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

bed of hers, don’tcha think? She’s quite fond of Scrabble. I asked.”
    â€œDon’t get your hopes up on neither one of them subjects,” he says, irritable again because loud from next door, Willard’s favorite musical group is complaining about getting no satisfaction.
    Grampa cups his hands and bellows, “Turn that caterwauling down, ya jackass.”
    Willard obeys straight off because even I know that smokin’ hemp is against the law. Willard knows full well that Grampa could turn him in to the sheriff, but not that he won’t. “Grown men should know what’s right and what ain’t right in their hearts. Shouldn’t need no laws or a blowhard like LeRoy Johnson to remind ’em,” is what my old cowboy lectures whenever the subject comes up.
    Two lemonades and a bowl of strawberry ice cream later, Grampa is tallying up the score. “Two hundred twenty-seven to one hundred fifty-four.”
    â€œYou or me?” I ask, trying to get a look at the score sheet.
    â€œDon’t matter who won,” he says, scrunching up the paper in his fist. (Poor, poor Grampa. Isn’t that what folks always say when they lose at something?) “You sleepin’ out here tonight?”
    â€œI am, but not right off. I gotta finish up my story.” I reach behind me for my extra blue spiral notebook that I keep under my porch pillow. Wish to hell and back I hadn’t forgotten my leather-like up at Miz Tanner’s.
    â€œNot too late,” Grampa says.
    â€œNightie-night, Charlie. Think about what I said about Miss Jessie’s big brass bed.”
    He walks stiff into the house. He’ll splash water on his face in the bathroom. Sit down on the wooden chair next to his bed and unstrap his leg. Have a sip of peach schnapps. “Be sure to brush your teeth and say good night to you know who,” he says, out of the darkness.
    He means Mama. Grampa’s hung her paintings all over the cottage walls to help me remember more of her. She was well known for her dreamy watercolors of horses, rearing and playing, kicking and galloping. Mama was an artist. A woman of Refinement: Elegance. Grampa tells me her paintings still sell for a pretty penny up in Chicago. Because she is dead, that makes them worth more, which pains me some days, so bad. There’s photographs of her, too. Winning blue ribbons for her art. Holding a fish on the pier that’s bigger than she is, with the kind of smile that makes you wanna smile back. My mama was my grampa’s only child and the love of his life. Though I probably loved my daddy as well, I know she was mine, too. If only I could net more than a handful of memories of her. Like the feel of her powdered cheek on my fevered forehead. The way her velvety braid tickled the tip of my nose when she tucked me in. Some nights, when I can’t take not remembering her anymore, I lay my face onto the grazing mare and filly painting above my bed, hoping to feel something she left behind. But I should be fine tonight. I got my story to keep my heart out of that longing territory. And a job to do.

As Clever Does
    Plumping up my pillow, it’s just me and Keeper and my extra blue spiral out here on the porch now, nobody to bother me for a while. I can’t stop dwelling on Mr. Buster and his twisted noggin and how that would be so useful as an investigator to have eyes in the back of your head like that.
    Focus, Gibby. Focus on the Miss Cheryl and Miss DeeDee story. It’s almost done and then you can get busy investigating on Mr. Buster. I press my pencil to my pad, wishing I had my favorite No. 2. Love that worn rolling feeling.
    Miss Cheryl and Miss DeeDee have been visiting Hundred Wonders every Sunday afternoon for over two months now. Miss DeeDee cannot believe the improvement she has been experiencing in her eyesight.
    I scootch Keeper over a bit. He’s such a bed hog.
    Miss Cheryl, Miss DeeDee’s good