cupboard. “Mr. Clive is what is known as a hypochondriac.”
“A hypo whatee ac?”
“A hypochondriac,” she said slowly. “That’s a person who thinks that they’re either sick or about to become sick or much sicker than they really are, but it’s only in their head.”
“But a brain tumor is all in somebody’s head!” I protested, but after I looked the word up in the dictionary that made sense. Hypochondriac means that Clive was the kind of person who had quite the imagination when it came to illness and that’s really true. Over the years, I’ve lost count of the number of times he told me that he thought he was coming down with polio or chicken pox, even leprosy and malaria. I explained to him we don’t have those last two diseases in the Commonwealth, but he hissed, “Ain’t nobody ever taught you that there’s a first time for everything, little girl?”
“How’d he die?” I ask, feeling guilty.
Bootie says, “Virgil went up to the Minnow place to deliver groceries Saturday morning like always. Nobody answered the door, so Virgil went looking. He found Clive facedown at the edge of the creek, his dog whinin’ by his side.”
“Oh, that’s awful,” I say with genuine regret. He and I had recently been bickering over a ring he’d found in the woods with his detecting device, but that’s not an excuse. I should’ve stopped by the Minnow place more often than I had been to check up on him. “Poor Clive. Poor Ivory.”
“Who?” Booty asks.
“That’s the name of Clive’s dog. Ivory Minnow.”
Bootie pulls the shovel out of the dirt, using muscles that look like they could keep you safe. “I heard drownin’s one of the worst ways to go.”
“Yeah, I heard that, too.”
My other grandparents drowned. For a while there, I think the sheriff thought that’s what happened to our mother, too. He had half the county searching the creek’s banks and bushes for her. The day Woody and I were out there watching, I pulled him aside and told him, “She’s a good swimmer. She was on the water ballet team in college.”
Sheriff Nash, who is not particularly smart, but is well-mannered, said, “Don’t think your mother drowned, Miss Shen. The rowboat is missin’.”
I told him, “But Mama would never take the boat by herself,” but would he listen?
He pulled me behind a yew bush and said in a lowered voice, “Are you aware of your mother and father havin’ any . . . ?”
That’s when His Honor spotted us and hurried over. He said to the sheriff, “That’ll be all, Andy,” and then he dragged me farther into the bushes and reprimanded me. “Take your sister back up to the house immediately. Her crying is upsetting the hounds.”
Papa.
“Nice job on the hole, Bootie. Keep up the good work. Time to go, Woody,” I say, grabbing her by the arm and praying that this isn’t one of those times when she makes herself as stiff as her name. She can do that when she doesn’t want to leave one place and go to another. I don’t have time to look for a coaster wagon to set her in. We should’ve been back at Lilyfield by now.
“Wait a tick, Shen,” Bootie says, toeing the dirt at the bottom of the grave. “I . . . I was wondering if you’d like to . . . Y’all are goin’ to the carnival, right?”
“A course we are. Right, Woody?”
No matter how much our father warns us about staying out of the public eye, the Carmodys are the descendants of those that get celebrated during Founders Weekend. Grampa Gus will insist that we not miss any of the “brouhaha,” and that includes the two nights of the carnival, which is just fine and dandy with us. Woody and I have always gone crazy for those rickety rides and penny pitching games and most of all, the Oddities of Nature sideshow, which has an Armadillo Boy and the beefiest gal in the world named Baby Doll Susan, who lives behind a wall of glass with a refrigerator and a floral sofa set on cinder blocks. The best oddities ,
“A hypo whatee ac?”
“A hypochondriac,” she said slowly. “That’s a person who thinks that they’re either sick or about to become sick or much sicker than they really are, but it’s only in their head.”
“But a brain tumor is all in somebody’s head!” I protested, but after I looked the word up in the dictionary that made sense. Hypochondriac means that Clive was the kind of person who had quite the imagination when it came to illness and that’s really true. Over the years, I’ve lost count of the number of times he told me that he thought he was coming down with polio or chicken pox, even leprosy and malaria. I explained to him we don’t have those last two diseases in the Commonwealth, but he hissed, “Ain’t nobody ever taught you that there’s a first time for everything, little girl?”
“How’d he die?” I ask, feeling guilty.
Bootie says, “Virgil went up to the Minnow place to deliver groceries Saturday morning like always. Nobody answered the door, so Virgil went looking. He found Clive facedown at the edge of the creek, his dog whinin’ by his side.”
“Oh, that’s awful,” I say with genuine regret. He and I had recently been bickering over a ring he’d found in the woods with his detecting device, but that’s not an excuse. I should’ve stopped by the Minnow place more often than I had been to check up on him. “Poor Clive. Poor Ivory.”
“Who?” Booty asks.
“That’s the name of Clive’s dog. Ivory Minnow.”
Bootie pulls the shovel out of the dirt, using muscles that look like they could keep you safe. “I heard drownin’s one of the worst ways to go.”
“Yeah, I heard that, too.”
My other grandparents drowned. For a while there, I think the sheriff thought that’s what happened to our mother, too. He had half the county searching the creek’s banks and bushes for her. The day Woody and I were out there watching, I pulled him aside and told him, “She’s a good swimmer. She was on the water ballet team in college.”
Sheriff Nash, who is not particularly smart, but is well-mannered, said, “Don’t think your mother drowned, Miss Shen. The rowboat is missin’.”
I told him, “But Mama would never take the boat by herself,” but would he listen?
He pulled me behind a yew bush and said in a lowered voice, “Are you aware of your mother and father havin’ any . . . ?”
That’s when His Honor spotted us and hurried over. He said to the sheriff, “That’ll be all, Andy,” and then he dragged me farther into the bushes and reprimanded me. “Take your sister back up to the house immediately. Her crying is upsetting the hounds.”
Papa.
“Nice job on the hole, Bootie. Keep up the good work. Time to go, Woody,” I say, grabbing her by the arm and praying that this isn’t one of those times when she makes herself as stiff as her name. She can do that when she doesn’t want to leave one place and go to another. I don’t have time to look for a coaster wagon to set her in. We should’ve been back at Lilyfield by now.
“Wait a tick, Shen,” Bootie says, toeing the dirt at the bottom of the grave. “I . . . I was wondering if you’d like to . . . Y’all are goin’ to the carnival, right?”
“A course we are. Right, Woody?”
No matter how much our father warns us about staying out of the public eye, the Carmodys are the descendants of those that get celebrated during Founders Weekend. Grampa Gus will insist that we not miss any of the “brouhaha,” and that includes the two nights of the carnival, which is just fine and dandy with us. Woody and I have always gone crazy for those rickety rides and penny pitching games and most of all, the Oddities of Nature sideshow, which has an Armadillo Boy and the beefiest gal in the world named Baby Doll Susan, who lives behind a wall of glass with a refrigerator and a floral sofa set on cinder blocks. The best oddities ,
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