Iva Honeysuckle Discovers the World (5 page)

E
very Wednesday morning, Iva arranged the objects on her dresser. Her “earthly belongings.
”
She'd gotten the term from her great-grandfather.

Ludwell Honeycutt had written a last will and testament. He didn't have any money, but he'd left his “earthly belongings” to his relatives: his favorite pipe, a white shirt with frayed cuffs, and the trunk full of stuff no one wanted. Iva had gotten some of the things from that trunk.

Iva placed Ludwell's lucky silver dollar in its spot of honor in the center of her dresser. She fanned blue-jay feathers like a crown above the coin. Sparkly rocks from Calfpasture Creek flanked the design. Iva nudged one rock that had slipped out of position.

Sweetlips was standing on his hind legs at the window. His doggy breath fogged the glass.

“What is it?” Iva looked out the window at Heaven's house next door.

Yard Sale teetered on the windowsill of Heaven's bedroom window. Her little red mouth opened like a baby bird's in a silent mew. Sweetlips howled.

A large body appeared at the window. Heaven picked up Yard Sale. She saw Iva watching and waved cheerfully. Then she pulled the shade down.

“She has that cat in her room!” Iva said to Sweetlips. “I bet she's hiding her!”

She yanked her own shade down, angry. Heaven not only had an adorable kitten, but now she had a secret, too. A secret almost as good as Ludwell's treasure.

Thinking about her great-grandfather, Iva went into the kitchen. Her mother sat at the table, copying a poem from her latest chain letter.

“Mama,” Iva said. “What was Ludwell Honeycutt really like?”

Her mother laid her pen down. “I didn't really know your great-grandfather. He passed before I was born. But your daddy was little when Mr. Honeycutt was alive. He said his grandfather would reach into his pocket and give him a butter rum Life Saver. Mr. Honeycutt always carried a roll.”

“That's it?” Iva said, disappointed. She had hoped Ludwell had had a mysterious past. “Heaven said he was crazy. She's making that up, isn't she?”

“Arden thinks I'm crazy because I answer chain letters,” her mother said. “I can't break the chain or we'll have bad luck. So I copy the letters to ten friends and send them off. You never know.”

Her mother sent the letters to the same ten people, who were probably tired of having to send ten letters to
their
friends.

“What's that got to do with Ludwell?” Iva asked. Nobody in her family ever stayed on the subject.

Her mother didn't answer right away. Iva waited. At last she said, “Ludwell was turned funny. He was—different. Not bad-different. Interesting-different.”

Interesting-different
. Iva liked that.
She
was interesting-different too.

“Iva, honey, scoot down to the post office and get me some stamps.” Her mother took a five dollar bill from under the sugar bowl and handed it to Iva. “Bring back the change.”

“Okay.”

Iva slammed out the door, Sweetlips on her heels. She raced downtown as if she were running to a fire. At the Uncertain post office, she bought ten stamps.

Outside again, she paused in front of the shop next to the post office.

“Are you feeling peaked?” Iva said to Sweetlips. “Me, too.”

She walked into Priddy's Taxidermy and Cake Decorating. Sweetlips flopped just inside the entrance as if he would never move again.

The store was divided by a blue line painted on the floor. On one side, Mrs. Priddy ran her cake decorating business.
Wedding Cakes a Specialty
. Cubed samples of cupcakes were often offered on a china plate. Mrs. Priddy's half was neat and clean.

The sign on Mr. Priddy's counter said,
Taxidermy
Just Plain Taxes.
His side was not so tidy. Stubs of pencils, stacks of paper, and a battered dictionary covered his counter. His single stuffed specimen—a gloomy-looking turkey vulture named Deadeye—hunched over the counter on a wooden perch.

Iva thought dead stuffed animals were creepy, but once she had asked Mr. Priddy why he didn't have any others besides the dusty buzzard.

“The taxidermy business isn't what it used to be,” Mr. Priddy had answered, looking as gloomy as the vulture. “People today are offended by hunting and stuffing animals. That's why I've switched to income-tax preparation.”

Iva headed for Mrs. Priddy's side of the store first. The china plate was as clean as Sweetlips's dish after Iva fed him his favorite leftovers, liver and onions.

“No cupcakes?” Iva had her mouth set on a taste of Sunshine Cupcakes.

Mrs. Priddy wiped her hands on her apron. A puff of flour flew up. “Sorry, Iva. I'm busy with a bride's cake for the Henderson girl. Her shower is Saturday.”

Iva glanced at a white-iced cake in the display case. Blue and green frosting swirled around the seven layers. Tiny silver balls dotted the top. The cake had been sitting in the case as long as Iva could remember.

Mrs. Priddy followed Iva's gaze. “Swannanoah's bride's cake. The first one I ever baked with my grandma's recipe. She was engaged to Donald Slout. Swannanoah, not my grandma.”

Iva listlessly picked at a scab on her elbow. She'd heard this story before.

“But she got cold feet and hopped into that pickup truck of hers and hightailed it to the border.” Iva pictured Swannanoah with snow-covered feet, zooming down Main Street.

Mrs. Priddy dabbed her eye with the corner of her apron, leaving a floury smudge on her cheek. “'Course, she only drove to the county line, but still. She broke that boy's heart. And mine. There is nothing like a mother's heartbreak over her daughter.”

She peered at Iva over her glasses, as if Iva might be aiming to do the same to her mother. Iva never thought about getting engaged. She didn't even like boys much.

“Swannanoah missed the boat,” Mr. Priddy remarked from his side of the shop. “Donald Slout runs his own appliance repair shop over to Dawn. Even if he did drive his car to sixth grade.”

“How old
was
he?” Iva asked, wondering if she could drive to fourth grade come September. She pictured Sweetlips riding beside her.

“Maybe not to sixth grade, but he was left back quite a few times. Swannanoah couldn't have done better. That shop of Donald's is a big concern.”

“What's wrong with it?” Iva asked.

“‘Concern' also means a business,” Mr. Priddy replied.

He scratched his jaw with his pencil. Except during tax season, Mr. Priddy spent his days working crossword puzzles. Iva admired the big words he knew.

“Iva, tell Mr. Priddy he doesn't know what he's talking about,” Mrs. Priddy said, drawing herself up like a heron stalking a frog.

Iva turned to Mr. Priddy. “Mrs. Priddy says you don't know what you're talking about.”

“Tell Mrs. Priddy we'll be saddled with Swannanoah till doomsday,” he said.

Iva sighed. She'd only come in for a cupcake sample. Now she was stuck giving messages from one Priddy to the other.

Everyone in town knew the Priddys had had a big falling-out. It had happened so long ago, nobody, including them, remembered what it was about. They had not uttered one word to each other in thirty-five years. Not even “Pass the butter.”

Iva found this astonishing. The only way Mr. and Mrs. Priddy communicated was when another person delivered their messages.

Now Mrs. Priddy said to Iva, “Tell
Mr.
Priddy if he wants me to wash his underwear he should put them in the hamper and
not
on the floor.”

Iva wanted to giggle, but she turned to Mr. Priddy. “Mrs. Priddy said if you want her to wash—”

“I heard. Iva, tell
Mrs.
Priddy not to hang her stockings from the shower rod. I went into the bathroom the other night and like to strangled myself.”

“
Mrs.
Priddy—” Iva began, but Mrs. Priddy waved her away.

“Thanks for coming in, Iva. But as you can see, I'm very busy.” She shot a glance at her husband across the aisle. “Too busy to fool with people who will soon be wearing dirty drawers.”

Iva gladly headed back outside. Sweetlips got up with a grunt and trotted after her.

“Those two are crazier than a white horse in the moonlight,” she said aloud, wondering what they fell out about. The Priddys were different, all right. Not bad-different. Interesting-different.

Instead of going straight home, she headed for the park with the statue of the Uncertain Soldier. The soldier held his rifle by his side, shading his eyes with his other hand. He appeared to be gazing at a distant battlefield.

Iva believed he was looking for a place to hide. Who in their right mind would want to go and get shot at? Look what had happened to General Braddock.

She was more interested in the peach tree growing in the garden. Last night she had read about Bavaria in a 1928 issue of
National Geographic
. Bavaria was a country where people lived in stone houses and sat around in fancy costumes.

One photo showed a guy with a Y-shaped stick pointed at the ground. He was using the stick to find gold!

“It's called dowsing,” Iva said to Sweetlips. She pronounced it “dozing.” She broke off a forked branch of the peach tree and stripped off the leaves. “Fruit trees make good dowsing sticks.”

She trusted Ludwell's map, but it wouldn't hurt to try something new. She walked slowly with one of the two forked parts of the branch in each hand, and the main stem out in front of her.

“I know Braddock's gold is near the creek,” she said. “But I might find a necklace or a ring somebody dropped a long time ago. When I'm near gold, the stick will twitch.” She didn't have anything to dig with. If the stick quivered, she'd jam it in the ground to mark the spot, then run home for a shovel.

Sweetlips romped along, hopping up to nip the stick. Iva frowned. “Quit it! We're not playing fetch. This is serious business.”

She concentrated so hard on waiting for the stick to quiver, she didn't see Arden and Hunter until they stood right in front of her.

“My sister,” Arden said to Hunter, as if Iva were deaf. “Stark, raving bonkers.”

“I'm not bonkers,” Iva said. “I'm looking for gold. This is my dowsing stick.”

“Dozing stick? Hunter, does that stick look asleep?”

“Nope. Seems wide awake to me. But Sweet-lips looks drowsy.”

Iva waggled her stick in her sister's face. “For your information, the art of dowsing goes back to the days of yore. Only special people can do it.”

Arden grabbed the stick and snapped it into twigs. “Don't get in my face ever again.” She threw the pieces at Iva's feet. “C'mon, Hunter. Let's go get ice cream.”

“When I strike it rich, I'm not giving you one red cent!” Iva yelled as Arden and Hunter walked away, laughing and slapping palms. “Even if you're starving, I wouldn't give you”—she tried to think of the smallest particle of food—“a single celery seed!”