Land of a Hundred Wonders by Lesley Kagen

to bring his figures up there for a show of folks art. I was about crushed flat when he told them, “I’d rather be skinned alive and pulled behind a buck-board of runaway horses.” I’d been hoping to have lunch with Mr. Howard Redmond. I had a few questions for him about: Surveillance .
    â€œWhy don’tcha want me to spend time with Miss Lydia?” I ask, cocking my wrist and letting loose with a skimmer. “She was Mama’s best friend.”
    â€œHow many times we gotta go over this?” Grampa says, slicing hard on the donkey figure he’s promised me for my birthday.
    â€œCan we go visit Daddy’s grave one of these days?” He’s not buried alongside Mama and Gramma Kitty. He’s Up North with his people. “I’d like to show him a coupla my best articles.”
    Grampa quits his stroking. Breathes in the aroma of the sweet-smelling roses that surround the cottage this time of year. “No.”
    I have asked Miss Lydia time and time again to have a VISITATION with Daddy like she does Mama, but she gets so agitated when I bring him up. Like Grampa, she harbors horrible feelings toward Daddy. I perceive that’s because the both of them hold him responsible for causing the crash since he’s the one that was driving. But I don’t blame Daddy. I got a memory of him building me a soapbox derby car that he painted #1 on. “I’ve asked Miss Lydia to check and see if Daddy—”
    â€œLydia’s off her head,” Grampa says, back to hacking at the wood with a lot of vigor.
    â€œWhat do you mean by that exactly?” I cannot imagine why he says that. Miss Lydia is one of the most completely right in her mind folks that I know, but I don’t say that to Grampa. He’d only get more cantankerous than he already is, or worse, give me his famous silent treatment.
    â€œLydia was never right again after she lost her boy.” As soon as Grampa says it, I can tell he wishes he could take it back.
    â€œWhere’d she lose him?”
    â€œIn the lake. He drowned.”
    â€œBut you lost a child, too, and you didn’t go off your head,” I remind him, in case he’s having another leaky memory moment.
    â€œPeople’r different. Some can stand things. Some can’t.” His knife on the pine goes sha . . . sha . . . sha. Wood commas are dropping at his feet. “If I lost you . . . ,” he says, so soft I can barely hear him.
    â€œNow you’re just bein’ plain silly, Charlie. You won’t ever lose me.” I inch my lawn chair closer to his. “You’re well known for being extremely organized.”
    â€œThere is a world of danger out there, Gibby girl. Just like them cicadas, ya might think you got plenty of time to kick up your heels, and in fact, you got nuthin’ of the sort.” I know he’s remembering about my mama ’cause he’s got that particular lilt to his voice that is more soulful sounding than Mr. Otis Reading.
    â€œJust because I am NQR does not mean that I cannot take care of myself, ya know.” I fling my skimmer too hard and it sinks straight off.
    Grampa shoves back on his cloud hair. His shoulders are wide, but he’s lanky at the waist with hands that’re full of hot grease scars. And he walks with a limp and a drag because of his fake leg, which must be hurting since he’s been rubbing on where it’s attached to his knee.
    â€œAchin’?” I ask, setting my hand atop his.
    â€œIt’s fine,” he says, dropping his mad. “How you been feelin’?”
    â€œGood as g-o-l-d.” Wish I could, but I never bother telling him anymore how I really feel. He’d only say what he always says. ’Bout me learning to play the hand I was dealt. Or the other one he’s started up with lately: “It’s time for ya to accept the fact that you’re gonna need to saddle up and ride harder than