Land of a Hundred Wonders
Lesley Kagen
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Epigraph
A Deadline
Black and White and Red All Over
The Creek Don’t Really Rise
Sneaky
A Friend Indeed
Making Hay While the Sun Shines
Mr. Charles Michael Murphy
As Clever Does
The Gadabout
The Queen of Browntown
Reverend Jack
A Not So Hot Mama
The Odd and the Otter
An Eye for an Eye
Hiding and Seeking
White Sheets
On My Ownish
Baby Talk
On the Lamb
The No Good, the Bad and the Ugly
The Hideout
Back Home
Cheating
Not Copacetic
Free at Last
Vengeance Is Mine
Like a Greased Pig
Surrounded
At the Gallop
Hightailin’It
Back to Blackstone
The Truth Doesn’t Always Set You Free
Sunup
Land of a Hundred Wonders
The Soul of the Matter
Birthday
The Showdown
In Conclusion, I’d Like to Say
About the Author
Land of a Hundred Wonders
Praise for Land of a Hundred Wonders
"I’ve been a Lesley Kagen fan ever since I read her beautifully rendered debut, Whistling in the Dark. Here she adds to what is shaping up to be her greatest strength as a novelist: She creates a most unusual narrator whose quirky innocence and frankness reveal more story than she is aware she’s telling; it’s deftly done and endlessly sweet. Set against the volatile backdrop of the small-town south of the 1970s, Land of a Hundred Wonders is by turns sensitive and rowdy, peopled with larger-than-life characters who are sure to make their own tender path into your heart.”
—Joshilyn Jackson, author of Gods in Alabama
and The Girl Who Stopped Swimming
"Lesley Kagen has crafted a story that is poignant, compelling, hilarious, real, and absolutely lovely. Her characters are enchanting and will have you racing to the end of this terrific novel.”
—Kris Radish, author of Searching for Paradise in Parker, PA
"A truly enjoyable read from cover to cover. . . . Miss Kagen’s moving portrayal of a unique young woman finding her way in a time of change will touch your heart. And that, dear reader, is Quite Right indeed.” —Garth Stein, author of The Art of Racing in the Rain
"Lesley Kagen’s lucid, confident prose shines on every page of Land of a Hundred Wonders, giving a unique and unforgettable voice to her moving and heartfelt story. The humor and passion of Gibby and her compatriots will stay with you long after you reach the end.” —Tasha Alexander, author of A Fatal Waltz
Written by today’s freshest new talents and selected by New American Library, NAL Accent novels touch on subjects close to a woman’s heart, from friendship to family to finding our place in the world. The Conversation Guides included in each book are intended to enrich the individual reading experience, as well as encourage us to explore these topics together—because books, and life, are meant for sharing.
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“With all the charm of Cold Sassy Tree’s Will Tweedy, Kagen has created an equally memorable, quirky character in Gibby McGraw. Gibby will make you laugh and touch your heart, proving that even someone who’s Not Quite Right can still remedy the broken lives around her. For everyone who loved Whistling in the Dark, Lesley Kagen has worked her magic again in Land of a Hundred Wonders.”
—Renee Rosen, author of Every Crooked Pot
More Praise for Lesley Kagen and
Whistling in the Dark
Chosen as a Hot Summer Read
by the Chicago Tribune
A Great Lakes Book Award Nominee
“Bittersweet and beautifully rendered, Whistling in the Dark is the story of two young sisters and a summer jam-packed with disillusionment and discovery. With the unrelenting optimism that only children could bring to such a situation, these girls triumph. So does Kagen. Whistling in the Dark shines. Don’t miss it.”
—Sara Gruen, New York Times bestselling author
of Water for Elephants
"[A] sophisticated charmer of a first novel.... What makes the novel appealing ... is Kagen’s literary style and her ability to see the world—and the truth—unfold gradually through the eyes of a ten-year-old. Sally’s voice ... is innocently wise and ultimately captivating. Sally and Troo are both finely wrought characters, achingly alive amid a few other splendid characters, such as a girl with Down syndrome.” —Milwaukee Journal Sentinel
"Every now and then, you come across a book with characters so endearing that you love them like family, and a plot so riveting that you can’t read slowly enough to make the story last longer, no matter how hard you try. Whistling in the Dark is one such book. I absolutely loved this novel from the first page to the last!”
—Sandra Kring, author of Carry Me Home
and The Book of Bright Ideas
"The loss of innocence can be as dramatic as the loss of a parent or the discovery that what’s perceived to be truth can actually be a big, fat lie, as shown in Kagen’s compassionate debut.... Kagen sharply depicts the vulnerability of children of any era. Sally, ’a girl who wouldn’t break a promise even if her life depended on it,’ makes an enchanting protagonist.” —Publishers Weekly
"We trust this gritty and smart, profane and poetic little girl to tell us the truth about her neighborhood and its mysteries. And best of all, we trust Sally to tell us what it was like to be ten years old in the summer of 1959.” —Milwaukee Magazine
"Kagen’s debut novel sparkles with charm thanks to ten-year-old narrator, Sally O’Malley, who draws readers into the story of her momentous summer in 1959. The author has an uncanny ability to visualize the world as seen by a precocious child in this unforgettable book.” —Romantic Times (4½ stars, top pick)
"Reading Whistling in the Dark is like time-traveling back to the hot summer days of your childhood. You can’t spend time with the O’Malley sisters without reliving the heartbreak, the fear and the joy of growing up.” —Debrah Williamson, author of Paper Hearts
"The plot is a humdinger ... a certifiable grade-A summer read.”
—The Capital Times
Also by Lesley Kagen
Whistling in the Dark
NAL Accent
Published by New American Library, a division of
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First published by New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, August 2008
Copyright © Lesley Kagen, 2008
Conversation Guide copyright © Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2008
All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Kagen, Lesley.
Land of a hundred wonders/Lesley Kagen.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-0-451-22409-5
1. Women journalists—Fiction. 2. Women with disabilities—Fiction. 3. Kentucky—
Fiction. I. Title.
PS3611.A344L36 2008
813’.6—dc22 2008001062
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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To my family
Acknowledgments
Heartfelt thanks to all my wonders:
Editor Ellen Edwards, who leaves no literary stone unturned, no matter what creepy thing may be hiding beneath. You are magnificent.
The amazing advertising, art, editorial, production, promotion, publicity, and sales teams at NAL and Penguin.
The inimitable Jeff Kleinman and the stellar crew of Folio Literary Management.
The readers, who have been nothing short of miraculous. Your lovely notes of encouragement have meant the world to me. Wish I could give each and every one of you a bag of dark chocolate- covered cherries.
The generous booksellers across the country who have made me feel welcome in so many ways.
English teachers and librarians, my earliest heroes.
Early readers and dear friends, the Flemings, Eileen Sherman, John and Marsha Bobek, Connie Kittelson, Hope Irwin, Susan Shimshak, Sharry Sullivan, Nancy Kennedy, Sara Schroeder, Eileen Kaufmann, and Robert Welker.
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.
There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.
—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.
Who: Me
What: Reporting
Where: Top O’ the Mornin’ Diner and Pumps. Cray Ridge, Kentucky, United States of America. Conveniently located at the corner of Main and Route 12.
When: Friday, August 13, 1973
Why: ’Cause if I don’t get cracking, next week’s front page is gonna have all the pizzazz of a piece of one-ply.
I put my favorite No. 2 back to work.
Welcome to Cray Ridge
You can set your watch by Miss Cheryl and Miss DeeDee showing up for biscuits and gravy every Sunday morning at the diner. Miss Cheryl tells me she’s a secretary. Her friend, Miss DeeDee, has been experiencing some trouble with her vision, so they’ve been driving all the way from Paducah to visit regular with Miss Lydia.
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 Not Quite Right, which means—brain-wise—I’m not doing so hot.
The Louisville Hosp
ital sent him this letter dated July 10, 1970. I found it balled up in the glove department of his truck.
Dear Mr. Murphy,
As a result of the brain injury she incurred in the auto accident, early indications are that your granddaughter is experiencing difficulties with word usage, reasoning skill, attention span and disinhibition. Currently, we’re not certain if her memories are repressed as a result of the trauma or physiologically based. Only time will tell how much of the damage may be permanent or how much is
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.
