by Tom Birdseye
Dad is equally helpful in the hospital parking lot. “I could use a cup of coffee,” is all he’ll say.
Gee, thanks, guys! How enlightening! I might as well ask Quinton. Clearly this Grandpa-Dad thing is going to be a tough nut to crack.
Back at the farm I go for a walk to do some thinking, forgetting that it’s too hot to concentrate on anything but the heat. Within seconds sweat is beading up on my forehead and temples. A minute more and it’s dripping down my face in salty rivulets.
I hoof it over to a tree-shaded fence line. Which is better, sorta, kinda, maybe, ish. I wipe the sweat off, then wipe it again. No use. Might as well try to hold back the tide. I’m just about to make a dash for the house, where I intend to stick my head in the freezer for an hour or two, when I notice that I’m standing at the edge of a field of waist-high grain.
Grandma Chrissy’s wheat.
From the hospital window it was a distant patch of gold shining in the sun, more an idea than anything real. But now here it is so close I can see each individual plant, rising up out of the dark soil, each strawlike stem, each long, slender leaf, each crowning cluster of kernels.
A slow breeze stirs the tops of the wheat, causing a swishing sound. One seed head brushes against my hand, as if asking to be picked. I do, bring it up to my face, close my eyes, and inhale. And I’ll swear it’s as if I can smell Grandma Chrissy’s bread fresh out of the oven; can hear her voice there by my shoulder, the same way I hear Mom’s. “You can figure this out, Cassie,” they’re both saying. “Your dad and your grandpa may be stubborn, frustrating men at times, but they’re worth it; they’re family.”
“Family,” I say, and marvel at the new sound of the word. It may have the same number of letters as always, but now the number of people it includes has grown.
I pick two more clusters of wheat as a gift for Grandpa Ruben before heading back to the house. Don’t worry, Grandma. Leave it to me, Mom. I’ll have this figured out in no time!
7. Yuck!
It’s almost midnight, and I’m still wide awake. I’ve tried everything I can think of to get to sleep: counting backward from five hundred, twiddling my thumbs, meditating on the word snooze, even visualizing Mrs. Brookline’s algebra class, which has put hundreds of kids into la-la land. No luck. My eyes just keep popping open.
Normally on a night like this, I would turn on the bedside light and read a mystery. If I can’t get my zzzzs, I might as well enjoy a good book, and who-done-its are my favorite. But I’ve already got enough mystery to keep me awake all night long—a real-life mystery: the case of Dad v. Grandpa Ruben.
Which, it turns out, is not as easy to solve as I figured, even with Mom and Grandma Chrissy on my side. I’ve thought and thought and thought about it but have no clue what drove those two apart.
Whatever it was, it probably happened here in this homestead, or at least started here. Wouldn’t it be nice if houses came with an account of every event that took place in them, like a captain’s log on a boat? I could just flip through the journal and get all the details.
Or while I’m wishing, why not just wish for talking walls. I could say, “Hey, room! What do you know about Grandpa and Dad?” And it would say, “Well, Cassie, it happened like this.…”
Or if this particular room didn’t know the answer—because it would only know what happened within its sight—it might send me to ask the living room; or the kitchen; or the family room; or across the upstairs hall to the room with the closed door, Grandpa’s room. I’d have my answer in no time.
Case solved.
Family fixed.
End of story.
Perfect.
Just … like … that.
Sure, Cassie, in your dreams. Shaking my head, I finally give up and get up. I walk to the window and look out into the night. There’s just enough moonlight to make out parts of the garden, the barn, the—whoa, fireflies! Bunches of them, flashing yellow above the backyard. I’ve read about them before but never actually seen even one. We don’t have fireflies in Oregon.
Seconds later I’m walking out the back door. The air still borders on hot, despite the hour, and is heavy with humidity. The grass feels cool under my bare feet, though. Cricket music is everywhere. The smell of someone’s fresh-cut hay hangs in the air. I take a deep breath. Mmm, nice …
A firefly blinks on a few feet away at eye level, then blinks off. I ease in that direction and wait. It lights up, close, and I reach out. The firefly goes dark again, but then the glow of yellow pops on as it hovers inches from the palms of my hands. I slowly cup my fingers around it, then open them. The firefly sits there, flashing like a caution light, then slowly lifts off and flies up, winking, into the star-studded sky.
Cool, very cool, an enchanted midsummer’s night cool.
Until the kitchen light flicks on, spilling its brightness out the window onto the lawn, and the spell is broken. A cabinet door bangs shut; a chair scrapes the wood floor.
It’s probably Dad. He complained about jet lag and sleep problems while we ate our Chinese take-out dinner. Or maybe it’s the thought of Grandpa that’s keeping him awake, the thing that came between them. This might be a good time to ask again, in the middle of the night. Could be he’s ready to talk.
Mom would try, if she were here. Grandma Chrissy, too, I’ll bet. They knew Dad as well as anybody. I might as well give it another go. What have I got to lose? I take a deep breath of the warm night air, gather my courage, and walk back into the house, only to find Quinton sitting at the kitchen table, facing a bowl full of Cheerios.
He looks up at me with droopy eyes and says, “I couldn’t sleep.”
I nod. “I know the problem. Probably thinking about Dad and Grandpa, too, huh?”
“Nope,” Quinton says, spooning a big bite of Cheerios into his mouth. “I was thinking about giants, and anacondas, and how to spell Mississippi backward. In case you didn’t know, it’s: i-s-p-i-s-i-p-m-i.”
Wrong, I think, but don’t feel like arguing the point. I shrug, grab a bowl from the cupboard, and pour myself some Cheerios, too. “Dad asleep?”
“Yep,” Quinton says, then flops his head over and does an impression of Dad snoring. “Honk-shoe, honk-shoe!” He pauses, apparently deep in thought—if that’s actually possible—then says, “I’m going to play the drums in a band when I grow up. We’ll call ourselves the Concrete Cockroaches.”
“Oh” is all I can think of to say, and watch as he goes back to eating. Weird, weird, weird. What did I do to be blessed with such a weird brother?
Look at him, sucking on his spoon and gazing up at the ceiling. He’s about to continue his endless Mr. Know-It-All routine, I can tell. Looking up like that is a dead giveaway. Next he’ll probably tell me the speed of light. Or the ten grossest things in the world: number one, slugs; number two, slobbery kisses from a girl.
Or, no, I bet money he’s going to tell me for the thousandth time how I should never eat bread crust because it will make me burp. Yep, that’s the one, gotta be. Ha! Am I good or what?
“Grandpa Ruben’s birthday is tomorrow,” Quinton says.
I eye him for a moment. This point I will argue. “You’re making that up.”
Quinton scowls. “Am not.”
“Are too.”
“Am not. I saw it on his bracelet.”
“His bracelet? What bracelet? Grandpas don’t wear bracelets.”
“They do when they’re in the hospital, a plastic one. His had his name typed on it and his birthday—seven-thirteen-thirty-four. July thirteenth, that’s tomorrow. He’ll be … seventy-two. I subtracted.”
Quinton is actually good at math, I have to give him that, the best in his class. He already knows his timestables. I still don’t buy this whole birthday thing, though. I’m a very observant person. I would not have missed a plastic bracelet on Grandpa. “No way,” I say.
“Yes way.”
“No way.”
“Yes way, and if you don’t believe me, get a
load of the calendar there on the wall.”
I glare at him, but then turn and look at where he is pointing. A calendar with a picture of a farm scene hangs near the refrigerator.
“Yeah, right there. July thirteenth.”
I step closer and find July thirteenth. In big bold numbers is written, “72!” Below it in smaller letters is scribbled, “And still kicking!”
Okay, so I was wrong, for once. I can handle that. Just as long as Quinton doesn’t rub it in by saying—
“I told you so!” Quinton trumpets. “We should have a party.”
For an instant I flash ballistic and seriously consider throwing something at him.
Something beefy that would make a really big dent in the little smart aleck’s head.
Like the refrigerator.
Yeah, that would get his attention. If only I could pick it up.
But I don’t even try. Not because it’s too heavy, or because I’m too nice a person. I hate to admit it, but I do have a dark side. The reason I stop short of violence is that word Quinton said—party—has just now registered in my brain. I look at the calendar again. Seventy-two years old. That’s amazing. Grandpa deserves a party. Yeah, a party, with ice cream, and cookies, and everybody there.
Everybody, including Dad. Nothing like a party for patching things up.
Like when Stephanie and I got into a fight because I thought she was talking about me behind my back. And we didn’t speak for at least two weeks.
But then we both ended up at Anna’s birthday party and were roasting marshmallows over the grill in their backyard. Anna’s marshmallow caught on fire, and she yanked it out of the flames; it went flying through the air and landed on her dad’s hat. He threw it on the ground and stomped on it and dumped his Dr. Pepper on it, too. Stephanie and I laughed really hard and then started talking. And come to find out, she didn’t say bad stuff about me at all, and we were friends again.
So anyway, my point is that at a birthday party Dad and Grandpa could patch things up, too. Then we could start acting like a real family, complete with Thanksgiving dinners and Christmas mornings, and picture-perfect family reunion picnics, just like I’m sure Grandma Chrissy would have planned. And Mom, too. She loved picnics! All we need is a party to get the ball rolling. And all we need for a party is someone to organize it. And that someone will be me!
“Yeah!” I say, so excited I completely lose my brain, throw my arms around Quinton’s neck, and am all puckered up to plant a big kiss on his cheek … when suddenly I regain consciousness.
“Yuck!” we both yell, and jump back. “Yuuuck!”
8. Timing Is Everything
I’m up by six-thirty the next morning, creeping past Dad’s room and down the creaky stairs. No need to wake him again. Last night was enough. I knew it was late—almost one A.M.—but I just had to tell him my plan. Besides, I learned a long time ago from Mom that the best time to ask Dad for something is when he’s groggy. The groggier the better. Jet lag can be a wonderful thing.
I shook him three times, and finally he sat up in bed. He looked at his watch, blinked several times, then stared at me as if he didn’t even know he had a daughter, much less what she was blabbing on and on about.
After I finished telling him about the party and that Quinton is going to draw a picture of concrete cockroaches for a present, but I’m going to give Grandpa a basket of veggies from his garden and a few stalks of wheat from Grandma Chrissy’s field, and those could be from him, too, Dad rubbed his face, looked at his watch again, then at his pillow, then back at me, then he moaned, “If I say okay will you leave me alone and let me sleep?”
I grinned. “It’s a deal!”
He was back in snooze-land before his head even hit the pillow.
But anyway, now it’s time to get to work. Grandpa Ruben likes chocolate chip cookies. “The best are made with real butter,” he had said. No problem, Grandpa. Just so happens they are my favorite, too. Especially when I’ve got a test to study for. Nothing like chocolate chips to fuel an A. I’ve baked dozens.
Gotta have the right ingredients, though. I hit the kitchen full stride and start rummaging. As if Grandma Chrissy is guiding me, within minutes I’ve found everything I need, even my favorite brand of chocolate chips. Perfect!
Perfect, that is, if Quinton would stay out of my hair. No such luck. He’s awake and has wandered in to help himself to one of Grandpa’s carrots, dipped in ketchup.
Yes, a carrot, dipped in ketchup.
He’s doing it to bug me, of course, because I almost kissed him last night. And because bugging me, as he always says, “is fun!”
To top off the carrot and ketchup tactic, he begins to sing. It’s one of his original compositions. I don’t get all of the lyrics, but do pick up enough to understand that it’s mainly about a kid who wakes up to find himself turned into a slice of pizza.
This is bad enough, especially the part where he gets eaten by concrete cockroaches, until you consider the quality of Quinton’s voice. Which is … how should I put it? Imagine a cross between a dying frog and fingernails on a chalkboard, and you get the idea. It’s not music; it’s a form of torture.
But I’m in a good mood, what with the party, and Dad and Grandpa about to make up. I keep mixing cookie dough and politely ask Quinton to lay off the squawking, “if you don’t mind.”
He stops, dips his carrot into the ketchup, and says, “Okay, Cassie,” being sure to afford me a stunning view of all the chomped-up carrots and ketchup in his mouth. Then he starts humming. “Mmm-mmmm-mm-mm-m-m-mmmmm …”
I begin plopping nice cookie-sized spoonfuls onto the baking sheet I found in the drawer under the oven. I ask Quinton to stop humming. “Pretty please, I’ve got work to do.”
“Okay, Cassie,” he says again. To my amazement he actually goes quiet.
For two seconds. “Because now it’s time for dessert!” he crows and jams his hand into the mixing bowl, scooping out a big glob of dough.
I grab for him. “Quinton, no!” But he’s quick. He darts out of the kitchen, cramming cookie dough into his mouth as he goes.
“Come back here!” I yell. “Those are for Grandpa’s party!”
Quinton laughs and sprints down the hall and out the front door. I race after him, gaining with each footstep, and am reaching rocket-ship speed by the time I fly out onto the porch.
Where I smack slam-blam into TJ Higgins, who is standing there with a clump of daisies in his hand. He goes sailing backward off the porch in a shower of flowers. He lands in the grass with a thud.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” I blurt out and rush down the steps to help him up.
He waves me off. “I’m okay,” he says. “No problem.” He’s beet red and scrambling to his feet. He scoops the daisies up and thrusts them at me. “Here! I’m sorry about Tom Turkey!”
He tries to smile, but it doesn’t work. More like a grimace, really. “It was my fault he got out and chased you. He chases me all the time, too. He’s psycho, a mutant monster. They’ll make a movie about him some day, Attack of the Mutant Monster Turkey. I should have locked him in his pen better.”
I don’t know what to say. I just stand there. Which seems to make TJ even more nervous.
“Anyway,” he says, pushing the daisies at me again. “Here. These are for you.”
I don’t know what to do, either. No one has ever given me flowers, much less a boy. So I take them, and smell them like girls do in the movies, and sneeze so hard that snot goes flying. TJ jumps back and falls down again. Quinton, who is over by the bushes licking his fingers clean, laughs and laughs and laughs until he falls down, too.
9. A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Words
“Surprise!”
Quinton and I burst into Grandpa’s hospital room, leaving Dad in the doorway.
Propped up in bed, looking out the window, Grandpa lights up like Las Vegas. “Well now! Looka’ who’s here!”
“We brought you presents!” Quinton gushes, unloadi
ng the goodies into Grandpa’s lap. “See?”
Grandpa oohs and ahhs over the artwork, even after Quinton explains that they are concrete cockroaches, not birds.
From the garden basket Grandpa selects a cherry tomato and pops it into his mouth. “Mmm-mmm,” he croons.
But it’s the stalks of wheat that clearly mean the most to him. He turns them this way and that, nodding, smiling. “Almost time for harvest,” he says. “But there’s only one way to tell for sure.”
He rubs one of the seed heads between his palms, gently at first, then harder. “Now watch this,” he says. He opens up his hands and with a quick puff of air—poof!—blows the chaff away. Like a magic trick, all that’s left behind are grains of wheat.
Grandpa hands a kernel to me and one to Quinton. “Stick it back between your teeth and bite down,” he says.
We do.
“It’s crunchy!” Quinton says.
Grandpa nods. “That’s a good sign. If it were pasty or soft, we would still have a week or two to wait, or maybe even three. The longer you wait, the more there is that might go wrong: disease, not enough rain.”
A shadow passes over his face. “Or too much rain. I’ve seen storms pound healthy wheat flat, soak it swollen and moldy, destroy the entire crop in a matter of seconds.”
I shudder. Mom died on a stormy day. Pounding rain still makes my heart ache.
Grandpa holds another of the wheat heads up and turns it in the light. “But this is as healthy, fine as can be.”
“Mighty fine, indeed!”
We look up to see Vicki Higgins hooking Dad’s elbow in hers and pulling him into the room. “How nice to see all of y’all together!” she says. She winks at me, and I can tell that she’s on to my plan. It’s like I’ve got a whole team on my side: Mom, Grandma Chrissy, and now Vicki, too. Which is fine with me. You can’t have too many guardian angels.
TJ is with her and seems to have recovered from our last encounter. He ventures a smile at me but keeps his distance, even when I unveil my chocolate chip cookies and the ice cream we picked up at Kroger.
