Land of a Hundred Wonders by Lesley Kagen Page B

sprouts, rub ’em to let him know I forgive him using his hut-to voice. “Ya know, ya could—”
    â€œShhh. Hear that?”
    â€œEeee . . . eeee . . . eeeeeee. Eeee . . . eeee . . . eeeeeee.”
    â€œCooper’s Hawk,” Grampa says with a lot of know-how, because not only is he a whiz at whittling, he watches birds, and can tell the call of a red-throated loon from a common loon without even looking up. “Look, there he is.”
    The hawk’s caught a breeze above the cottage next to ours. Something squirming in his mouth. I know, I know, it’s all part of God’s grand design, but I just can’t stand seeing that kind of helplessness, so I lower my eyes down to the Flemings’ gray cottage. They were our neighbors for years and years, but they moved to town after Miz Comfort Fleming broke her hip when she fell on the slippery pier. They lease out their place now to strangers for extra money.
    When Grampa mutters, “Useless,” he isn’t referring to the hawk. He means Mr. Willard DuPree, the most recent next-door renter who moved in right after Christmas, which is sort of a peculiar time to show up in Cray Ridge ’cause there’s not much going on around here then. But Mr. Clayton Fleming told Grampa that Willard paid cash for a year in advance, so that was fine with him. Grampa does not fancy our neighbor one iota. First off, Willard smokes hemp. Even worse, he doesn’t have a job, from what I can tell. In fact, most days our neighbor does nothing but lie around in the “contemplating” hammock he’s slung up between two yellow-woods. Right this minute, I can see his behind pushing through the knotting and scraping the top of the grass that should’ve been mowed two weeks ago. This sort of Indolence: Inactivity as a result from disliking work can really get under the skin of a man like Grampa, whose calluses have calluses.
    â€œEat,” Grampa says, lighting up with his Zippo. “You’re startin’ to look like a bedpost.”
    I take another sneak peek next door. Lord. Grampa would have an apoplectic fit if he knew that Willard has been attempting to teach Clever and me how to play strip poker, which I’ve come to believe doesn’t have so much to do with cards as Willard taking the opportunity to show off his pecker that he has named Lord Sparky. Clever is dazzled. I suspect that the two of them might be having hot sex, which I think doin’ before you’re married is a lot like eating supper before sayin’ grace. Contrary to common sense. But Clever, she dropped out of school in the ninth grade, so she is not entirely educated.
    Grampa’s stacking up his dirty dishes on one end of the picnic table, his cigarette dangling from his lips. “Ya feelin’ all right? Ya seem on the distracted side lately. More than usual.”
    (Oh, if he only knew. Considering how he feels about him, my grampa’s going to be thrilled to the nub when he finds out Mr. Buster is not missing, but dead. I can barely rein myself in from letting him in on the secret!)
    â€œStop frettin’ about me and start sayin’ your prayers, Charles Michael Murphy,” I shout. “I got a feelin’ I may go down in Scrabble history tonight.”
    Giving me a low-watt grin, he pulls open the screen door. “Don’t forget to feed him,” he says, and him and the dirty dishes disappear inside.
    I got leftover catfish and a slice of cornbread on my plate for Keeper so I set it down in the grass for him. This time of day a breeze likes to tickle the lake so the tips of the willows are etching smiles near the shore. My bangs are ruffling.
    Our neighbor calls over in his shovey accent, “Is he gone?”
    â€œYes, Willard, he is.”
    I attempted to write a Welcome to Cray Ridge story right after he moved in, but Willard dodged every single one of my questions, which I found odd since folks are