The Search for Artemis - By P. D. Griffith Page 0,1

collected them like some people collect commemorative pins. Not only did they fill the two bookshelves she crammed into the living room, but they were also stacked on the end tables, on top of the TV and all around the unused fourth seat of the dinner table. Stacks accumulated by the front door, in the corners of every room, and on the two windowsills in the apartment. A collection of James Joyce novels (and the numerous books needed to comprehend James Joyce) sat atop the microwave. Lewis Carroll found his home next to a bottle of whiskey. Coincidentally, Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged held up as the replacement for the missing leg of their old leather couch. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle would have needed Sherlock Homes to find a copy of one of his books amid the illogical library that congested the apartment.

But books weren’t all his mother collected; she had a fondness for figurines and tchotchkes. No matter where she went, she came back with a little piece of junk. There was the pink flamingo lawn ornament she got in Florida, a snow globe from Vermont, and a miniature bronze replica of The Thinker that she acquired from a dinky souvenir shop in New York near Columbia University. There were resin replicas of every landmark around the globe: the Leaning Tower of Pisa, Mount Rushmore, The Great Pyramids of Giza, Big Ben, and Washington Monument, to name a few. It didn’t matter if she went there or not, she needed them. Countless more littered the apartment, generally resting on haphazardly constructed pedestals of bound paper and ink.

In an attempt to make the apartment a bit more normal, she put a bunch of framed pictures on the walls from their spontaneous vacations. For these trips, she would wake Landon up in the middle of the night, and the two of them would be gone as long as the money allowed. When they got back, she always seemed to pick the most embarrassing pictures to frame. As Landon neared the dinner table, he looked at one taken during their trip to Vermont last spring break. Dressed in layers of clothing, Landon stood awkwardly on a pair of rickety skis at the base of a large snow-covered mountain. He thought he looked like the Michelin Man in that photo.

It was embarrassing, but he didn’t care. It was what his mom did, and even if Landon didn’t always show it, he actually liked her. She told the craziest stories about her childhood growing up outside Atlanta, and she made the best food he had ever tasted. Her beef stroganoff was renowned throughout the apartment building. No barbecue commenced without her pasta salad. She also pushed Landon to try things, which he oddly appreciated. She saw too much of herself in him and didn’t want him to be unsuccessful because of a hereditary lack of motivation. Landon was what the school called “gifted,” meaning that he learned faster than the other kids and didn’t need to put in any effort to get by. And get by was all he did.

“Finally! I’m glad you could join us,” Mr. Wicker said as Landon shuffled toward his seat at the table.

“Sorry, sir. I didn’t know dinner was ready.” Landon pulled out his chair. His father seemed to be in a good mood that evening.

Mr. Wicker directed his attention to Landon’s mother.

“Babe! Bring me my plate! I’m not waiting any longer!”

Landon’s mom put a plate of delicious stroganoff in front of his father, and then set one each for Landon and herself, steam slowly rising from the piles of gravy-covered pasta. As the intoxicating smell wafted into Landon’s awaiting nostrils, he began to salivate, just waiting to dive into the Wicker specialty. It was a rule in the apartment that no one could eat until Mr. Wicker took his first bite. Over the years, Landon and his mom had received enough painful lumps on their heads from the heavy butt end of the butter knife to know this.

Mr. Wicker grabbed the salt and pepper off the table and shook copious amounts onto his plate. He then took his fork, scooped up a hefty amount of pasta and thrust it into his wide-open mouth. That was his cue. Landon began to devour his plate of food, not even taking a moment to breathe as he scarfed down his favorite meal. His mother calmly ate her food, constructing tiny, perfectly portioned bites on her fork. The table was silent. It always