Read Online A Million Heavens by John Brandon - Free Book Online

could bring up.”
    â€œIs it good? I got cash.”
    â€œIt tastes like stew.”
    â€œI don’t want to miss what happens here. The guy who was Freddie in Nightmare on Elm Street is this crazy mayor. You ever seen this thing?”
    â€œI think I have.”
    â€œHe’s wearing some kind of sash.”
    â€œWhy don’t I bring you by a bowl in a few minutes? There’s no charge.”
    â€œI appreciate that. I got plenty of cash, but I sure like to hang on to it. I like to keep it right here with me.”
    Mayor Cabrera saw the commercials ending and then the man told him as much. They got off the phone. Mayor Cabrera opened a cabinet andbegan hunting for some plastic bowls, wishing he hadn’t mentioned the stew, feeling suddenly uncharitable, feeling that every little thing he did every day of his life he did out of some pathetic idea of professionalism. He did what people asked because it was easier than thinking about what he really ought to be doing. He served and served.
CECELIA
    For days the sky had looked like rain, but only this morning had it begun grumbling. Cecelia and her mother were in the living room, the windows open, the TV on.
    â€œDriving the birds crazy,” Cecelia’s mother said. Her wheelchair was positioned in a way that allowed her to look through the kitchen and out the back screen door, toward her chickens. She didn’t need the wheelchair. It had once been her sister’s, Cecelia’s Aunt Tam’s, in the months before she’d died. Cecelia’s mother had taken it out of the hall closet where it had been folded quietly for ages and had opened it up and polished the hardware and buffed the leather. That was all fine, but when she was done she hadn’t put the chair back in the closet. She’d started sitting in it now and then, to watch TV, and in time it became the only chair she’d use. The husband Cecelia’s Aunt Tam had left behind still lived in Lofte. He was the mayor, in fact. He and Cecelia’s mother had once been thick as thieves, but now they rarely spoke.
    â€œYou ever think of getting a dog?” Cecelia said. She didn’t say, Like a normal person .
    Her mother made a face. “They kill little critters and leave the carcasses on your porch.”
    â€œBecause they want to impress you and show gratitude.”
    â€œWith a dead chipmunk?”
    Cecelia knew why her mother couldn’t get a dog. A dog was an actual personality to engage; the chickens were merely a presence, something other than nothing. They generated a busy, low warbling that sounded like far-off weather.
    â€œCan I make you breakfast?” Cecelia asked.
    Her mother again made a face.
    â€œHow about oatmeal?” Cecelia started to get up.
    â€œNot yet,” Cecelia’s mother said. “I’ll have something at lunchtime.”
    â€œI’ll make you a bowl and if you don’t like it we’ll throw it out.”
    Lately Cecelia’s mother barely ate. Cecelia saw her pick at dry cereal, but no real food. Her mother’s loss of appetite seemed planned. It was too abrupt, like she was making a statement.
    A woman on TV laughed. The Home Shopping Network. The woman was brushing a cat. She had a big wad of fur in her hand, and was proud of it.
    â€œWhat class you got today?” Cecelia’s mother asked.
    â€œPoetry.”
    Cecelia’s mother raised an eyebrow. “Did they tell you the secret yet?”
    â€œWhat secret?”
    â€œOf how to write poetry. There’s a secret to everything, you know. They don’t want you to think so, but there is. There’s a trick.” Cecelia’s mother held still, looking upward. Cecelia thought she was thinking about artists and their esoteric know-how until she clicked her cheek and said, “They’re not making a peep.” The chickens.
    â€œI took the class so I could write good song lyrics,” Cecelia offered. She