Free Land of a Hundred Wonders by Lesley Kagen Page A

try blendin’ better with my mama,” I say.
    â€œWell, ya ain’t me, are ya?” Clever shoots back.
    In my way of thinking, even a bad mama is better than no mama at all, but I know better than to say that out loud. Everybody knows that Janice Lever, although a top-notch waitress at Top O’ the Mornin’ Diner, the kind that can carry two dishes on each arm, stinks to high heaven in the mothering department. But if somebody else besides her insults her mama, Clever’ll give ’em an Indian burn that stings like the dickens.
    â€œYa stayin’ here with us then?” I ask. She’s been living off and on with either Miss Florida in Browntown or here at the cottage since she was little.
    â€œBelieve I’ll stay over at Willard’s.” Clever picks out the last cigarette butt from the bag she keeps in her rolled-up sleeve. She steals the leftovers outta the ashtrays down at the diner when she can. “For now, anyways.”
    â€œMr. Frank Reynolds from ABC News in New York City says smokin’ can give you cancer.”
    She holds a match to the tip, breathes in. “Gettin’ cancer is the least of my problems,” she coughs out. “I’m . . . ah . . . in trouble.”
    Also not breaking news. Probably she’s in Dutch again with her boss over at the ice-cream stand. That’s fine. If she gets herself fired, maybe Mr. Cubby, the taxidermist, will hire her. She’s been wantin’ to work for him.
    â€œI’m knocked up,” she says.
    â€œI know how you favor those knock-knock jokes much as Grampa,” I say, swiping off eraser crumbs. “So I’m real sorry, but I don’t have time to be honing my sense of humor right now. It’s vital I get this story done.”
    â€œBeing knocked up don’t have nuthin’ to do with a joke. It ain’t funny.”
    â€œWell, what does it have to do with then?” I ask, fussy. Besides feeling like a full-out failure when I don’t understand what something means, I fear Mama’s gonna wear her pacing feet to the bone if I don’t figure out who murdered Mr. Buster soon.
    â€œKnocked up means”—Clever stops to hawk and spit—“I’m gonna . . . I’m gonna have a baby.”
    â€œYou’re what ?” Whipping my face to hers, I can tell she’s expecting me to say something more, but what would that be? I have no idea what the “appropriate” thing is to say in a situation like this. Would it be, “Congratulations”?
    â€œMama says it’s gonna ruin my life the same way I ruined hers. She agrees with Willard, who says I should give it away.”
    â€œGive what away?” I ask, completely confused.
    Her words sound like they’re wrapped in tissue paper when she answers, “The baby.”
    â€œYou can do that? Like . . . like . . . they give away those free samples of fudge at Candy World?”
    â€œWillard says there’s a social place in Lexington that’ll take it. If I give it away, he’ll let me stay with him long as I want. Maybe even take me to New York when he goes back.”
    A social place? I consider myself to be fairly knowledgeable in the social ways. This does not sound like anything I know about.
    â€œYa don’t wanna play cards. Ya wanna go to Browntown?” Clever asks, shooing off the baby subject and moving back onto the gadabout subject. “I could get a little hooch off Cooter.”
    Just in case you don’t know any Negroes, you definitely should get to. I am acquainted with quite a few of them because Miss Florida Smith, our helper at the diner, she is the Queen of Browntown even though the rest of Cray Ridge does not treat her like royalty. Except for when they are eating some of her pie. I am not allowed to go over to Browntown at night anymore. Miss Florida told Grampa last week to keep me away until things simmer down. But staying away, it