The Age of Odin - James Lovegrove [21]
Odin chuckled and left the room.
And I thought, Nutter. Not in a condemning way.
Well, not completely.
But Odin Borrson was clearly not a hundred per cent sane.
Eccentric, that would be one word for it.
After all, trolls.
Trolls!
And he'd seemed serious when he said it. As though he sincerely believed things like trolls existed.
Despite what I'd said about reading, a book did appear. It was lying on my bedside table when I next woke up. Big fat hardback that looked like it had been read several times. Bumped around a bit. Jacket creased and torn at the edges.
I peered at the large gold lettering on the spine.
Only President Keener's autobiography. Her life story, her small-town-girl made good saga. From Wonder Springs To Washington. Last year's big bestseller. I'd heard she got a ten million dollar advance for it.
I left it well alone.
For about an hour.
Then curiosity - and/or boredom - took hold. I grabbed the book. There was the prez, gazing winsomely out from the cover. Off to some fancy function, some Republican party fundraiser maybe. Hair all coiffed. Evening dress on, showing a hint of cleavage but not enough to be trashy. Clutch bag. Diamond necklace and earrings. Teeth all sparkly white like only an American's could be. Belle of the ball.
That face - so wholesome. So shiny and corn-fed and true.
But you could tell. You could just tell. She was a dirty bitch. It was in her eyes. Get her behind closed doors, down under the covers, she'd be all filth and knickers. She'd do stuff no good girl ever would and not every bad girl would either.
Or so it was nice to think.
I started flicking through. Scanned a paragraph here, a page there.
Soon, in spite of myself, I was engrossed. Engrossed as you might be by a glossy soap opera or a grade-Z slasher flick.
Seven
Passages from From Wonder Springs To Washington:
If somebody asks me where I come from, I always tell them, "I come from where you come from. I come from a small town where the people are kind to each other and look out for each other and go to church on Sunday and bake stuff like there's no tomorrow and always have time for a 'good morning' and a 'how do you do?'"
But should this person press me, I'll say, "I come from Wonder Springs, Georgia. Location: thirty miles south-west of Savannah. Incorporated: 1936. Population: Just right. Weather: Never less than perfect."
I was born there. Raised there. Have kin there. Still own a home there. I'm a Wonder Springs girl through and through. The name of that burg is tattooed on my heart. Whenever I can get back there, I go, and whenever I'm wandering down Main Street, that wide old avenue where the cottonwoods are draped with Spanish moss like chiffon accents on a gown, everybody greets me as though I've never been away. It isn't "Oh, lookee here, if it ain't Miss Grand High Mucky-muck, come down from Washington to see how us ordinary folks are gettin' on with our lives." It's "Hi there, Lois!" and "Long time no see, Lois!" and "You drop on by for some iced tea, gal, y'hear?"
Wonder Springs exists. You'll find it on a map. You can visit. You'll be welcome.
But for me, it's way more than just a place. It isn't even home.
It's goshdarn Heaven.
I was all the things a woman of my age and social standing was expected to be. I was a mom, a homemaker, a baker of cakes, cookies and cobblers, a supportive wife to Ted, a good friend to my gal pals. I was on the PTA at Brian and Carol Ann's elementary school. I volunteered as a parishioner at the First Baptist Church on Mulberry Drive, helping hand out the hymnals and straighten the hassocks. I worked one evening a week at the soup kitchen down on Okefenokee Lane, doing my bit for the homeless. I drove Brian and Carol Ann to more soccer games and cheerleading practises than I care to recall!
I don't think it occurred to me even once during the