Read Online Creola's Moonbeam by Milam McGraw Propst - Free Book Online Page A

Perhaps He was. For whatever reason — the Lord, Henry and his mother, Beau’s absence, Beatrice, or my sister’s prodding, I decided to pay heed.
    Creola, I hope you’re pleased, too .
    I opened the closet door. Somewhere between the extra towels and my just-in-case winter sweater, I reluctantly dug for my laptop. Found! I plugged it in. The blue screen came into focus. Admittedly, there was something exhilarating about my computer’s booting up.
    I opened my files. “Short Stories.doc” jumped out at me. Here were some stories I’d never quite finished. They might end up in the landfill, too, but I might as well give them a chance.
    Go on, Moonbeam, work on that story.
    All right, Crellie, all right.
    I began to type.

Roofers from Hell
     
    by Honey Newberry
     
    We needed to put a new roof on the house. Immediately. I could tell that from my vantage point in the middle of our bed. Beau was in Chicago on a business trip. It was close to midnight and I was holding an umbrella in one hand and the telephone book in the other. Rain soaked our comforter. I balanced the umbrella’s handle with my chin and shoulder as I fumbled to put on my glasses. Roofing contractors . I dialed.
    The roofers arrived two days later. The crew was made up of one of the most outrageous bands of people I had ever encountered. They didn’t just arrive, no; they rolled in like a gargantuan human tumbleweed. Their pickup truck looked as if it may have turned over a few times on the way to our house.
    Don’t be judgmental, Moonbeam .
    They headed my way.
    One tattooed, bearded beast with a well-cultivated beer belly burped with every step he took. Another was stick-skinny. His fingers were magnetically drawn — almost in a rhythm — from his nose to his groin and back to his nose. I wondered how he’d manage to free his hands long enough to nail the shingles.
    A third was neither man nor woman. Its face was pointed toward mine. Was it ogling me? I couldn’t decide. One eye faced east, the other west.
    More judgmental stuff. Just quit.
    Then I saw the most curious person in the group. He was a small ragamuffin of a boy with a mop of carrot-red hair. He leapt out from the cab of the truck. He picked his nose with the enthusiasm of the thin man. Ah hah, I figured, those two were related. I worried that the boy would ultimately turn into one of these frightful men. Inevitable. Sad.
    I watched through the kitchen window as the crew prepared to start the job. Shingles, black gunk, hammers, and boxes of nails were unloaded. Experience told me that this project was going to make a major mess.
    I couldn’t get my mind off the little boy. It was quite early on Saturday morning. Our children were sleeping comfortably in their beds. There was this little guy being dragged along with those horrible men. He was destined to sit in the increasingly hotter sun — all day long. Oh, my heart.
    I awakened our children. “Come on guys. We’re going out for breakfast!”
    “Oh boy!”
    “Mom, what’s all that racket?” asked Mary Catherine.
    “Just the roofers. This is going to be a noisy day.” I started to explain that this meant it wouldn’t be raining in Mom and Dad’s room anymore, but that wasn’t much of an issue for grade-schoolers. However, I did say, “I’m going to invite someone to come along with us.”
    “A roofer man! Great! Can I climb up on top of the house and watch him work when we get back?” pleaded Butlar.
    “No! No climbing on the roof! And, it’s not an adult who may go with us. It’s a little boy. He must be eight or so. He’s with the roofers. I think the little guy deserves a treat.” I tried to encourage the children to reach out in kindness to other people.
    Butlar looked concerned. He had a soft heart. He was, after all, his father’s son.
    “Does this kid stink?” Mary Catherine asked. She was more like her Aunt Mary Pearle.
    Going outside, I looked for the person who was in charge to see if it would be