Serious Nuts: The Inevitable Rise of Miss Grainger

by Geoff Geauterre

Gerald Hedgerow, son of two famous writers, one a novelist and the other a poet, has finally achieved success on his own . . . or rather, with the help of Miss Grainger, his pen-named alter ego. Unfortunately, though, this sweet, even tempered agony/advice columnist offers fame at a steep price. First, he can't reveal to the world that the wisdom of Miss Grainger belongs to someone else; she has too many faithful followers. He can't tell his parents; they keep telling him to follow 'her' advice. He can't keep a relationship; every time he gets close to a girl and finds out too much about her he/she tends to panic. And fourth, Miss Grainger is starting to threaten his ego, and he hasn't a clue what to do about it. Still, all those elements might have been taken care of in time, except when Miss Grainger sniffs out a scandal involving innocent seniors and their community center, then this champion for the rights of the elderly comes unglued. If that wasn't bad enough, suddenly she finds those she has exposed are actually quite dangerous, and as Gerald is her noble protector . . . they're both going to have to move mighty fast. From Pittsburgh to the Mediterranean to England, Gerald tries to keep a low profile, but when 'her' enemies sniff out the trail, leading straight to him, every resource he calls upon doesn't seem enough. Finally, realizing the obvious, he vanishes into the realm of his eccentric relatives in Worcester and trusts to luck, which has some surprising consequences.

978-1-59431-922-8

Suspense/drama

Chapter 1

"Your fate," the old crone said, peering down into Gerald's palm, and looking as if she wanted to spit, "crosses here!" To make certain he knew where 'here' was, she stabbed into the spot with a long, cracked nail.

He jerked from the jab of her claw. "Hey! What are you doing? That hurt."

"Be still," she muttered, "I am reading."

Gerald tried pulling back, but the clutch on his wrist was too tight. "Say, listen, I'm not here for this. Besides, I don't really believe in it."

"All a person is," she croaked, "is portrayed in the hand!"

A soft chuckle came from behind his ear. 'I could certainly tell her that is not necessarily true…'

He coughed. 'Not now!'

The crone's eyes shot up suspiciously. "What did you say?"

He tried to look innocent. "Nothing."

She shook her head and peered down sourly, examining his fate, and then she saw something, something that was obviously more disagreeable than all the rest. "Your future is nigh…"

He rubbed the bridge of his nose and felt a migraine coming on. "You could be right."

Her fingers spread his palm further outwards. "There is something here I do not like."

He gave his fortune a glance. "I'm getting a pretty good picture of it myself."

"This line does not run true."

"If you say so."

"I do!"

"All right, I give in. What's wrong with it?"

"It straggles."

"Short attention span, you think?"

"It bends."

"Uh huh."

"And there is something else."

He sighed. "There always is."

"You have black blood in you."

"Now there," he declared, finally extricating himself, "you're wrong. I can trace my lineage all the way back to a pair of starving immigrants clinging to Plymouth Rock." Then he chuckled. "Say, that's good. I'll have to remember that."

However, she wasn't laughing. Instead, reaching around, she swung something at him and the lights suddenly went out.

When his eyelids fluttered open, he found himself looking up at his fiancé. "Your grandmother," he told her, "just hit me over the head with a mallet."

"It was the family bible."

"She wanted me to sign it?"

"She wanted to see what would crawl out of your ears, if you were struck by the word of God."

"Angela, I looked that bible over. It's twenty pounds if an ounce."

"It's only a bible for God's sake."

"It's encased in metal. She has to be working out when no one's looking."

"We took her upstairs. She wasn't feeling well."

"Well, honey," he admonished, "that's the wrong place to send her. She ought to be in an asylum. That's where she belongs. I can attest to it."

"Gerald?"

"Yes, sweets?"

"Can you get up?"

He struggled into a sitting position; the room seemed to swirl, but resolute he gave her a manly smile. As a reward, she slapped him in the face.

When the room settled down again, he felt his jaw.

"Would you mind telling me what that was for?"

"We're talking about my grandmother," she declared, "who is eighty-eight years old, and a more saintly woman you would ever care to meet."

He tongued the inside of his cheek, and at that moment, imagined himself married to this woman, granddaughter to a lunatic. His stomach gave a slight twist. Galvanized, he scrambled to his feet and took stock. The family, which was about to claim him as one of their own, seemed oddly unmoved by what had just happened. Moreover, his focus narrowed on several specifics he had earlier overlooked.

Angela's father, for one thing, deserved a keener examination. A somber, sullen man who rarely smiled. The suit he wore was black, as if going to a funeral, and the tie was an odd pink, along with a charcoal shirt, and already on his fourth drink in less than an hour. Why was he holding onto it as if it were a life buoy?

He stared at Gerald in a very peculiar way, and it reminded him of the first time they met. Even then, he wondered what the other's gaze was really fixed on, and this time he thought he knew. The man wasn't looking at Gerald. He was looking at what Gerald signified. He was looking inwards… at his own life before making a catastrophic decision.

Then, across the room, he saw Angela's mother as she tittered and talked a mile a minute to the young priest, who was supposed to join them in holy wedlock. He looked inexperienced and bored.

Angela's sisters; young cutouts of the woman he was to marry, seemed to tremble on the brink of womanhood, with hungry, dark eyes. Across the room, their adolescent cousins giggled and whispered secretively, their curly mopped heads with bouncing locks looked like writhing snakes.

Other family members spoke in undertones and whispers, and when he tried to meet their eyes, they looked away, as if he was not really there.

"I think," he said carefully, "I've seen enough."

Angela scowled. "What are you babbling about this time?"

"Up to now," said Gerald wonderingly, "I have been walking in my sleep, but that slap of yours woke me up. Now I see things with startling clarity."

"I knew you were drinking too much. You're starting to sound drunk."

"Angela, you know I will always think of you fondly, although I must admit it will be in a curiously disaffected manner. Now, be so good as to move aside. A light beckons in the distance."

"Maybe," Angela muttered, "she hit you harder than I thought."

He pivoted for the door. "No, she struck the right chord, and so did you. It's just resonating, that's all."

"Where are you going?"

"Well, frankly, I don't know where I'm going," he said, setting a course, "but right now I'm getting the hell out of here!" He bolted.

"Gerald!"

"Don't worry," he called back, whipping through the exit. "I won't bother you by writing. I just want to give you your freedom, as you've given me mine!"

She howled. "You spineless son of a bitch! Come back here!"

But once outside, he leaped down the steps and started running, frantically searching for a cab. In a moment one swerved his way, and diving into its protective womb, it took less than ten minutes to get to his hotel, another five to throw everything in his suitcase, and five after that to pay his bill at the front desk.

Then, back out to the sidewalk, he jumped into another cab, shouting: "Fifty bucks if you get me to the airport in under fifteen minutes!"

As they screeched to a stop at the first terminal available, he rushed towards the counter, asked for the next flight out--he didn't care where it was going--was waved down a wide corridor, jumped around people as if they were standing still and made it to the gate just as it was closing.

Once safely buckled into his seat, he peered out the window, half expecting his ex-fiancé to come galloping up on a great white charger, furious, naked, scowling and waving a spear. 'Now that was a close call.'

"Why," he spoke under his breath angrily, "didn't you warn me!?"

'And spoil all the fun? I knew where it was going, only this time you moved a little slow for someone escaping perdition.'

When the passenger jet lifted off the runway, he drew a deep sigh of relief and took out his laptop. He was going to give himself a note about never believing in one's fate, and while he did, in the back of his mind he wondered what his father was doing?