Читать книгу Another Song For Me - Jean Castaing - Страница 5

By Friday, God had not dropped someone significantly different into my lap, so I agreed to go on a fishing jaunt with Grandpa, hoping I’d manage to get him to see he was my only hope.

As I did every day after school, I sat on the cold stone wall and waited for him. At least Shari Parker was nowhere in sight. The fantasy of performing in New Orleans danced in my mind when a distant rumble brought me back to reality. Smoke poured out the tailpipe of Grandpa’s faded red pickup as it chugged around the corner. He pulled close to the curb and waved me over. “Get in here, gorgeous,” he called.

Ready for another shake-your-guts-out ride, I climbed in and snapped my seatbelt. Country legend Patsy Cline’s voice blared from the CD player.

“Grandpa.” I laughed. “Your hat’s crooked. You gonna’ wear it backwards like a rapper?”

He drew his bushy eyebrows together and straightened his hat. Making sure he’d hear every lyric Patsy sang, he turned up the volume. “Why don’t you sing along, Maddie? Your voice is already as pure as Patsy’s.” He smiled. “Take after your Grandma. She sang with all the great ones, you know.”

“Yes Grandpa. I know.” I hoped he was right about my voice. I needed a bucket full of miracles to get me to New Orleans.

He gunned the motor, then shifted from first to third in a nano second. After my head stopped bouncing, I wiped a clear spot in the foggy windshield.

So, where’re we headed?” I asked.

“Sander’s Creek. ‘Bout twenty mile up Highway 46.”

“Twenty miles,” I said, emphasizing the “s”. The man was a college graduate with a degree in engineering. Why did he still talk like this?”

I wrinkled my nose. “Grandma says those fishing cabins at Sander’s are gross.”

Grandpa chuckled. “Your grandma thinks anything less than the Ritz Carlton is gross.”

“You think it’s going to snow tonight?”

“Maybe.”

“Can we fish if it snows?”

“Wouldn’t live here otherwise.”

“I figured you’d say something like that. One day I heard Grandma say that Layton Clayton would fish in a toilet if that were his only option.”

Grandpa snorted. “Yeah. She chased me out of the kitchen with a broom when I told her we were going fishing.” He turned onto the highway and began drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. We rode along in silence until Patsy Cline sang her last song, Crazy. Appropriate, I thought.

Grandpa turned off the CD player. “You’ve been mighty quiet,” he said. “What’s goin’ on?”

“I’m just tired and hungry. Can we stop for dinner somewhere?”

“Too late. I want to get to the cabin before dark. I brought some sandwiches and chips.”

“Why? There are lights in those cabins. Aren’t there?”

“Kerosene lanterns. But, I need a little daylight to get them goin’.”

I placed my hand on my forehead. “Please don’t tell me what else is missing.”

Grandpa narrowed his eyes. “Just don’t drink too much before you go to sleep.”

The minute I stepped into the cabin it was obvious Grandma was right. It was gross. And, Grandpa failed to mention that there was no creek at Sander’s Creek. We would have to drive another ten miles, before the sun came up. However, tonight he took great pride in pointing out the creature comforts the cabin had to offer. Mainly, two lumpy bunks with brown wool blankets that looked like they had been rescued from the set of a war movie. After he demolished three sandwiches I opened the Scrabble game I brought, ready to let him beat me. I needed him in the best mood possible when I reignited my help Madison get an “A” campaign. After he had won four games, mostly using nonexistent words, he climbed into his bunk and started snoring so loud I thought the windows might shatter.

At five-thirty the next morning Grandpa pulled off my covers. I peered out the window. A blanket of fresh snow covered the ground. “Time to hit the road,” he said. So after a fast breakfast of stale doughnuts and lukewarm coffee, we took off. We rode along passing nothing but white fields bordered by forests of naked, black trees. I had almost fallen asleep when the pickup started coughing and then jerked to a stop. Grandpa must have turned the key ten times, then slapped the dashboard, slid out of the cab and lifted the hood. I could tell he didn’t have any idea what he was doing, because he was cursing under his breath. I rolled down my window. “Get inside,” I said. “Someone will come along. You’re shivering. You’re gonna freeze.”

“I ain’t gonna freeze. I’m just shiverin’ at the thought of having to be towed home and face your grandma.”

He climbed back in the truck and slammed the door. I reached for my cell phone. “I’ll call a tow truck.”

“Won’t do no good. No reception out here.”

“Well,” I said, as long as we’re waiting for a miracle worker to appear, we need to talk again.”

“Oh no. I hate that phrase. Besides, I know what you’re getting at and I already said no.”

“But Grandpa. You’re the one person I can always count on. My life is riding on nailing this assignment. I will absolutely die if I get picked and have to bail because of a few not so hot grades.”

“Well, you’ve got a problem. You should have started thinking about those grades a long time ago.”

“They just announced the festival last week. No one will have to know that you’re my subject. I could write it up like I had interviewed some old guy at a bus stop. And maybe for once in my life I could do something that would make Mom proud.”

“Good luck with that,” Grandpa mumbled. He hopped out of the truck, and looked at me. “Now listen, I ain’t making no promises, but I’ll think about helpin’ you out. ‘Cept I don’t know why anyone with a lick of good sense, would want to go to New Orleans. Bunch of swamps, hurricanes, perverts dancing in the streets.” Grandpa shook his head so hard his chin jiggled. “I’m going to check the truck bed and see if I’ve got some emergency flares.”

He returned empty handed and with a sour face, then glanced across the road. “What the heck is that?”