Read Wingshooters for Free Online Page B

for you soon.
    This sounded promising, but I wasn’t sure I could believe it. Two weeks had already turned into thirteen months. And besides, as much as I wanted to see him, I didn’t know how I felt about leaving. There was plenty I liked about being there in Deerhorn.
    At four-thirty sharp, I went downstairs and took my usual seat by the dining room window. As soon as I saw my grandfather turn the corner onto Dryden Road, Brett and I ran out of the house. We sprinted all the way up the street, running straight at Charlie, and when he saw us, his face broke into a crooked grin. I barely slowed down as I hit him and threw my arms around his waist, the dog circling us and barking. “Whoa, Mikey,” he said laughing, as he stepped back from the force of my blow. He often called me Mikey, and sometimes Mike; he only addressed me as Michelle when I was in trouble. Now he rubbed my head hard with his knuckles and asked, “How was school today?”
    “Fine,” I said into his shirt. I knew I wouldn’t ask him what I’d asked my grandmother; I didn’t want to talk about the nurse and the teacher anymore. Besides, I felt peaceful—my arms around Charlie, my cheek against his shirt, which smelled like Old Spice and fresh-cut grass. He disentangled me and we walked down the street toward home, me holding on to his, rough callused hand.
    We sat down for supper at five. My grandmother served us chicken, scalloped potatoes, and squash, getting up several times to refill our glasses of milk. Finally, after all of our plates were half-cleared, my grandfather looked up from his food.
    “Those kids still giving you trouble, Mike?”
    I stared down at my plate, remembering the girls at my locker, the boy who’d called me a name. “No, not really.”
    “Well, if they do, you know what I told you now. Just pop ’em one.” He made a fist and punched his other hand.
    My grandmother turned to him. “Charlie, you shouldn’t encourage her to be violent.”
    He leaned back in his chair, arms spread and palms up, appealing to her, resisting. “I’m not talking about violence, Helen. This is self-defense. Mike’s got to be able to take care of herself.”
    “Well, I don’t like it.” She got up and went into the kitchen. From the harsh way she opened and closed the refrigerator, I could tell she was upset.
    I wondered if my grandfather was annoyed at her—but when I glanced over at him, he winked. Then he reached over and poked me—in the shoulder, in the side—until I giggled and tried to swat his hand away. When my grandmother came back to the table, with more butter for the squash, she looked at us disapprovingly. Then Charlie fixed her with that grin of his and said, “Thank you, sweetheart,” and her expression finally softened.
    Our good spirits restored, my grandfather recounted what he’d heard that day. Earl Watson had gotten a new order of shotguns, just in time for duck hunting season. John Berger’s construction company had received a contract to build a dozen new houses near the clinic. Uncle Pete’s secretary was pregnant again, her third child with that good-for-nothing Jerry Kolinski who Pete had fired two years ago. I stole glances at Charlie while I ate. His skin was a glowing brown, so tanned from working in the garden that he might have been that color all the way through. His hair was the color of barley, while my grandmother’s had been gray for as long as I could remember. Watching my grandfather, I could see what it was about him that made women blush at him even now. He sat there in his trousers and green short-sleeve shirt, elbows slung on the table, looking at home with himself and the world.
    He’d been sitting in the same spot a little over a year before when I emerged from the bedroom one morning. I’d taken a few steps toward the table and then stopped, surprised—my grandfather was always out of the house by the time I woke up, and although my father and I had only recently arrived, I knew