Read Online Land of a Hundred Wonders by Lesley Kagen - Free Book Online

usually quite enthused at the thought of seeing their name in the paper. What I eventually got him to admit was that his favorite color is gray and that he’s from the New York area. That last part got me excited. I asked him if he knew Mr. Howard Redmond. Willard answered he might, but in his line of work he meets so many different people. “Ya don’t say,” I said. “And what line of work might that be?” Ya ever see a turtle reverse into his shell? Like that.
    Remembering my neighborly manners, I holler over, “How they hangin’, Willard?”
    Only the hawk calls back.
    â€œWillard?”
    Nothing but the breeze in the trees.
    He probably fell asleep. Willard does that a lot after he smokes hemp. He also eats Mallomars by the ton.
    â€œ ’Bout time,” Grampa says, when Keeper and I join him at the kitchen sink. Tied around his neck, he’s got the Chief Cook and Bottle Washer apron that I gave him last Christmas. “Ya hear me? Do not go stickin’ your nose into that tobacco farm’s business.”
    â€œAnd why exactly would I wanna go sniffin’ tobacco plants?” I ask, rummaging my hands around the soapy sink water.
    Grampa shoots me one of his inspecting looks and must like what he sees ’cause he goes back to humming along with the singer who he admires beyond sense, Mr. Johnny Cash, who I do not care for one bit. I prefer the Beatles eight days a week, but Grampa won’t let me listen to them because he says those boys are nothing but long-haired goo.
    Doesn’t take us long to finish up, there’s just the two of everything. He hangs his apron on the nail, and says like he does every night, “Pour a coupla glasses while I get us set up.”
    Playing Scrabble is another one of the “stimulations” of my brain that Grampa tried out when I first got out of the hospital. When he was still hoping I could get Q uite R ight again. It’s become a habit now. Every single night he gets out the board from the top shelf of the bookcase and we head out to the pebbly card table on the porch. At first I made words that looked like this:
    Drg.
    That’s drag.
    Or:
    Whol.
    That’s wool.
    So, of course, while I was still rehabilitating, Grampa whupped me good most nights. (Not to brag, but I believe I have turned that table on him but good.)
    After getting down two of the leftover blue metal glasses we gave out last year at the pumps to folks using Premium, I top them off with his tart lemonade and follow him out to the porch. The last of the sun is skimming the top of the water. Soon the skeeters’ll be out, which is why we have a screened-in. I pick the prickers out of Keeper’s coat while Grampa takes the board out of the box, lights the brass lantern, and lets me blow out the match.
    â€œI like your locket,” he says, jotting down our names on the score-keeping pad.
    I had completely forgotten about it. I open it up to show him the pictures of Billy and me from long ago.
    â€œHow’s he doin’?” Grampa leans back in the folding chair and lights up another.
    â€œYou should quit smokin’.”
    â€œThat right?”
    â€œYes, it is. I heard a New York City reporter, a Mr. Frank Reynolds, say on the television news that smokin’ might cause cancer.” There is a lot of tobacco growing in Kentucky. Around here especially. Our colored folks count on getting paid to pick that crop so they can feed their babies, so I hope I misunderstood that report.
    â€œReynolds, eh?” Grampa inhales deeper than usual. “With a name like that you’d think he’d be all for lightin’ up.”
    That must be funny because he’s apple-doll puckering.
    â€œI gave Billy a star today,” I say.
    Grampa wriggles his hand around in the Scrabble box, searching for just the right tile. “Has he been spendin’ any time up at his daddy’s place?”
    Grampa has affection