Fallout (5 page)

I AM IN THE DEN

Arranging Grandfather’s

eclectic collection of

paperbacks alphabetically

by author—Graham, Billy;

Grey, Zane; Grisham, John—

when the telephone rings.

I’ve got it!
Grandfather

yells from the kitchen.

I peek at the caller ID.

NV St Prsn—Nevada

State Prison. The collect

calls from Trey come once

in a while. Usually, to listen

to Grandfather’s raves,

when his prison account

needs a cash recharge.

Little SOB wants
me

to pay for his cigarettes

and soap? Does he think

I’m made of money?

Still, he always sends it.

Three times convicted

felon or not, Trey will

always be his son. His son.

And my convict father.

I SLIP QUIETLY

Along the linoleum. Grandfather

does not appreciate me listening in.

But for some reason, my radar

is blipping. There’s something

different about this call. Maybe

it’s the tone of Grandfather’s voice

tipping me off. It’s not exactly

hard to hear him. He’s yelling.

But despite the high volume, a tremor

makes him sound downright old.

I don’t give a damn what you want.

You are not welcome in this house.

I told you that when you went away
,

and I haven’t changed my mind.

“Went away,” meaning he was locked up

by the State of Nevada. Again. That was

eight years ago. I remember he called to

share the news while we were planning

my ninth birthday party. I had no

idea what “five to fifteen” meant.

But it sure seemed to take all the fun

out of talking about balloons and cake.

Apparently it’s working out to “more

than five, less than fifteen.” At least,

that’s what I’m hearing from the kitchen.

You may have paid your debt to society
,

but you haven’t paid your debt to me.

Not to mention to your daughter. She

doesn’t even know who you are, and

neither do I. Car thief? Drug addict?

You just stay the hell away from here.

I don’t need that kind of worry.

This call is costing an arm and a leg.

I’m going to hang up now.

AND HE DOES

The phone slams against the table,

loud enough for me to hear it

from here. I scoot away from

the door, down the hall, just as

Grandfather exits the kitchen.

He looks at me, anger smoking,

black, in his already dark eyes.

I suppose you heard all that.

I hate talking ill about your father
,

but that boy is doomed to go

straight on down to the devil

when he dies.
He moves toward

me, trembling slightly.
I should’a

beat that boy more. He never

did have an ounce of respect

or caring for anyone except for

himself. Not even for your mama
,

I’m guessing. I told Maureen

he was gonna end up badly

if she didn’t … never mind.

GRANDFATHER IS STERN

To put it too mildly. I love him,

of course. How could I not

love someone who gathered me

in, offered a home and his unique

brand of love? It’s hard for him

to love, I think. He has been divorced.

Remarried. Widowed. Left to live

mostly alone until Aunt Cora

reappeared, with little toddler me

tucked haphazardly under one arm.

I
do
love him. But sometimes he’s harsh.

“Mean” might be more accurate.

He reminds me of a cop walking

the beat too long, in a bad part

of the city—creased and bitter-

eyed and too early gray. He yells.

Rants. Every once in a while,

he leaves a bruise, no apology.

For my own good, he says,
So you

don’t end up like your father.

More than once I’ve heard him try to

blame Trey’s mom for her son turning

out bad.
Maureen never understood

that kids need discipline, or they’ll ride

roughshod over you. A good switching

by a loving hand never hurt no one.

Quoted directly from his own father

would be my guess, and the oxymoronic

bite of the statement slipped

his notice completely, right along

with the bigger issue he insists

on ignoring: Maureen left him because

of his own drug habit and the reasons

behind it. The pills he pops like Tic Tacs

are legal. Prescribed to moderate

sleep problems and anger problems

and mood problems that swing him

from suicidal to crazy happy in

the space of a few hours. All I can

say is thank God for modern medicine.