Read Online Gooseberry Bluff Community College of Magic: The Thirteenth Rib (Kindle Serial) by David J. Schwartz - Free Book Online
Authors: David J. Schwartz
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death. She had thought for a while that the world would eventually fill in that hole, like a vacuum, but apparently grief was an unnatural phenomenon. Raymond Wilkins’ absence had substance. As a child, whenever Joy heard her father return home from a three- or four-day trip in the middle of the night, she would sneak out of her room and crawl into her parents’ bed. Her mother was an oncology nurse who often worked nights and always slept badly; she discouraged Joy and her sister and brother from sleeping with her when her husband was gone. But Ray Wilkins loved to crowd his children into the king-size bed: elbows and knees pressing into backs, drool dripping on shoulders, snoring waking everyone up. When their mother worked the night shift he would keep them up late, telling silly jokes or listening to them talk about their day.
As Joy got older the bed became too crowded, and she came to want her own space, but she had remained close with her father. For a long time he was her closest friend. It wasn’t until her late teens that she could read auras well enough to counterbalance her face blindness, and other kids often assumed that she was either slow or snobby because she couldn’t recognize them from day to day. A girl she was friendly with one day might wear pants instead of a dress the next day, or put her hair up in a ponytail, and become unrecognizable. But her father was always the same. He always smelled the same, he always had the same haircut, and he always called her “Pride ’n’ Joy.” His aura was always a bright, emerald green.
Joy loved her mother as well, but she was more changeable. She had always been moody and dissatisfied. She took up hobbies and friends and fashions and then lost interest and dropped them, staying in on her days off and sipping white wine while she read magazines about famous people. Her aura tended to dark greens tinged with gray. Joy didn’t claim to understand her mother, but after years of psychology classes her theory was that Marsha Wilkins was an introverted person who needed more solitude than she got at home, and didn’t know how to get it. Now that her husband was gone and her children had moved out, she was happier, and Joy had to admit that she resented her for it.
Ray Wilkins had suffered a heart attack at the yards and died before the ambulance arrived. He’d just turned fifty-one. It was too young, and Joy had never been able to process it. She’d cried, but she still woke up aching to hear his voice, to sit in his lap and smell his sweat.
Martin Shil was nothing like her father except in one way: consistency. His suits were all of the same style, and he wore them in a regular rotation; he never wore hats; he saw his barber every Monday like clockwork. His accent was faint but distinctive. He always crossed his legs and folded his hands in the exact same way. All that, and he took a genuine interest in her. He convinced her that her face blindness would not be a barrier to working for the FBMA, and he made sure that it was true. He invited her to dine at his house with himself and his wife. He always invited her over for Thanksgiving, even though Joy usually went home to see her mother.
She knew that she was grieving as much for her father, still, as she was for Martin. She felt guilty for that. But she consoled herself that it was also a compliment, because they were the two best men she had ever known.
The best thing she could do for him now was to find out who had killed him.
Chapter 3 — Across the Pond and Back Again
The sun was behind the bluff by the time Joy made it down to the St. Croix Trail. The Wisconsin side of the river was lit up like a greenery-filled stage, the glare of scattered windows shining in her eyes as she pulled into a spot in front of the St. Goose Pier. There were six rows of a dozen slips each. About a third of them were empty, but the rest held boats ranging from little water-skiing craft to those larger than her house.
As Joy got older the bed became too crowded, and she came to want her own space, but she had remained close with her father. For a long time he was her closest friend. It wasn’t until her late teens that she could read auras well enough to counterbalance her face blindness, and other kids often assumed that she was either slow or snobby because she couldn’t recognize them from day to day. A girl she was friendly with one day might wear pants instead of a dress the next day, or put her hair up in a ponytail, and become unrecognizable. But her father was always the same. He always smelled the same, he always had the same haircut, and he always called her “Pride ’n’ Joy.” His aura was always a bright, emerald green.
Joy loved her mother as well, but she was more changeable. She had always been moody and dissatisfied. She took up hobbies and friends and fashions and then lost interest and dropped them, staying in on her days off and sipping white wine while she read magazines about famous people. Her aura tended to dark greens tinged with gray. Joy didn’t claim to understand her mother, but after years of psychology classes her theory was that Marsha Wilkins was an introverted person who needed more solitude than she got at home, and didn’t know how to get it. Now that her husband was gone and her children had moved out, she was happier, and Joy had to admit that she resented her for it.
Ray Wilkins had suffered a heart attack at the yards and died before the ambulance arrived. He’d just turned fifty-one. It was too young, and Joy had never been able to process it. She’d cried, but she still woke up aching to hear his voice, to sit in his lap and smell his sweat.
Martin Shil was nothing like her father except in one way: consistency. His suits were all of the same style, and he wore them in a regular rotation; he never wore hats; he saw his barber every Monday like clockwork. His accent was faint but distinctive. He always crossed his legs and folded his hands in the exact same way. All that, and he took a genuine interest in her. He convinced her that her face blindness would not be a barrier to working for the FBMA, and he made sure that it was true. He invited her to dine at his house with himself and his wife. He always invited her over for Thanksgiving, even though Joy usually went home to see her mother.
She knew that she was grieving as much for her father, still, as she was for Martin. She felt guilty for that. But she consoled herself that it was also a compliment, because they were the two best men she had ever known.
The best thing she could do for him now was to find out who had killed him.
Chapter 3 — Across the Pond and Back Again
The sun was behind the bluff by the time Joy made it down to the St. Croix Trail. The Wisconsin side of the river was lit up like a greenery-filled stage, the glare of scattered windows shining in her eyes as she pulled into a spot in front of the St. Goose Pier. There were six rows of a dozen slips each. About a third of them were empty, but the rest held boats ranging from little water-skiing craft to those larger than her house.
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