Land of a Hundred Wonders (2 page)

Restaurant Hama.

Mike Lebow, the wise guy.

Peter the Great, who makes me feel like I'm the honey on his toast.

And, of course, Casey and Riley, who make my world quite right with their every breath.

—Albert Einstein

A Deadline

Ya ever notice how some folks get well known for how they dress or hunt or even what kind of truck they drive? Along with my outstanding Scrabble playing,
I'm
well known for my newspaper.

I put my favorite No. 2 back to work.

As you probably already know, an investigative reporter needs folks to write about. Late-breaking stories about trees, for instance, are few and far between. So when I'm not busy bussing tables, I'm allowed to interview subjects from all walks of life who later on become the
who what where when
and
why
of my stories. That's one of the things that's so rewarding about working here with Grampa at Top O' the Mornin'.

We're the last stop for refreshments before you hit Highway 75. You'll know the diner when you see it. Shaped like a shoe box, it's got tires washed white and lip-pink roses lining the entrance. Candy-cane awnings billow like crazy when the west wind kicks up. There's a counter inside with slick yellow stools, booths that sit four, and up at the cash register there's toothpicks—Take Two . . . They're Free! And since everybody knows what a tremendous part the good or the bad version of luck can play in your life, a rusty horseshoe all the way from Texas hangs lopsided above the screen door that creaks when you open it, but not when you close it. Just another one of life's little mysteries. (In case you haven't noticed . . . life is chock-full of 'em.)

This morning, like every morning, my grampa, who owns the place, is where he is most of the time when he isn't out on the lake. In the kitchen. Decked out in his white apron and cowboy fishing hat. He's wrassling up the breakfasts he learned to cook in that army mess, and damn, if there's anything that smells better on Earth than sizzling pork sausage, I wish somebody'd let me know. Oh, wait, I just remembered lily-of-the-valley smell . . . it's simply outta this world.

“Hey, Lois Lane, there's tables need your attention,” Grampa yells, sticking his head through the kitchen peek window.

“Gimme a minute, Charlie,” I call back. “Gotta get down a few more words 'fore this story flies outta my head.”

Lois Lane is
not
my real name. Grampa's just making a joke due to his keen sense of humor. My real name is Gibson McGraw, but most everybody calls me Gibby. I'm twenty, or maybe thirty-three years old. (I'll check with Grampa and get back to you on this.) I've been living with him permanent in Cray Ridge since the night three years ago, the kind of night anybody in their right mind stays home and is grateful to do so, me and mine were heading down here so I could start my usual summer stay. The rain was gushing down so bad it erased the highway line and our Buick sprouted wings more than a few times. And the sky wasn't the only one spittin' mad that night. The very last thing I can remember my mama saying in her crossest of voices is, “We're not gonna outrun this storm . . . get off at the next exit and find us a motel . . . ya got talent at findin' motels, don'tcha, Joe? 'Specially the real cheap kind.” Then my daddy bellowed back, “I'm warning you, Addy . . . for the last time. . . .”

Little did he know how right he was. A wiper stroke later, we rounded a bend in the road and bounced off a stalled Champion bus, also from Chicago.

Thank the Lord for passing Dixie Oil trucker Mr. Hank Simmons, who found me wadded up on the edge of a creek and called for help on his 10-4 radio. I got three broken ribs, a gashed-up ankle, a cracked collarbone, and the
worst
of all—the left side of my head got dented.
Correction:
The
worst
of all was that I becamean orphan that night. My mama and daddy made it out of that wagon, but not for long. (See earlier statement about luck. This would be a perfect example of the bad version.)

So that's it in a nutshell. All that I can remember, anyways, about the night I became what Grampa calls
NQR
, which is his pet name for
N
ot
Q
uite
R
ight, which means—brain-wise—I'm not doing so hot.

The Louisville Hospital sent him this letter dated July 10, 1970. I found it balled up in the glove department of his truck.

The rest is ripped off in a jaggedy line. But what I think those hospital folks were
trying
to get at is:

Words and their meanings can elude me.
Elude: To avoid.
(I remembered that one last week when a catfish spent most of his morning
eluding
me, the little bugger.)

I'd never use the words “lightnin' speed” to describe my thinking.

Reverend Jack says my mind gets to wandering more than the Israelites.

I have an awfully hard time putting the brakes on my motoring mouth.

And my memory, well, it's sorta hit-and-run.

“The brain is mysterious,” the hospital doctors told Grampa when he came to pick me up. “Current research indicates that keeping her mind
stimulated
may help regenerate the neurons and . . .”

“That right,” Grampa said, blowing Lucky Strike smoke in their faces. (He also suggested the doctors do something I don't believe is humanly possible with their mysterious heads and their mysterious asses as he wheeled me out of that hospital so fast I swear, the wheelchair laid rubber.)

Now before you go off feeling sorry for me like most everybody else does, I want you to know that all is not lost. Though I'll confess to wavering at times, I haven't thrown in the trowel. Of course, I've been trying to better myself on a daily basis, but reaching this lofty goal wasn't of a vital nature 'til just recently. After Miss Lydia, my spiritual advisor, a woman of such astounding powers that she may chat whenever she wishes with those who have passed over to THE GREAT UNKNOWN, informed me of a horrible, heart-gutting situation. “Your mama's not resting in peace, your mama's soul is restless,” she wailed over and over, her chest heaving.

Just in case you're not familiar with the goings-on of the dearly departed, what Mama's supposed to be doing is gazing down at her baby girl from on high, fluttering her wings in pride, her halo shooting off sparks of joy. She's
not
supposed to be pacing the stars, wringing her small but strong hands. Even though Miss Lydia tried to comfort me by telling me that it's not my fault, I don't believe her. That's exactly what she
would
say, her being the heart of Land of a Hundred Wonders. No, I'm positive Mama's restlessness is on account of me. Because I'm
NQR
.

So that's why #1 on my
VERY IMPORTANT THINGS TO DO
list is to prove that I
can
get
Q
uite
R
ight again. I figure I'm gonna have to set my hook into a heck of a plan in order to convince Mama. Ya know, something splashy. Like winning one of those public Scrabble tournaments they hold over in Appleville the first Sunday of every month. Or maybe reporting an awfully good story. It can't be something normal-like. It's gotta be something near miraculous in nature. Like me surviving the crash. Miss Lydia tells me all the time I'm a living, breathing miracle.

At the current time, I'm leaning toward that reporting of an awfully good story plan 'cause you're never gonna guess what I found on Browntown Beach this morning on my way to Land of a Hundred Wonders. Not the usual trout with what-the-hell-happened eyes. Not a soggy boot with gnaw marks neither. Or even a crushed-up can of Falls Beer. No. Could be I stumbled upon the kind of story that'll get lips flapping far and wide. I can perceive it all now. “I swear, the McGraw gal's better at reportin' these days than a twelve gauge,” folks'll say, trumpeting my
Gazette
headline loud enough to be heard all the way up to the Pearly Gates. “Can you believe how much righter she's gotten?”

Lord. I believe I'll move that public Scrabble tournament plan to my back burner for the time being. Now that I've had a chance to think this through, this awfully good story plan appears to be the answer to my prayers! Yes, indeedy.
Start scouting for a nicely cushioned cloud to set your restless self, Mama. 'Cause that dead body? It's gonna be our ticket to
Q
uite
R
ight heaven.

Black and White and Red All Over

Every Friday afternoon you can pick up a copy of
Gibby's Gazette
at Top O' the Mornin' and other important locations throughout Cray Ridge. Like Loretta's Candy World— Home of the Best Chocolate-Covered Cherries in the Universe and Beyond. Washateria keeps a stack near the detergent dispenser. And there's always a neat pile on the counter of Ye Olde Boo Store. (The
k
fell off a couple of years ago and Mr. Deacon, ye olde owner, isn't in any hurry to replace it. He gets a kick out of lecturing visitors that they'd be better off “quenchin' their thirst for knowledge” when they come sniffing around for bourbon and find nothing but good books instead.) In my humblest of opinions, the absolute finest of those knowledge quenchers is one called—
The Importance of Perception in Meticulous Investigation
. I used to be the editor of my high school newspaper, so I believe Grampa gifted me the book the day I got out of the hospital to keep my brain, like those doctors suggested, “stimulated.”

Like always, we're busy at the diner, feeding the regulars and even the not so regulars. The fans are whirring overhead and the smell of frying eggs is strong when
Senor
Bender, a teacher of
Espanol
up at the high school, eases down onto his usual counter stool along with last week's copy of my
Gazette
. I can't waitress 'cause our customers get all kinds of irritable if I disremember and bring 'em home fries when they order grits, but along with wiping tables, I
am
permitted to get folks situated.

“How's the best-lookin' girl in Grant County this mornin'?” the
Senor
asks when I pass him the menu. (You can't tell just by looking at me that I'm
NQR
. The scar on the left side of my head is blanketed by the chili bean hair I got from my daddy and my celery-colored eyes are from Mama, so all in all, I believe I'm considered somewhat appetizing.)

“Why, I am just g-r-e-a-t,” I say, showing off my outstanding service smile and superior spelling skills. “
Muchas gracias
for askin', you bastard.”

“Gibson!” Grampa shouts outta the kitchen peek window.

Uh-oh. (The only time he calls me by my Christian name is when I've done something just the opposite.) “What?”

“Home . . . home on the range . . . where the deer and the antelope play . . . ,”
Grampa begins singing so loud that I bet the folks in Mercer County are tapping the toes . . .
“where seldom is heard
. . .
a discouraging word . . .”

Him doing that? That does NOT mean Grampa's a music lover. No. Sad to report, that singing is a secret code we got between us to let me know that I'm cursing and should quit ASAP. And it is too discouraging.

I bend down to explain to the
Senor
like I've been taught, “I was in a car crash that banged up my brain so now it's got a blue streak runs through it.” Goodness, this man has real nice hair. Good and greasy. “Please accept my deepest of apologies. I'm workin' on it.”

“Apology accepted, like always,” he says after a sip of the coffee one cream I set down so carefully so as not to spill on the lovely shirt he's sporting. That paisley pattern's all the rage now. “So what's new in the world of investigative reportin', Gibby?”

“Lemme see,” I say, trying to corral my thoughts. “Well, first off . . . I got an awfully hot lead, and second off . . . one of Miz Tanner's mares had a filly week before last. You're never gonna guess what she named it.”

“Nooo.” But I add on real fast, because I wasn't born in a barn, “But Kay is a solid guess and a real pretty name. Try again. Take your time.”

The
Senor
short snorts, and says, “How about . . . ah . . . Gibby?”

“What?”

“No, I meant . . . did Miz Tanner name her new filly—
Gibby
?” he says. “After you?”