side of a hill to eat our sandwiches. Accordion music is playing nearby. It’s a sweet but sad sound all at the same time, and I smell the delicious smell of smoke off the sausage grills and I remember the time Mama took us camping along the Cabanash River and Granddaddy caught a big trout and we had a campfire. The smell of smoke makes me feel like this day with Conrad is already kind of a hazy memory, tangy and spicy like the sausage sandwiches, mild and sweet like the smell of smoke.

  I turn around and see that old leg brace snug tight around Conrad’s leg and I whisper to myself, Thank you thank you thank you. I try not to think about that old stupid experimental doctor up in Charlottesville. For all I know he could be a quack. He sounds like one, ready to operate on anything that comes his way.

  Some of the popular kids are crossing a little fake bridge that’s painted green and yellow with pictures of sausage sandwiches all along it. Those five kids seem to be bored and cool and excited all at the same time. They don’t even look this way. Like maybe we’re in a time warp and we’re truly invisible to them. Suddenly thinking of me as “we” feels scrumptious and warm and soothing and I don’t want it to go away.

  The festival is shutting down. Two people walk by us carrying a big piece of plywood with a painting of a little old German cottage on the front. The whole German village is being dismantled and carried off before our eyes.

  Quentin looks sick as a dog, kind of yellowish gray, and he’s sitting there frowning and eyeing Conrad. I turn my head to see what he’s looking at and right away I see that Conrad’s wearing one of those green felt hats with the feather on the side. “Where did you get that hat, Conrad? Thought you had to be German to get your hands on one of those.”

  “Some guy gave it to me as he was packing up his booth,” says Conrad, looking cheerful.

  And I think to myself, Isn’t that the way it is. Things just kind of come to Conrad naturally. Adults see him and they want to give him everything they’ve got. Like I said before, there’s just something I-don’t-know-what about Conrad Parker Smith.

  Next day, what do you know? Granddaddy wins thirty-five dollars on one of the horses he bet on over the telephone. “Big deal,” I can hear Mama saying as soon as I get on the porch, “that doesn’t make me like gambling any more than I did before.”

  Granddaddy is all bright and perky, tilting his head, looking like he’s ready to break into a Virginia reel or a do-si-do when I walk in the back door. “We’re going to be eating dinner tonight at the Tex-Mex Restaurant on Milton Avenue courtesy of your granddaddy,” says Granddaddy. “Tell your sister to get on down here and get her shoes on.”

  But it’s Saturday and Mama and Melinda are supposed to be going to a Martha Nottingham Cake Mix party tonight, hosted by Quentin Duster’s mother. It’s the only way you can purchase all the Martha Nottingham products. Granddaddy thinks the Martha Nottingham instant mashed potatoes blow all other instant mashed potatoes out of the water. We use a lot of those mixes and they’re better than what you get in the store. Melinda helps take the orders and she told me some people spend as much as two hundred dollars a night. Plus it’s more or less a social event.

  I am hoping Conrad’s mother will be there and that she might finally tell my mother a little about Conrad’s situation, when and if he i
s going to have the operation on his leg and all that. It is gnawing at me just as if it was a little mouse eating a kernel of corn inside me. I can just feel the gnawing worry. I am worried ’cause I don’t want anything to go wrong, and at the same time I don’t want anything to go exactly right either. Meaning that I don’t want him to get all fixed up before I even have a chance to get to know him. The way I see it, Conrad could either die in some crackpot operation or he could get repaired. In either case I figure I’m holding a losing card. In terrible penance for my ugly mean thoughts, I went and cut off my bangs even shorter this morning. I hacked them crooked and then I looked in the mirror and I hated it. I just hated it.

  “Fred Bailey called a little while ago,” says Granddaddy, leaning on the kitchen counter. “Guess all that figuring finally paid off. My horse came in third, Jessie Lou. So I hope everybody’s starving to death right now and ready to take it to the top Texas style.”

  “I’m so hungry, Granddaddy,” I say, “my stomach feels like an empty parking lot, like you could drive a big old tractor trailer truck through it right now and I wouldn’t take notice. That’s how starved I am.”

  “Granddaddy, Melinda and I have our Martha Nottingham Cake Mix party tonight,” says Mama. “We’ll eat over there. You and Jessie Lou go on alone. That way you can critique the food the way you like to and I won’t have to listen to all that gourmet nonsense.”

  Outside it is beginning to rain. I can hear it on the roof and I can see it falling in sheets of green past the window. Good thing for the rain because the daffodils in our yard are looking twisted, bending over in rows like they’re praying for water.

  Mama puts on her rain jacket and Granddaddy helps Melinda put on her pink vinyl raincoat with little red hearts printed on it and the repeated words stamped all over it as a design: Love ya, Love ya, Love ya, Love ya. Melinda puts on her little matching hat and she looks about like Barbie’s little sister going out for a Sunday stroll. She has her little bookkeeping satchel with her and she completely forgets to say good-bye to me.