The One-In-A-Million Boy

By Monica Wood

The story of your life never starts at the beginning. Don't they teach you anything at school?

So says 104-year-old Ona to the 11-year-old boy who's been sent to help her out every Saturday morning. As he refills the bird feeders and tidies the garden shed, Ona tells him about her long life, from first love to second chances. Soon she's confessing secrets she has kept hidden for decades.

One Saturday, the boy doesn't show up. Ona starts to think he's not so special after all, but then his father arrives on her doorstep, determined to finish his son's good deed. The boy's mother is not so far behind. Ona is set to discover that the world can surprise us at any age, and that sometimes sharing a loss is the only way to find ourselves again.
 
“Readers won’t be able to resist falling for Ona … The conclusion will leave them smiling through their tears.”—Shelf Awareness

?“Poignant … There is much to enjoy in this heartfelt tale of love, loss, and friendship.”—Express

“A must-read book … Whimsical and bittersweet.”—Good Housekeeping

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins
• Release date: Apr 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9780544618442

Monica Wood

Monica Wood is a novelist, memoirist, and playwright; a recipient of the Maine Humanities Council Carlson Prize for contributions to the public humanities; and a recipient of the Maine Writers and Publishers Alliance Distinguished Achievement Award for contributions to the literary arts. She lives in Portland, Maine, with her husband, Dan Abbott, and their cat, Susie.

Book preview

title page

Contents

---

Title Page

Contents

Copyright

Dedication

Author’s Note

PART ONE: Brolis (Brother)

PART TWO: Sūnus (Sons)

PART THREE: Kelione (Journey)

PART FOUR: Draugas (Friend)

PART FIVE: Vakaras (Evening)

Acknowledgments

Discussion Questions

Also by Monica Wood

About the Author

Connect with HMH

First Mariner Books edition 2017

Copyright © 2016 by Monica Wood

Reading Group Guide copyright © 2017 by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company

All rights reserved

For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [e-mail] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

www.hmhco.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Wood, Monica.

The one-in-a-million boy / Monica Wood.

pages ; cm

ISBN 978-0-544-61707-0 (hardcover)—ISBN 978-0-544-94721-4 (pbk.)—ISBN 978-0-544-61844-2 (ebook)

I. Title.

PS3573.O5948O54 2015

813'.54—dc23

2015004345

Cover design by Christopher Moisan

Cover photograph © Trevillion Images

v3.0417

For

Joe Sirois,

who completed our family,

and

Gail Hochman,

who made the whole journey

Author’s Note

The One-in-a-Million Boy includes lists of world records, most of them assembled from various editions of the Guinness World Records series. Except for four obvious exceptions, the names and feats are real, and a matter of public record; however, they, and the Guinness World Records brand, are used here to embroider a world that exists only in my imagination. Some of the records will likely have been broken by more current contenders in the time between the writing and publication of this book. I also consulted the website of the Gerontology Research Group, an organization that keeps track of the world’s oldest people. The real-life musician David Crosby makes a brief appearance in the story, and he, too, is used fictionally.

PART ONE

Brolis (Brother)

* * *

This is Miss Ona Vitkus. This is her life story on tape. This is Part One.

Is it on?

. . .

I can’t answer all these. We’ll be here till doomsday.

. . .

I’ll answer the first one, but that’s it.

. . .

I was born in Lithuania. In the year nineteen hundred. I don’t recall the place. I might have, oh, the vaguest recollection of some farm animals. A horse, or some other large beast. White, with spots.

. . .

Maybe a cow.

. . .

I have no idea what type of cows live in Lithuania. But I seem to recollect—you know those spotted dairy-type cows you see everywhere?

. . .

Holsteins. Thank you. Oh, and cherry trees. Lovely cherry trees that looked like soapsuds in the spring. Big, frothy, flowering things.

. . .

Then there was a long trip, and a ship’s crossing. I remember that in pieces. You’ve got a million questions on that sheet—

. . .

Fifty, yes. Fine. I’m just saying, you don’t have to ask them in order.

. . .

Because the story of your life never starts at the beginning. Don’t they teach you anything in school?

Chapter 1

She was waiting for him—or someone—though he had not phoned ahead. Where’s the boy? she called from her porch.

Couldn’t make it, he said. You Mrs. Vitkus? He’d come to fill her bird feeders and put out her trash and tender sixty minutes to the care of her property. He could do at least that.

She regarded him peevishly, her face a collapsed apple, drained of color but for the small, unsettling, seed-bright eyes. My birds went hungry, she said. I can’t manage the ladder. Her voice suggested mashed glass.

Mrs. Ona Vitkus? Forty-two Sibley Ave.? He checked the address again; he’d taken two buses across town to get here. The green bungalow sat at the woodsy edge of a dead-end street, two blocks from a Lowe’s and a few strides from a hiking trail. Standing in the driveway, Quinn could hear birds and traffic in equal measure.

It’s ‘Miss,’ she said haughtily. He caught the faintest trace of an accent. The boy hadn’t mentioned it. She’d probably staggered through Ellis Island with the huddled masses. He didn’t come last week, either, she said. These boys don’t stick to things.

I can’t help that, Quinn said, suddenly wary. He’d been led to expect a pink-cheeked charmer. The house resembled a witch’s hovel, with its dreary flower beds and sharply pitched dormers and shingles the color of thatch.

They’re supposed to be teaching these boys about obedience. Prepared and kind and obedient . . . kind and obedient and . . . She rapped herself lightly on the forehead.

Clean, Quinn offered.

The boy was gone: clean gone. But Quinn couldn’t bring himself to say it.

Clean and reverent, the woman said. That’s what they promise. They pledge. I thought this one was the real McCoy. Another weak echo of accent: something brushy in the consonants, nothing an ordinary ear would pick up.

I’m his father, Quinn said.

I figured. She shifted inside her quilted parka. She also wore a hat with pompoms, though it was fifty-five degrees, late May, the sun beading down. Is he sick?

No, Quinn said. Where’s the birdseed?

The old woman shivered. Her stockinged legs looked like rake handles jammed into small black shoes. Out back in the shed, she said. Next to the door, unless the boy moved it. He gets his little notions. There’s a ladder there, too. You’re tall. You might not need it. She sized Quinn up as if considering a run at his clothes.

If I lowered the feeders, he suggested, you could fill them yourself.

She dug her fists into her hips. I’m quite put out about this, she said. All at once she sounded near tears, an unexpected key change that sped things up on Quinn’s end.

Let me get to it, he said.

I’ll be inside. She aimed a knuckly finger toward her door. I can supervise just as well through the window. She spoke with a zeal at odds with her physical frailty, and Quinn doubted for the first time Belle’s word that Ona Vitkus was 104 years old. Since the boy’s death, Belle’s view of reality had gone somewhat gluey. Quinn was awed by her grief, cowed by its power to alter her. He wanted to save her but had no talent for anything more interpersonally complicated than to obey commands as a form of atonement. Which was how he’d wound up here, under orders from his twice-ex-wife, to complete their son’s good deed.

The shed had peeling double doors that opened easily. The hinges looked recently oiled. Inside, he found a stepladder with a broken rung. The place reeked of animal—not dog or cat, something grainier; mice, maybe. Or skinny, balding, fanged rats. Garden implements, seized with rust, hung in a diagonal line on the far wall, points and prongs and blades facing out. He considered the ways the boy could have been hurt on this weekly mission of mercy: ambushed by falling timber, gnawed by vermin—Troop 23’s version of bait and switch.

But the boy had not been hurt. He had been, in his words, inspired.

Quinn found the birdseed in a plastic bucket that he recognized. It had once held the five gallons of joint compound with which he’d repaired the walls of Belle’s garage—before their final parting, before she returned his rehearsal space to a repository for paint thinner and plant poisons and spare tires. Inside the bucket Quinn found a king-size scoop, shiny and cherry red, jolly as a prop in a Christmas play. On a nearby shelf he spotted nine more scoops, identical. The boy was a hoarder. He kept things that could not be explained. On the day before the funeral, Belle had opened the door to the boy’s room, instructing Quinn to look around if he wanted, but to remove nothing, touch nothing. So, he counted. Bird nests: 10; copies of Old Yeller: 10; flashlights: 10; piggy banks: 10; Boy Scout manuals: 10. He had Popsicle sticks, acorns, miniature spools of the sort found in ladies’ sewing kits, everything corralled into tidy ten-count groupings. One computer, ten mouse pads. One desk, ten pencil cases. Hoarding, Belle maintained, was a reasonable response to a father whose attentions dribbled like water from a broken spigot. Figure it out, she had once told him. Why would an eleven-year-old child insist on all this backup for the things he needs?

Because there’s something wrong with him, went Quinn’s silent answer. But on that solemn day they’d observed the room in silence. As Belle preceded Quinn out the door, Quinn palmed the boy’s diary—a single notebook, spiral-bound, five by seven, basic black—and shoved it inside his jacket. Nine others remained, still sealed in shrink-wrap.

As Quinn lugged the birdseed out to Miss Vitkus’s feeders, he pictured the rest of Troop 23 happily do-gooding for more appealing charity cases, the type who knitted pink afghans. The scoutmaster, Ted Ledbetter, a middle-school teacher and single father who claimed to love woodland hikes, had likely foisted Miss Vitkus on the one kid least likely to complain. Now she was tapping on the window, motioning for Quinn to get cracking.

Between the house and a massive birch, Miss Vitkus had strung a thirty-foot clothesline festooned with bird feeders. At six-two, he didn’t require the ladder, though the boy would have, small as he was, elfin and fine-boned. Quinn had also been small at eleven, shooting up the following summer in a growth spurt that left him literally aching and out of clothes. Perhaps the boy would have been tall. A tall hoarder. A tall counter of mysterious things.

Quinn began at the tree end, and as he uncapped the first feeder, birds began to light, foliating the shivering branches. Chickadees, he guessed. Everything new he’d learned in the last two weeks had come from the cautious, well-formed, old-mannish handwriting of his son. A future Eagle Scout, the mysterious fruit of Quinn’s feckless loins, the boy had, according to the diary, set his sights on a merit badge in bird identification.

Miss Vitkus lifted her window. They think you’re the boy, she called to him as the birds flittered down. Same jacket. Fresh air tunneled into his lungs, blunt and merciless. Miss Vitkus watched him, her sweater bunched across her deflated chest. When he didn’t respond, she snapped the window down.

After dispatching the feeders and running a push mower over her lawn, Quinn returned to the house, where Miss Vitkus stood at the door, waiting for him. No hair to speak of, just a few whitish hanks that put him in mind of dandelions. She said, I give him cookies after.

No, thanks.

It’s part of the duty.

So he went in, leaving his jacket on. It was, as Miss Vitkus had pointed out, exactly like the one the boy wore: a leather bomber with rivets, which made Quinn look like a rock-and-roll man and the boy like a meerkat struggling out of a trap. Belle had buried him in it.

He expected cats and doilies, but Miss Vitkus’s house was pleasant and airy. Her kitchen counter, though crowded at one end with stacked newspapers, shone whitely in the unmolested places. The sink taps gleamed. The exterior must once have looked like the other houses on the street—straight and well appointed and framed by precise green lawns—but she’d obviously lost her ability to keep up.

Her table had been whisked clean but for two mismatched plates, a box of animal crackers, a deck of cards, and a pair of ugly drugstore reading glasses. The chairs smelled of lemon polish. He could see how the boy might have liked it here.

I heard you’re a hundred and four, Quinn ventured, mostly to fill up space.

Plus one hundred thirty-three days. She divided the animal crackers, one to each plate, over and over, like dealing cards. Apparently there would be no milk.

I’m forty-two, he said. That’s eighty-four in musician years.

You look older. Her greenish eyes glimmered over him. The boy had written, in his faultless spelling: Miss Vitkus is EXTREMELY inspiring in her magic powers and AMAZING life events!!! The diary was twenty-nine pages long, a chronicle of lists interrupted by brief, breathless transcriptions from the world of Miss Vitkus, his new friend.

Do you have help? he asked. Besides the Scouts?

I get Meals on Wheels, she said. I have to take the food apart and recook it, but it saves me on groceries. She held up a cookie dinosaur. This is their idea of dessert. She looked him over again. Your boy told me you’re famous. Are you?

He laughed. In my dreams.

What style of music do you play?

Anything except jazz. Jazz you have to be born with.

Elvis?

Sure.

Cowboy songs?

If you ask me nice.

I always liked Gene Autry. Perry Como?

Perry Como or Gene Autry or Led Zeppelin or a cat-food commercial. As long as they pay me.

I’ve never heard of Ed Zeppelin but I’ve seen my share of cat-food commercials. She blinked a few times. So, a jack of all trades.

A journeyman, he said. That’s how you stay working.

She considered him anew. You must be quite talented, then.

I’m okay. What had the boy told her? He felt like a bug on a pin. I’ve been working steady since I was seventeen.

To this she had nothing to say.

As a guitar player, I mean. I’ve been working mainly as a guitar player.

Again, nothing; so Quinn switched gears. Your English is excellent.

Why wouldn’t it be? I’ve lived in this country for a hundred years. I’ll have you know I was a headmaster’s secretary. Lester Academy. Have you heard of it?

No.

Dr. Mason Valentine? Brilliant man.

I went to public schools.

She fumbled with her sweater, a relic from the forties with big glass buttons. These boys don’t stick to anything. We had ongoing business. She glared at him.

Quinn said, I guess I should go.

Suit yourself. She drummed her fingers on the well-used cards, which looked a little smaller than regulation.

My son says you do tricks, he said, unable to resist.

Not for free I don’t.

You charge him?

Not him. He’s a child. She slipped the glasses on—they were too big for her face—and inspected the deck.

The boy had written: Miss Vitkus is EXTREMELY talented. She makes cards and quarters DISAPPEAR. Then they APPEAR again!!! She smiles well.

This was exactly the way he had talked in real life.

Quinn said, How much?

She shuffled her cards, her mood changing. I shall regale you, she said, a magician’s misdirection. Quinn had run into all manner of flimflammery over the years, and this old bird was a champ.

Just the trick would be fine, he said, glancing at her kitchen clock.

You’re in a hurry, she said. Everybody’s in a hurry. She was accordioning the cards now, hand to hand, less impressively than she seemed to think, but impressive enough. I ran off with a midway show in the summer of 1914 and learned the art of prestidigitation. Her eyes lifted, as if the word itself produced magic. Three months later, I came back home and for the rest of my days lived the most conventional life imaginable. Her expression was intense but ambiguous. I do this to remind myself that I was once a girl. Reddening, she added, I told your boy a lot of stories. Too many, possibly.

He’d been right to fear coming here: the boy was everywhere. Quinn had never wanted children, had been an awkward, largely absent father; and now, in the wake of the boy’s death, he was left with neither the ice-smooth paralysis of shock, nor the crystalline focus of grief, but rather with a heart-swelling package of murky and miserable ironies.

Miss Vitkus fanned the cards and waited. Her teeth were long, squarish, still white enough, her bumpy fingers remarkably nimble, her nails shiny and ridgeless.

Five bucks, Quinn said, taking out his wallet.

You read my mind. She took the bill and stowed it in her sweater.

After a moment, Quinn said, Where’s the trick?

She leaned across the table and gathered up the cards. Five gets you inside the tent. He saw what was in her eyes now: anger. Five more, you get the show.

That’s extortion.

I wasn’t born yesterday, she said. Next time, bring the boy.

* * *

This is Miss Ona Vitkus. This is her life story on tape. This is also Part One.

Eighty-eight more minutes? On that little gizmo?

. . .

I’ll take your word for it. Fire away.

. . .

Well, there was radio. That was a good one. And copy machines. Velcro. The electric mixer. Oh, and some marvelous improvements in ladies’ underthings. It’s hard to pick just one.

. . .

Then I’ll go with the automatic washer. Definitely the automatic washer. I don’t recall just when I made the changeover. One minute you’re drubbing petticoats on a washboard, the next minute you’ve got two teenagers and a brand-new Maytag. The in-between goes kind of blinky.

. . .

That’s it. That’s all I have for you.

Chapter 2

Quinn left Miss Vitkus’s house five dollars poorer and deprived of magic. He took the bus all the way to Belle’s neighborhood of North Deering, where he found her raking a tulip bed behind a cliché of a fence—all those smiling pickets. He’d always thought of the house as Belle’s place—which it was, legally speaking—despite the five and a half nonconsecutive years he himself had lived there. The bay windows reminded him of the sitcoms of the sixties, which the boy had ardently watched, one after the other, on a TV channel lousy with proper husbands and fathers, stand-up guys who stayed home nights to anchor the home vessel.

So? she asked. Even her voice had thinned, its layered notes erased.

It’s out near Westbrook, he said. Her yard’s a mess.

He committed till mid-July. I told Ted we’d take care of it.

She’s got like twenty feeders, hung way too high. He had his work cut out for him.

Belle checked the street. You on foot?

I sold the Honda. He slipped a check from his pocket and gave it to her. He’d mailed her a child-support check every Saturday since their second divorce and had yet to miss a payment.

She regarded him woodenly. I told you, Quinn. There’s no more—need.

He wondered, not for the first time, if a person could literally die of grief. She was wearing a pink shirt so desperately wrinkled it looked as if it had been filched from a washer at a public laundry.

Belle, he said. Let me.

She didn’t let him, not at first, but he stood there with the proffered check, blood sloshing in his temples, the check lifting in the weak breeze, until he made clear his intention to outlast her. She relented, took the check, said nothing, and his head calmed.

The place looked deceptively renewed. Late-May flowers popping up everywhere, windows a-twinkle, and another collection of things set out for the trash man.

Cleaning out again? he asked.

Just the things I can’t bear.

What she meant remained a mystery. He took stock of the rejects: a stuffed chair, a blender, a table lamp, some flatware. Then he caught it, sitting apart from the rest: his first amplifier, two watts, a present from his thirteenth birthday.

Isn’t that my Marvel?

They stared at it, together, as they might inspect a dead animal. It was a cheap Japanese import in a case so heavily lacquered it appeared wet even under a three-decade layer of grime.

It’s ugly, Belle said, and it doesn’t work. Nobody wants it.

My mother gave me that. Six-inch speaker, three knobs; junk, pretty much, the sole surviving relic of his adolescence. And of his mother, for that matter.

It still works, he said, defensive now. He’d loved that amp. It had meant something.

How about if you remove your junk from my house once and for all? There isn’t a damn thing to hold you here now.

Belle, he said, wounded. Don’t. He had missed his last two custody visits and there would be no forgiving him. Certain things, examined in the frozen light of retrospect, were simply unforgivable.

He looked around. For two weeks Belle’s family had swarmed like a gang of hornets, led by Amy, Belle’s sister. Also Ted Ledbetter, another matter entirely. But today the house was quiet, the driveway empty.

Is Ted here?

No. And how is that your business?

Sorry. Where’s everyone else?

The aunts went home. Amy’s out mailing thank-you cards. I pretend to need things to get four seconds of peace. She set the rake against a tree and stuttered out a breath that reminded him of childbirth exercises. He followed her inside, where she seemed surprised to see him.

Can I have some water? he asked.

She went into the kitchen and poured him a glass. The house was a tidy Cape, a suburban classic, though technically they were inside Portland’s city limits. Lawns stamped into the once-bumpy landscape. Swing sets, treehouses, dog runs aplenty. Belle’s parents had owned the house and passed it to Belle under condition that Quinn’s name be omitted from the paperwork.

Did she mention him? The old woman?

He shook his head. She cheated me out of five bucks.

They had charming conversations, she said. I’m quoting.

I don’t know how he put up with her. He meant to sound lighthearted but lately everything landed with the weighted thud of trying-too-hard.

"Did you mention him?"

He drained the glass. The animal crackers had made him thirsty. To her?

Yes, to her. Who else, Quinn?

I didn’t. He added, Couldn’t.

The icy surface of her anger—she was encased in it—thawed incrementally. It’s not a strike against his character that he put up with her, she said at last. She’s absurdly old.

I took that into consideration.

She laid her fingers on his arm. It’s the one thing I asked you to do. He made a commitment, and to him the word means something. I’d do it myself, but this—she searched the air for some words—this is the job of the father.

Quinn said nothing. What was there to say? He’d left when the boy was three, returned when the boy was eight. Five years willingly hacked from the fragile core of fatherhood. She could call him on it now, but didn’t. Boston, New York, and finally Chicago, until it came to him that he was living the same life he’d left, only lonelier. After that, a long, humiliating bus ride home. He’d made a decent living—had always made a decent living, his one source of pride—but still he dreaded facing his former bandmates and day-job shift supervisors with the predictable news that no, ha-ha, he hadn’t Made It, and yeah, he was back for good.

I didn’t say I was quitting. All I said is that she’s no twinkly old gal in a gingham apron.

Poor you, Belle said. What else have you got to do today?

A wedding at five.

You always have a wedding at five. Mr. In-Demand.

This was their old struggle, and her willingness to unearth it now made him feel less alone. Belle had once compared his chronic gigging to the daily requirements of a maintenance alcoholic. To Quinn, for whom alcohol was a touchy simile, the truth was this: playing guitar was the single occasion in his slight and baffling life when he had the power to deliver exactly the thing another human being wanted.

He trailed Belle into the living room but was not asked to sit. He looked around, sensing a false note, and then it came to him: she’d put her books away. A profligate reader, she usually had four or five going at once, leaving them everywhere, spines flattened by her passion. How many nights had she spent with him recounting plots as he pleaded with her, laughing, not to give it all away? But she always did; when she loved a story she gave it to him whole. Now those same books were stacked by size into a bookcase that looked freshly washed.

It’s only a few more Saturdays, she said now.

Seven, actually.

Seven, then. It takes, what, two hours out of your busy day?

Yeah, but then you have to eat poisoned cookies.

She laughed, a brief bark that startled them both. He took her hands and held them; his sympathy filled him to bursting. It was bottomless, this sympathy.

Can I see his room again? Just for a minute? He hoped to return the diary before she missed it. He couldn’t imagine her not knowing of the diary’s existence, she who had observed the boy’s life as if in the belief he would need a biographer someday.

She withdrew her hands. Not now.

She was punishing him, this fierce and lovely woman, his truest friend. He deserved it; but he knew her well, knew she didn’t have the juice to sustain her rage.

I’ve got cards to write out, she said. Your father sent a note. And Allan called, all the way from Hong Kong. She waited. Allan didn’t know about our divorce. Probably he didn’t even know about our first one.

He shrugged. You know us. His father was in Florida year-round now, his brother on the other side of the world. They rarely spoke.

It was ten o’clock. He had hours to fill. He asked, Are you eating?

The question seemed to confuse her. Probably, she said. I guess I must be.

Do you need anything?

Quinn, she said gently. There’s nothing you can do for me now.

The truth of this hurt him like a soft, blue bruise. Belle walked him outside, all the way to the sidewalk, as if he had a car waiting there. I’m somebody else now, she said, and if there had ever been a time in his life when he knew what to do with this kind of information, that time had long passed. He locked eyes with her until she released him with a slow shake of her head.

He picked up the amp—it weighed nothing—and carried it out of his former neighborhood and all the way down Washington Avenue and around the Boulevard and up the long slope of State Street to the Peninsula and finally to Brackett Street and up the three dark flights to his apartment, which held beautifully tended music equipment, a few sticks of secondhand furniture, and a framed photo of the boy in his Scout uniform, his short teeth bared in earnest cooperation. Someone had told him to smile, and he’d done the best he could.

BIRDS

Smallest bird. Bee hummingbird. 2.24 inches and 0.056 ounces.

Fastest bird over land. Ostrich. 45 miles

Reviews for The One-In-A-Million Boy

[auntieg0412 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

As I read the last page a few minutes ago, the first word I thought of to describe The One-in-a-Million Boy was "sweet" -- sweet and sad and tender and lovely. I can't put anything else into words right now and I don't think I even want to try. I just want to savor this beautiful story.

[bookworm12_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This one fell a bit short of my expectations. I think my main problem was that the story puts the least interesting character at the forefront. There’s a Lithuanian immigrant, an eccentric young boy obsessed with world records, and a grieving mother, but instead, we focus on a mediocre musician who has a good heart but is still a neglectful father. I just felt like every other character had a more interesting story and was disappointed each time we returned to Quinn‘s narrative.

[lukes_171461 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This novel traces the posthumous influence of an 11 year-old boy on a sympathetic set of adults, and traces the effects of his life and death to self-discovery, love, responsibility, and record-setting longevity. It’s a unique, gratifying read, written with intelligence, wisdom, and kindness. The author’s kindness extends to her characters as well as her readers: the love the characters feel for each other reaches the surface in unusual ways. And Monica Wood’s readers feel her kindness through the realistic strivings and the partial and sometimes surprising success they meet with. This is superb.A shy, unaccomplished 11 year-old Boy Scout visits 104 year-old Ona to assist with chores and record her history, as part of an exercise to earn a merit badge. Ona is Lithuanian and sharp as a tack. She’s lived in the U.S. since 1913, was married to a dull, unloving man for nearly three decades, but has nevertheless lived an interesting life. After the boy’s passing, his father Quinn takes over. First he takes on the chores, and eventually he fills a void which the youngster’s passing has created. Quinn is in many ways the focus of the story. He performs chores around the house for Ona scrupulously at first, before their relationship gels into a friendship. Quinn’s marriage has fractured - twice - but Ona observes Quinn’s continuing devotion to his ex-wife Belle. She finds she admires Quinn’s perseverance and kindness, and allows him to pursue her plan to re-qualify for her driver’s license. This license is a wonderful trope by Wood, a hard encapsulation of Ona’s determined will to continue to function normally despite her age.“The One-in-a-Million Boy” has such a big heart: it has space for everyone’s ambitions, everyone’s failings, everyone’s redemption, everyone’s love. I recommend this book as heartily as I have before for Wood, one of my favorites. “My Only Story” is superb, “Any Bitter Thing” gratifying and balanced, but “The One-in-a-Million Boy” takes the cake. A multiple award winner, and my new favorite among Wood’s oeuvre, be sure to take this one up!

[rglossne · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Quinn Porter, the guitarist father of the boy, finds himself fulfilling an obligation to 104 year old Ona Vitkus in the wake of his son’s death. The boy has been doing yard work for her while earning a Boy Scout badge, and Ona presses Quinn to complete the obligation. Quinn has been an absent father to the boy and an absent husband to his ex-wife. The relationship with Ona deepens ashe learns more about his son and what was important to him, more about Ona and her life, and more about himself. Fans of A Man Called Ove will love this book.

[kglattstein · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Sweet story of a life well lead, no regrets, some regrets, friendship and love.

[lynnb_64 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Ona Vitkus is 104 years old when she engages the volunteer services of the local boy scout troop. That's how the boy, age 11, comes into her life. To paraphrase the back cover of the book, on the first Saturday, the boy was shy but a good worker. On the second Saturday he confided his passion for world records and the two become friends over the next few weeks. On the tenth Saturday, the boy didn't show up. Nor did he appear on the eleventh. On the Saturday after that, his father came.This is the life story of Ona Vitkus, a Lithuanian immigrant to America. It is also the story of a broken marriage with the parents held together by their love of their only child. Ona becomes important to the parents, Quinn and Belle and we see how friendship and loss play important roles in shaping our goals and priorities. Well written, strong characters....a very good book.

[nancyjcbs · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I'm not sure when or why I added The One-in-a-Million Boy to my very long to be read list. But, I'm very glad it was there. I bought the Kindle edition when it was on sale and it has been sitting on my Kindle for some time.This was such a beautiful book. It was a sweet story centering on Ona, a 104 year old woman. She accepts household help from an 11 year old Scout and befriends the Scout and his parents.There is a lot of pain in the story; both current and past pain. But there's so much more hope and truly honorable behavior. This book demonstrates the best in humankind by pointing our our weaknesses and attempts to improve.I'd recommend this book to all. For some reason it kept me hearkening back to the feeling I had while reading The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry.

[rmarcin-630843 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is a sweet tale of an 11-year old boy who is assigned to help an elderly woman, Ona Vitkus, with various errands. Through the story, the woman reveals herself to us, through questions from the young man. In doing so, we also learn about the boy's parents, Belle and Quinn, and their journey.
The book is poignant and heart-warming. I enjoyed the unique style, with all the statistics of the Guinness Book of World Records. I enjoyed how the characters were revealed throughout the novel, and I enjoyed the ending, which was so sad, but just right.
#TheOneInAMillionBoy #MonicaWood

[sprainedbrain · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I loved this book - so much more than I can even describe. It pulls at your heart without being sappy, it's beautifully written, and the characters feel real and gloriously human. A contender for best book I've read this year.

[purplequeennl · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I read this book for my book club, it wasn't a genre or topic I would have normally chosen to read, and so I hadn't expected to like it - but I did. Once I started reading, I was gripped and needed to know more. It has depth and characters that connect, both with each other and the reader, in an emotional way.

I thought it would be a story about a 104 year old ladies life, but it was so much more than that: it was about the boy who awoke her life spirit again; about the father who still loved his ex-wife, and who did not quite manage to connect with his son while he was alive; about a mother's devastation about losing her son, and her history with his father and desire to return to herself.

I found it awkward at the beginning, because initially the reader is not told why the boy was not visiting the old lady, and the old lady was also not informed by the father. It had a stilted beginning, but once past it, it offer a lot.

[kmajort · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I didn't know what to expect - was worried when I read the synopsis.... Will not give away anything critical. Excellent characters, I really cared about most of them.
The ending was not predictable.
Just trust me, and read it!

[bostonterrio-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Liked it better than I imagined.

[heatherlinc · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This was a gentle story about loss, grief, friendship and memories. I loved 104 year-old Ona. She was feisty, resilient and funny, and her relationship with the eleven-year-old Boy Scout who helped her with jobs around the house. At times I found the plot dragged, but the ending was beautiful and extremely touching. I did shed a tear or two.

[sbenne3 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

No doubt it was beautifully written . . . i just got a little bored. i was engaged in the beginning but had a hard time in the middle. If you enjoy character development with some frustrating characters, you will enjoy this book.

[deelightful-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I received this book from Bookbrowse in order to participate in their on-line discussion. I found this to be a charming story about friendship and family.

[pennykaplan · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A young boy, odd and OCD, and a 104 year old woman form a friendship after he is assigned as a Boy Scout to help around her house. Well done Alternating points of view create an intriguing and interesting story.

[loried_5 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Loved this quirky book with an unusual premise. Could have been maudlin or predictable, but it was a great handling of a unique scenario with a collection of wonderful characters. I highly recommend the book.

[closefriend-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A delightful, heart-warming book! Young Scout is assigned to help a 104 year old woman 2 hours per Saturday for 7 weeks to get a community service badge. They bond in a most wondrous way, much happens (including the boy doing a ten part oral history or the woman into his micro-sized recorder). I loved this book, and will add it to the every 2 years rotation rereading of unforgettable books - the other 2 so far are The Sounds of a Wild Snail Eating and Three Bags Full. Happy-making books, all three of them, at least for me.

[lauralkeet · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Ona Vitkus is 104 years old and lives alone in a house that belonged to her son. A local scout troop provides a continuous stream of 11-year-old boys to do basic chores in her house and yard. One day, a grown man appears -- the father of a scout taking over his son's duties after he suddenly and inexplicably dies. Quinn, still in the throes of grief, sets out to fulfill his the boy's service commitment. What follows is a multi-threaded tale of love, marriage, friendship, aging, and grief. Ona's life story is revealed slowly, through tape-recorded interviews made by the boy, and sometimes by her revelations to Quinn.The reader quickly becomes invested in Quinn's relationship with his former wife, Bella, and Quinn's pursuit of a career as a music performer, against the odds. The nameless boy is a constant presence, not only because of the obvious grief but also his dogged pursuit of a Guinness World Record for Ona.This novel's characters were so real to me, and the story tugged at my emotions in a realistic (not sappy) way. The spirit of the boy seemed to pervade everyone and the ending was very satisfying. Highly recommended.

[dawnlovesbooks · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

An 11 year old boyscout is assigned to help a 104 old woman around her house. Ona is used to being on her own and wasn't expecting to form a new friendship at her age. The young boy really brought Ona to life. He started recording the story of her life for a homework assignment and Ona brought up things she hadn't thought of in years. "It had been a long time, if ever, since another human being betrayed so intense an interest in the ordinary facts of her life." The young boy dies unexpectedly and in steps his father, Quinn to complete his boy scout assignment with Ona. Quinn had not been the best father to his son. He saw him twice a month for dinner and it was always awkward. Quinn forges a friendship with Ona that allows him to get to know the son he never really understood. Ona and Quinn build a friendship that benefited them both. Ona felt the presence of Quinn's son and her own lost son through Quinn's visit. Ona thought Quinn was a gentleman and it make him want to be one. Ona helped Quinn to restore his sense of duty and willingness and hope for the future. "He thought himself finished with hope, but here it was again that urgent, nearly spiritual ache-an open wound looking for balm." By the end of the novel, Quinn says, "He had not loved his son enough. This knowledge lived like a maliginancy in his heart." "I did fall in love with my son, but not until after he was gone."

[girlwellread · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A special thank you to NetGalley for an ARC in exchange for an honest review.

Monica Wood has penned a heartfelt, endearing story of friendship between a young boy, and a 104-year-old lady that ripples out to the boys parents. They share an affinity for world records, and also share in loss.

Ona Vitkus, meets a young boy when he is assigned to her property to complete his yard work badge for Boy Scouts. The boy's father, Quinn, comes to finish his son's good dead, and to try to make up for his shortcomings as a father and in doing so, comes to understand his son. Ona and Quinn form an unlikely pairing. They embark on carrying out the boy's wish to make Ona the world's oldest driver.

There are a few unnecessary characters and plot threads, but all-in-all a charming read.

[jimnicol-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I loved Monica Wood's The One In A Million Boy. Sweet, tragic and ultimately so life-affirming. And so beautifully wrought in such a seamless, below-the-surface way. A wonderful writer at the top of her game.

[creighley_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

104 year Ona has Ben sent an 11 year old boy to tend to some of her tasks around her home. As he tends to her bird feeders and tidies her shed, she tells him about her life. Remarkable story!

[katybee_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Really liked this book - very moving story and great characters. Keep the tissues handy. I think this is one of the finest depictions of old age that I've read in a very long time.

[debbiemccauley-2 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

104-year-old Ona has finally been sent a scout that she likes. The 11-year-old World Records obsessed boy helps out every Saturday morning with things like by filling her bird feeders, tidying the garden shed and listening to Ona's stories about her long and eventful life. But when one Saturday the boy doesn't turn up, Ona thinks he is just like all the rest who have let her down. That is, until his father, musician Quinn, arrives instead to complete his son's obligations. The distraught mother also turns up. A poignant story about a life cut short, a life of regrets, and a long lived life. Well told.

[cwhisenant11 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

The One-in-a-Million BoyBy Monica WoodNarrated By Chris CiullaPublished 2016 by Dreamscape Media, LLC10 hours and 33 minutesI received a free audio copy of this book from the publisher in exchange for an honest review.The first thing that really stood out to me as I was listening is that the One-in-a-Million boy is never named. When I listen to an audiobook as opposed to reading, I pay special attention to the names of the characters so that there is some order in my mind while listening. In the entire 10 hours and 33 minutes, he is only ever referred to as “the boy”. I’m sure the author had her reasons for this but it felt impersonal and cold—especially from the grieving parents. As a whole, the story was both heartwarming and entertaining but I had difficulty with the interviews. Periodically throughout the book, we get to hear the boy’s taped interview of Ona for his school project. Instead of being a typical question and answer type of interview, this interview was essentially a one-sided conversation with Ona where the listener had to infer what the question was by how she answered. I found this style to be very annoying, awkward and distracting. Again, I’m sure the author had her reasons but the absence of the boy in the taped interaction felt impersonal and cold. The narrator, Chris Ciulla, really brought Ona’s character to life. His pronunciation of the Lithuanian words was impressive and the slight accent he used with Ona was endearing. He also performed the character of the “boy” in a way that revealed the enthusiastic and curious nature that made him so special. All of the other characters, however, sounded essentially the same.

[alphawoman_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Best book I've read in some time. Beautifully written. Full of love and wisdom, forgiveness, redemption and new beginnings. A wonderful book for any age group.I just loved it.Only reason I did not give it five stars is it had to end.

[angiestahl-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This book is a really lovely piece of writing, if there's any critique to be made, it may be a bit overlong. However, it's well worth your reading time. The story revolves around the impact an 11yo boy scout has on several adults and how each individual's love for that child connects them to each other. When the story begins, the boy has recently died (that's not a spoiler) and the book deals with the grieving of the adults who love him, how they come to love (or at least have more empathy for) each other because of loving him and how the boy's love inspires each of them to heal or grow beyond their brokenness.It's a different sort of love story that's uplifting without being saccharine and hopeful without being maudlin. Recommended, highly.

[nyiper · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This was such a special book and such a beautifully told story with wonderful characters---how can you not love Ona and Quinn---the two who play the larger parts in this unexpectedly, at least to me, excellent book. I, too, would like to read it again because what happens is more than I could probably appreciate fully that first time through.

[carlathelibrarian · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I am not sure what I was expecting when I started to read this book, but what I received while reading it was a lot of emotional tugs, warm feelings and a positive feeling about humanity. Ona Vitkus is a 104 years old Lithuanian immigrant. She has been selected by the local Boy Scout troop to receive assistance to earn a merit badge. She has had other boys come to help her out, but when this boy arrives, there is something different about him. She lets him into her life due to his incessant curiosity, his warmth, his honest caring and his obsession with the Guinness World Records. He is sure that Ona can achieve a world record and he is going to do everything in his power to help her do just that. Not only do they try to figure out which record she will try to get, but the boy has to interview an older person for a school project and he picks Ona. There are a series of interviews scattered throughout the book. She tells him things that she has not told anyone, her secrets, that she does not want him to reveal to others. But when one weekend when the boy doesn't show up, and his father Quinn, a hard-luck musician who has never really connected with his son, appears in his place. Ona feels hurt and disappointed that he abandoned their relationship and their quest but she finds out that he did not abandon her, but died suddenly and Quinn is trying to take up the responsibility of his son. I do not want to spoil the book for anyone so I will stop here. The story is a wonderful exploration of relationships, both familial and chosen. It will make you smile and it will make you sad. This book explores those relationships, the feelings that go with them, the decisions we make and the decisions that are forced upon us. Ona and Quinn are remarkable characters with secrets, desires and complex emotions. Even though the boy, who is not named and is not physically present in the whole book, his presence in the lives of the characters changes them forever. This is a wonderful book that I am surprised has not received any reviews or accolades for 2016. A great read and I recommend it to anyone who likes to read about life.I received a copy of this book from Netgalley in exchange for an honest and unbiased review.