Beaming Sonny Home Read Free Page A

truck and then sped away to this trailer, at Marigold Drive Trailer Park. Neighbors have told police that the trailer belongs to Sheila Bumphrey Gifford, Sonny Gifford’s estranged wife.” The picture was still on the house trailer. Mattie noticed a green-and-white lawn chair leaning against the small porch railing. A child’s sand pail, the toy shovel peeking above the rim, was tilting out of a tiny pile of brownish dirt in the front yard. Then the picture flicked back to the newscaster’s face, which was lined with professional concern.
    â€œSonny’s robbed a bank!” Mattie cried, but Rita waved her cigarette.
    â€œSonny’s too lazy to rob a bank,” said Rita. “That involves weeks of planning. I’m telling you, this stunt takes the cake.” The screen now showed a man and woman standing in front of a gray-colored bank, their hands waving, their fingers pointing frantically. Mattie could see the words Bangor Savings and Loan just above their heads.
    â€œHe just sort of appeared out of nowhere,” the woman was saying. “He said he had a gun and, well, I didn’t look. I just covered my eyes.”
    â€œGun?” asked Mattie. What was Sonny doing sporting a gun? Sonny hated guns, had never even fired BBs as a boy.
    â€œHe told us he had no intention of hurting anyone,” the man said. He had a big round nose, bigger even than Elmer Fennelson’s. “He picked two young women out of the line and they had no choice but to go with him.” Well, it would be like Sonny to choose women. He had always been a ladies’ man.
    â€œHave you ever?” asked Rita. “Is this not the worst yet?” Mattie strained forward in her chair. She still couldn’t understand what was happening. Sonny hadn’t shot anyone. Sonny hadn’t robbed a bank. So what was he doing in a bank claiming he had a gun?
    â€œTell me what he’s done,” Mattie warned her daughter, “before I slap you.”
    â€œListen,” Rita cautioned. She cranked the volume button higher.
    â€œThe suspect has given no statement as to why he took the two female hostages or what his plans are now that he’s barricaded himself inside his estranged wife’s trailer, Police Chief Patrick Melon has told reporters. Bangor police are in the process of setting up telephone communication with Mr. Gifford at this time.”
    â€œMy God,” said Mattie. “Hostages?”
    â€œDidn’t I tell you it would take the cake?” Rita wanted to know. “This is a lot worse than when he set fire to the American Legion Hall.” Did Rita have to remember everything? Couldn’t she focus once in a while on something good Sonny had done? Hadn’t he gone back himself, the very next day, and helped rake up all the rubble left behind after the Legion Hall burned down? And besides, everyone in town was glad it had burned. It had been an eyesore for a good many years and someone’s kid was bound, sooner or later, to fall through the rickety floor.
    â€œHostages,” Mattie said again, and her mind played with the word. Hostages were usually nabbed in strange parts of the world, by terrorists and governments run by folks in the Middle East who wore dish towels on their heads. But hostages in Bangor, Maine? Taken by her only male child, Sonny Gifford? Mattie’s heart fluttered again, in that way Sonny Gifford could make it flutter.
    Marlene and Gracie roared into the driveway. Mattie hoped they hadn’t mown down the cement birdbath she had set out on the lawn just that morning, in the middle of her pansy bed. It was a little statue of St. Francis, holding a bowl in his hands which Mattie had filled with water for the birds. Marlene was first into the house, Gracie on her heels. They both flung their purses upon the sofa.
    â€œI had no more than hung up the phone from talking to you,” Gracie said excitedly, “when Denise Craft