J.Pea took candy corn from a shelf, for big sisters Valjean and Gig to gamble with--parched peanuts from the water pan on the stove, for himself. Then the slender boy strode over to lean on the counter. He drew on the dark tobacco and sorghum warmth of the store. It was nice. You could feel the belly of the stove from here. Willy stepped on a stool and finished hanging some hametugs and tack above the canned goods. A grand thunderclap brought him back down. J.Pea sank onto the flour barrel, cracking goobers in his mouth. "Yeah, Pap says if Sumner was a-hunert percent Lych he wouldn't need no money at all. Wouldn't bother to read nor write his own name an you'd nary see him fer more'n the time it takes fer him to disappear. Mr. Lych would jist live off that air up on ole Riddle Top. That's what Jake says." "Sounds about right to me." Willy had wedged a yoke betwixt the hard candy canisters and the register; his rag was busy working in saddle soap. "What brings ye down this mornin?" "Aw, Mama's outa chaw." He sat blankly, mincing nuts, staring out at the rain slashing the pump and a road-river of mud. It was too bad; he'd sincerely wanted to coo with Lizzie. There'd been another caintrip in his sleep. "Go fishin with yer sis last night?" Willy asked. "Nope." These spells, caintrips Granmammer called them, these departures took J.Pea more and more often, swept him farther afield with the seasons, the riper he grew. He was a three year old nip in burlap britches when he touched Lizzie's halter and she first whispered to him. It was an icy Thanksgiving dawn. Mama tapping maples in Wier's Wood. Brilliant and clear, not like today, the memory was so strong it sent sudden muleshivers through the manchild. Willy detected the tremor and paused his rag. "Hear about lil Veda Talbot?" whispered Willie. "Nuh-uh." "Went missin from her crib evenin last. Mama Lou's hopin her ex done stole the babe." "Oooh, mebbe so." “Me thinks o’Tizzy...” “Unnh, yeah...Tizzy...” Something queer rumbled then, outside in the bleary gloom, they both looked--out into rain gusts, and J.Pea beheld such as he'd never seen. A sleek touring car, all black with quicksilver sliding long and low out of the pines, rising round the bend past the Livery. Slipping through a rainsquall, it veered from deep sloshy ruts, over to the gas pump. Behind the wheel, a jowly fellow in a Panama sat protected by the canvas cowl. The dude pulled his brake then looked in their direction: a face made milky by two layers of glass with much weeping in betwixt. J.Pea didn't know if they were visible to the man or not. Willy Bird nudged him. Then the milky face moved, took the plunge. The man scampered out into the wet, wearing a creamy linen summer suit. He came running with a candyman grin, barging through the grey pellets. The door jangled, he shook his swagbelly and stomped on arrival. Larger somehow, once inside the store, this jack-a-dandy replanted the rosebud in his lapel. The muddy wingtips kept stomping, midget feet in two-tone cordovan and white. "Hail the local gentry--" he said, one jowl was pocked in the gaslight. The other was not. "Hidy doo," droned Will. J.Pea began to nod and reflect the stranger's smile. "Could eye-ther of you stallions direct me to downtown Cayuga Ridge?" J.Pea held the man's gaze. "Mister, yer a-standin in downtown Cayuga Ridge," he was heard to say. "Do tell." "It must be quite a shock." "Oh no, son, not at all. Not at all. It's a pleasure to acquaint with such enlightened souls. A couple of young Lochinvars who know precisely where they persist." J.Pea was almost sixteen. But Willy had a girl in middleschool; he was fresh-faced and young at heart--but no, this was not the point. The stranger wasn't looking at either when he addressed them. His eyes were roving the place, clipping over the murky stacks of cottonhull and high dark shelves. "You lost beau? Need us to scratch ye a map?" asked a wary Willy. "Willy, he cain't be lost. He says he was lookin fer us. I mean, fer the Ridge..." "So precise, so very true..." the man turned back to them, finally, probing his watchpocket. "Kin we help ya...somewheres...?" Willy insisted, his gape never swerving off the wet nelly. "No. I find this place nourishing, very safe, very hospitable. I ask fer a few minutes refuge from the element. Yes. These roads are treacherous. Yes, this will do. Nourishing. Is it possible, perchance, I could negotiate a pickled egg from you, sir?" "A pickled egg?" Willy blinked." "You betcha--and a dime's worth of crackers."
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