Sweet Paradise by Gene Desrochers (most read books in the world of all time .txt) 📕

“What are you doing here in early October? Don’t you have classes?” Objection, leading the witness, I thought. This boy must be very concerned about his grandmother to come down here in the middle of the semester from a life he clearly adored.

After another sip of water, he muttered, “My Grandma sent me this weird handwritten letter to come see a reporter. It appeared in my actual mailbox. Must have been hand-delivered.”

I stared at him. “You mean someone physically in the state of Georgia dropped a letter into your mailbox?”

He nodded. “You believe that? No stamps or nothing. I tried calling her about it, but her phone goes right to voicemail and the mailbox as of yesterday was full, probably from all my calls. Text and email also got me nowhere. I tried locating her phone with that Find-My-iPhone App, but the thing must be dead as roadkill if she even set it up. None of my roommates knows squat. Partying and useless most of the time. No one saw anyone drop off the letter. It looked like her handwriting, but man, I didn’t want to just take off from school. Once I heard that full mailbox message, shoot, I had to come, know what I mean?”

“How long since you got the letter?”

“About five days.”

“You want to show it to me? Maybe fresh eyes.”

“It’s been longer. I’m ashamed. More about ten or eleven days.” He fiddled with his empty glass some then rubbed the back of his sunburned neck before he went on. “Guess I’m forgetting things. Been away too long. Sun’s mighty strong here. Mighty.” I waited. “She hasn’t been online in over a month. I’ve called countless times and my texts go unanswered.”

The kid was repeating himself. Fear could do that.

“What do your parents say?”

He was eighteen, so it didn’t really matter legally. If he hired me, we were good to go, but I doubted he held the purse strings.

“They insist I don’t know her like they do. But that’s the thing, I know her. Yeah, I know they say she used to be flighty, back when they were first born, but that’s long done. She’s a reliable lady as they come.”

As he spoke these last words, his head drooped. He appeared to be looking through the bottom of his glass at my tattered rug, which was bound to make a man even sadder.

He sniffled some and rubbed his nose making me wish I had a box of Kleenex on my desk. It would pair well with Evelyn’s photo.

“So, what makes you think she didn’t run off with some hunk of a man or go on an extended vacation. Does she vacation?”

He shook his bowed head. His fine hair was cut extremely short and a one-inch wide bald spot was already forming on the flat part at the back. He seemed young for hair-loss. I wanted to press him about the letter, but he seemed hesitant to discuss the contents.

“Do you like bikes?” he asked.

“Bikes. Sure, bikes are nice. I don’t ride much, though. Not for pleasure. If I need to get from here to there and don’t have other transport or time for walking, I’d take a bike. Why?”

“I ride. Long distances. In Georgia it’s easy. Long, flat roads that meander for miles. Lot of back country. I guess I’ve become a bit of a Georgia boy. This island feels stiflin’. Too hilly for biking and roads too narrow. But, I’m gonna wind up back here. We all do.”

“What’s your Grandma’s name?”

“Francine Bacon.”

The name sounded familiar. Maybe I’d read it somewhere and it was lodged in my long-term memory. Had I known the family in my youth?

“What’s your mother’s name?”

“Gertrude. But she left long ago. Way long ago. It’s me and my dad here, and his brother and sister. I guess aunt and uncle. And my grandma.”

“Your mother left?” I asked, stuck on that sad fact.

“Yeah, when I was just born. My dad, Herbie, says she just wasn’t meant to be a mom. She couldn’t handle it. I’ve been trying to find her, but no luck. I don’t even know her last name.”

“It’s not Bacon?”

“Don’t know. My dad won’t talk about it. None of them will. He says she’s not worth my breath or thought. He says some women aren’t cut out to be mothers. Is that true?”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s true.”

“I guess in my emotions I spilled a bunch on you. Sorry,” he said. I filled his water and gave it back. He sucked on the edge of the glass, his eyes far away.

“And who were you going to speak to at The Daily News?”

“Me,” came the reply from my doorway. “Herbert, Junior?” A slight man with a thick head of hair slipped in like a shadow and extended his hand in one fluid motion. “I’m Adirondack Kendal, the reporter you were coming to see. I started wondering what was keeping you and heard voices coming out of Mr. Montague’s office.” Kendal turned to face me. “Boise.”

Kendal the Jackal was the name Dana had given this one on account of his propensity to steal stories from other reporters. He didn’t look happy with me.

“Kendal, don’t you knock?” I asked.

He pointed at his nose. “I smelled wet paint and remembered your door wasn’t orange when I walked up the stairs this morning. Besides, it was open.”

“Indeed it was. You should still check to see if you’re welcome before you enter a room.”

At this he offered an academic smirk, then shifted his gaze back to Junior.

What was Kendal up to? According to Dana, although he claimed to be a legitimate journalist, his instincts tended more toward scandal and innuendo than fact. Perhaps he recorded every episode of TMZ and watched it longingly in the dark of his pitiable apartment, the television flashing the Kardashians and Pitts in technicolor. Francine Bacon must have some level of notoriety for Kendal to be this interested.

Before he could address Junior, I interjected. “So, Kendal, what do you want with Junior here? Are