The Secret Hum of a Daisy: Chapters 9–13

In the meantime, my mission to do more Plan B sabotage was stopped in its tracks by Grandma’s insomnia.

In the meantime, my mission to do more Plan B sabotage was stopped in its tracks by Grandma’s insomnia. After a couple nights of sneaking out later and later, I was starting to wonder if Grandma went to sleep at all, or if she was having trouble, like me.

“If I didn’t want you here, you wouldn’t be here.”
“You’re my only next of kin. That’s what Mrs. Greene said. So you don’t have a choice.”

I’d even snuck in her room when I’d first gotten here, the only place she kept color, and found a knitted afghan done in purples at the bottom of her bed, a quilt made from floral fabrics, and more books on her nightstand.

There was an overstuffed, comfy chair made from bright green fabric, the color of grass, and watercolor paintings on her walls. Trees in winter. An old barn that looked like the one out in the pasture. A golden retriever lying at the base of a chair, a man’s boots nearby. I didn’t understand why Grandma had to keep the fanciful part of herself, if there really was one, behind a closed door.

I’d learned early that writing worked like that little hole in the teakettle where steam came pouring out. I could pour all my steam onto the page, along with my crazy notions about the world.

Sometimes I could conjure my father with Mr. Frost’s words. It didn’t happen all the time. But once in a great while, when I wasn’t even trying, I could see him there plain as day, moving around doing some dull task like sweeping the floor or hammering a nail.

Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?

Beth stormed away, her long, billowy scarf trailing behind her.

He accused his best friend of hiding it and they got in a huge fight. He was inconsolable and Mom had to come pick him up.

Mama had always told me it was a good deed to help when I could, to share my worldly perspective, having met so many people along the way.

So our teacher, Mrs. Lemon, went ahead and gave Wrinkle a proper burial with a eulogy and everything.

Everyone in the class sat there, quiet, giving a moment of silence to the death of Archer’s dignity, but all I wanted to do was ask him if he’d actually seen that girl—had I even smiled in the last five days?—or dreamed her up.

Archer was suddenly composed, like he might launch into his own Shakespearean monologue instead of Ginger. Which, if he did, would be the most spectacular form of diversion I’d ever seen.

“Henry VIII?” I said to Jo.
“A rat. Mr. Flinch feels that we should always name our class pets after ‘rapscallions and historical tyrants.’”

The first thing I saw was an origami crane made from newspaper on the bookshelf beside me, which then made me feel even more disoriented.

I wiped the drool from my cheek, mortified, and looked up to see Mr. Flinch grading papers.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?”
“We didn’t have the heart. Stubbie Wilkins suggested we get out the indelible markers, but he is a heathen.”

“Your mother was in good company with her beliefs. The crane is a mystical bird. Some think it carries souls up to heaven on its outstretched wings. Some believe it signifies healing and hope.”

One never knows when one might need a handkerchief for dramatic flair.

Because I was feeling generous after my recent discoveries, I went back and grabbed an uneaten apple out of my backpack and trudged across the high weeds of the pasture, getting my jeans wet with dew.

I’d never fed a horse before and realized with a shudder that my whole arm could fit in her mouth. But I was committed, so I figured I’d just do it the way I’d seen it done on some animal show on TV. I put out my hand, flat, and she brought her muzzle down, her lips like velvet across my skin as they gathered up the apple.

“Later this afternoon, I’ve got a delivery of manure coming, and I could use some help with it,” Grandma said.

“Well, I can only hope the raccoons don’t organize a coup,” she said.

“Just my homework. It’s, um, a seriously time-consuming project. It’s going to take me a very long time. So long, in fact, I might just miss the whole manure extravaganza.”

I stopped outside Margery's storefront, where there was a display of four mannequins, two wearing sheer nighties alongside two in flannel nightgowns—all four in hideous wigs.

Hanging on the high brick wall behind her was a sign made from found objects. The T in Threads was an extra-large gardening trowel and a rough piece of reclaimed wood.

Mama had been carrying the load of Bear River Park flyers, which took off for the heavens on what had been a blustery day.

“He was wiry strong, not beefy strong.”

She knew everything about him and I could only know things she saw fit to tell me. I wished I could zoom around her brain and pick up the knickknacks of his life, one at a time.

The thought of her beloved manure probably helped her get back some composure.

There’d been Cole’s Joint, where you ordered your burger by pointing to the buffalo, ostrich, or deer head festooning the wall.

She had little spindly legs and wore those white rubber-soled shoes you usually saw on a nurse.

Max’s book, The Egyptian Way of Death, was turned to a particularly interesting page that had to do with brain extraction.

“Can I be the one to slurp your brains out your nose and collect your innards in a pot?” Jo said.

Max calmly foisted another potato at her, and this one landed, splat, under her left eye, leaving a snail trail as it slid down her face.

Someone’s already helping with the sarcophagus and I’m working on the ceremonial speech, but I’ll need anointing oils.

Grandma waved me over as Jo prattled on about some old actors named Cary Grant and Debra Kerr, and was it pronounced Kerr or Car, and what kind of cheese corn did I like, orange or white, and to practice taking deep breaths in preparation for the life-altering movie that was An Affair to Remember.

She made a beeline for us and practically shoved the bag into Grandma’s arms.

My feelings were getting hard to keep straight, as they had a mind of their own. Hooligans were what they were. Hooligans running around inside, making a general mess of things so that I didn’t much know if I was coming or going.