Waiting for Augusta by Jessica Lawson Read Free Book Online

her down, backed out, and put on the pack. “Got it.”
    â€œShe didn’t even make a peep. Good work, son!”
    And that’s when Mrs. Clucksy woke up.
    If a bird could scream, Mrs. Clucksy would be the queen yeller of any horror film. The high-pitched squealing was part chicken cluck, part about-to-be-butchered pig, and part angry-female-having-her-baby-stolen. The second she started cackling, another light flickered in the room above the bar. I tucked the egg into my waistband, ran to the fence,and was halfway up when Frank stormed out the back door, yelling, “Mrs. Clucksy? What the heck is going on, sweetheart?”
    That chicken was charging down the welcome plank like a crazed, half-drunk animal (which, in all fairness, she was), and she headed straight for me.
    â€œHold on tight, Daddy.” I scrambled over and started running like the wind. Frank must’ve caught sight of my backside because he gave a holler and scooted for my section of the fence.
    â€œThief! Stop right there, you weasel!”
    Metal clanked as Frank shoved the kegs away from the gate. I dumped the money in my backpack and tossed the empty cash egg aside while I ran into brush cover. Looking over my shoulder to make sure Frank wasn’t heading our way, I swear that egg looked like a big version of a golf ball that somebody had hit way off course.
    I threaded through bushes down to the creek bed and stopped to catch my breath. “Hey, Daddy, you didn’t put this ball in my throat, did you?”
    He didn’t answer. I waited a few minutes, then dug in my bag for the flashlight and pointed it at him, half expecting him to jerk away from the light like I was shining it in his eyes, not his urn. “Hey, Daddy . . .”
    The only answer was a soft sound, like a muffled hog pen, and something ached right in my chest, because it wasa sound that I truly didn’t know I’d missed until it hit my ears. Daddy was snoring just like Mrs. Clucksy had a couple minutes ago.
    â€œThis is the craziest thing that’s ever happened to me,” I told him.
    It’s not crazy, the urn’s clasp said back. It’s a miracle.

HOLE 7
A Watercolor for May Talbot
    A quarter mile down the stream, something hit me on the back. When I turned and traced the blow, I noticed a raggedy sheet on the opposite bank, hanging over a low willow branch to create a makeshift tent. Noni’s arm poked out of it.
    â€œ Stop ,” I told her. “Quit throwing stuff.”
    â€œWhat’s the password?” the center of the sheet called. Noni crawled out of the tent and stood. “Oh, never mind. Anyone follow you?”
    â€œNo. How am I supposed to get over there?”
    â€œTry stepping in the water. Isn’t any deeper’n your knees right there.” She pointed.
    I followed her fingers and found the low section, wading fifteen feet to the other bank. Long stream grass and bushes near the willow did a nice job of hiding a tiny clearing. She’d used rocks to hold down the sheet at angles, and the willow branch was the perfect height to create a hideaway. I steppedcloser to get a better look, but she jammed a hand in my face before I got far.
    â€œEmpty the provision bag,” Noni ordered. “Let’s see what we got.”
    I did like she said and emptied the bag. Without Daddy giving me instruction, it was like this Noni girl had some sort of power over me. Her hair was lit up under the starlight, a few tiny strands broken off on top, waving free and rhythmic in the night breeze. I had the sudden urge to hear her sing. Her eyes drifted over the supplies approvingly until she inhaled quickly and slapped at my thigh.
    â€œOw! What’d you do that for?”
    â€œBug.” She picked up the pork container and opened it. “You’re welcome.” Without asking, she took a pinch of meat, dipping it into the corner that I’d filled with sauce. “I’ll