From the national bestselling author of Whistling in the Dark comes another funny, poignant, unforgettable story.
The summer Gibby McGraw catches her big break, the cicadas are humming, and it’s so warm even the frogs are sweating. Brain damaged after a tragic car accident that took both her parents, Gibby is now NQR (Not Quite Right), a real challenge for a fledgling newspaper reporter. Especially when she stumbles upon the dead body of the next governor of Kentucky, Buster Malloy.
Armed with her trusty blue spiral note-book, Gibby figures that solving the murder might be her best chance to prove to everyone that she can become Quite Right again. But she gets more than she bargained for when she uncovers a world of corruption, racism, and family secrets in small town Cray Ridge. Lucky for her, she’s also about to discover that some things are far more important than all the brains in the world, and that miracles occur in the most unexpected moments.
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 vi
sion, 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 en-
trance. 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 tre-
mendous 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 Mc
Graw, 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 re
member 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 warn
ing 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 Sim
mons, 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 be
came an 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 Hospital 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 perma-
nent 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 motor
ing 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 every
body 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 astound
ing 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.
Just in case you’re not familiar with the goings-
on of the
dearly departed, what Mama’s supposed to be doing is gazing
down at her baby girl from on high, fluttering her wings in pride,
her halo shooting off sparks of joy. She’s not supposed to be pacing
the stars, wringing her small but strong hands. Even though Miss
Lydia tried to comfort me by telling me that it’s not my fault, I
don’t believe her. That’s exactly what she would say, her being the
heart of Land of a Hundred Wonders. No, I’m positive Mama’s
restlessness is on account of me. Because I’m NQR.
So that’s why #1 on my VERY IMPORTANT THINGS
TO DO list is to prove that I can get Quite Right again. I figure
I’m gonna have to set my hook into a heck of a plan in order to
convince Mama. Ya know, something splashy. Like winning one
of those public Scrabble tournaments they hold over in Appleville
the first Sunday of every month. Or maybe reporting an awfully
good story. It can’t be something normal-
like. It’s gotta be some-
thing near miraculous in nature. Like me surviving the crash. Miss
Lydia tells me all the time I’m a living, breathing miracle.
At the current time, I’m leaning toward that reporting of an
awfully good story plan ’cause you’re never gonna guess what I
found on Browntown Beach this morning on my way to Land
of a Hundred Wonders. Not the usual trout with what-
the-
hell-
happened
eyes. Not a soggy boot with gnaw marks neither. Or
even a crushed-
up can of Falls Beer. No. Could be I stumbled
upon the kind of story that’ll get lips flapping far and wide. I can
perceive it all now. “I swear, the McGraw gal’s better at reportin’
these days than a twelve gauge,” folks’ll say, trumpeting my Ga
zette headline loud enough to be heard all the way up to the Pearly
Gates. “Can you believe how much righter she’s gotten?”
Lord. I believe I’ll move that public Scrabble tournament
plan to my back burner for the time being. Now that I’ve had a
chance to think this through, this awfully good story plan appears
to be the answer to my prayers! Yes, indeedy. Start scouting for a
nicely cushioned cloud to set your restless self, Mama. ’Cause that dead
body? It’s gonna be our ticket to Quite Right heaven.
"A truly enjoyable read from cover to cover...Ms. Kagen's moving portrayal of a unique woman finding her way in a time of change will touch your heart."
--Garth Stein, author of The Art of Racing in the Rain
"I've been a Lesley Kagen fan ever since I read her beautifully rendered debut Whistling in the Dark. Set against the backdrop of the small-town south of the 1970's, 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
"Lesley Kagen's lucid, confident prose shines on every page...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
"With all the charm of Cold Sassy Tree's Will Tweedy, Kagen has created an equally memorable 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 of those around her. For everyone who loved Whistling in the Dark, Lesley Kagen has worked her magic again.
--Renee Rosen, author of Every Crooked Pot
