A Tough Nut to Crack

by Tom Birdseye

  “Ah, cookies and ice cream,” Vicki Higgins says. “Good idea, Cassie. Cakes are too much trouble. I baked a fancy one with vanilla icing and red sprinkles for TJ’s birthday last year. You remember that, TJ?”

  TJ looks at her as if he’d pay a thousand dollars to change the subject. But Vicki Higgins doesn’t. She’s on a roll.

  “Only problem with the sprinkles,” she says, “was that they spilled all over the table. So I got out the vacuum cleaner to tidy up. TJ accidentally bumped my elbow. And the next thing I knew, I’d vacuumed up half his cake. Oh, Lordy, you should have heard that boy whine!”

  “Mo-om!” TJ protests. “I didn’t whine!”

  Vicki laughs. “Okay, okay. He didn’t whine.”

  “Shoot, I’d whine if my birthday cake got sucked up in the vacuum,” Grandpa says. “Me and vacuum cleaners don’t get along. Got my big toe caught in one not more than a month ago. Hurt like the dickens!” He eyes the ice cream. “What kind is it?”

  “Mocha almond fudge,” I explain. “We spoon it between the cookies and make the ultimate ice cream sandwich!”

  Everyone smiles at the thought. Especially Quinton. “Did you know,” he informs us, “that vitamins are in ice cream but not in spinach?”

  Grandpa puts a hand on Quinton’s shoulder. “What you say we tough it out and have two servings then?”

  “Yes!” Quinton crows. “I’m hungry all over!”

  “Me too,” Grandpa says, rubbing his belly.

  “Gotta sing the birthday song before we eat,” Vicki insists.

  Quinton belts out, “Happy Birthday to you, you live in a zoo, you look like a monkey, and smell like one, too!”

  Grandpa fakes hurt feelings. “Why does everyone always pick on me?” he whines, then actually squeezes out a fake tear.

  Vicki Higgins hoots with laughter and claps her hands. “Bravo!” We all join in the applause, even Dad. Grandpa Ruben gets out of bed—just to show us that he can—and takes a bow.

  We make ice cream sandwiches, then crown them with bunches of candles. Grandpa snuffs them all out in one breath and says, “This is the only food you can blow on, and people will still rush to get some.”

  Quinton scrunches up his face and says, “Yuck!” but is first in line to grab the biggest ice cream sandwich.

  “Seventy-two years old!” Grandpa says. “That’s a lot of years!”

  Vicki Higgins says getting old is more a matter of attitude than numbers.

  Dad chuckles and says, “When you start talking like that, it’s a sure sign you’re getting old.”

  Vicki laughs. “Takes one to know one, Harlan!”

  We all eat and chat at the same time, which makes me grin all the more. It’s working! My party plan is working. Just like I imagined!

  As if she can read my mind, Vicki Higgins pulls one of those tiny digital cameras from her purse. “Okay, you members of the Bell family,” she says. “Line up and try to look presentable. Cassie, you stand by Ruben. Harlan next to her. That’s it. Quinton? Where’s Quinton? Oh, there you are! Is that your second ice cream sandwich? Or third? Whatever, would you be so kind as to put it down for a moment and get in the picture? Let’s see. On the other side of your grandpa would be good.”

  We follow directions. Vicki Higgins nods approvingly, then looks in the viewfinder and has us scrunch in some more. I put one arm over Grandpa’s shoulder, the other around Dad’s waist. I squeeze, and they both squeeze back.

  “Big smiles!” Vicki Higgins says.

  But I can’t smile any bigger. My face is already too small to hold a grin a mile wide.

  “Woo-hoo!” says Grandpa.

  “Woo-hoo!” I sing back and plant a big kiss on his cheek. Perfect!

  It isn’t until later, after the party is over and we’re done cleaning up the mess, that I get the camera from Vicki for a look at the group photo. The camera screen is small, so I have to squint to see everyone’s face. Slowly my eyes adjust, bringing detail into focus. There is the Bell family: Quinton, then cheesy me sandwiched in between my grandpa and my dad.

  That’s when it hits me. The photo may be tiny, but it doesn’t lie. All that time Grandpa and Dad were just going through the motions of getting along, acting like they were enjoying each other’s company.

  To please me.

  The smiles on their faces are as fake as fake can be.

  10. Karate Weed Chopper

  Later, back at the farm, the initial sensation of being slapped eventually fades.

  Only to be replaced by an hour or so of righteous indignation.

  Which, in turn, is followed by a supersized helping of self-pity, wishing I could just fast-forward life the way you can a DVD.

  Finally I decide enough is enough. Wallowing in a funk isn’t going to help me figure out this Dad-Grandpa thing. Time for a bit of what Mom liked to call “work therapy,” which is just a fancy way of saying, “Go sweat it off.”

  I march out to the garden, where I find a hoe leaning against the shed. I pick it up. I jiggle it in my hands, feel the weight, the balance, how it’s made for digging out weeds.

  Of which there are quite a few, now that I take a good look. They’re growing between the plants, threatening to take over Grandpa Ruben’s veggies.

  Oh yeah? Not if I have anything to do with it. I raise the hoe and—whack!—bring it down with a satisfying thud. A clump of weeds comes loose. I grab it by the hair, then toss it over the fence.

  “And don’t come back!” I yell after it.

  I raise the hoe, higher this time, and let fly again. Whack! Take that! Another weed bites the dust. Over the fence it goes, too.

  Really getting into it now, I chop and chop away. Whack! Take that! Whack! And that!

  Weeds are dying and flying. Look out, here comes Cassie Bell, karate weed chopper. She’s got power. She’s got accuracy. She’s got a black belt in weed chopping.

  Ka-whack! I bring the hoe down with all my might. Whack! Man, that feels good! I should do this more often. Whack! Whack! Wha-yikes! I’ve come within a split hair of taking out one of Grandpa’s tomato plants.

  “Good grief, Cassie!” I say, smacking my forehead with the palm of my hand. “Watch what you’re doing!”

  I take a deep breath, refocus my weed-whacking energy, and raise the hoe—

  “You chop weeds just like your grandmother.”

  “Eeek!” I jump and whirl around to see Dad leaning on the garden fence, one foot up on the bottom rail.

  He’s smiling.

  I drop the hoe like it’s a smoking gun. “Uh, really?”

  Dad nods. “She gave everything she did one hundred percent, and was not easily intimidated.” He cocks his head. “Did I ever tell you about the time she tossed a raccoon out of the kitchen?”

  “Tossed a raccoon?” I say, relieved we’re not going to discuss the near beheading of Grandpa’s tomato plant. “No. What happened?”

  Dad smiles again. He loves telling stories. “I was about five years old,” he begins. “Mom and I were in the living room one summer evening—an evening a lot like this—reading The Cat in the Hat by Dr. Seuss. We were at the part in the story where the cat and Thing One and Thing Two are going wild, tearing up the house, when we heard a real-life crash in the kitchen. We jumped up and ran in to see a raccoon on the counter, helping itself to the fresh homemade bread your grandmother had just taken out of the oven and left there to cool.”

  “How did the raccoon get into the house?” I want to know.

  “We’d left the door ajar, I guess,” Dad says. “Or maybe not. Raccoons are smart and great climbers. Could be it shimmied up the downspout and crawled in the window. All I know for sure is that if it thought this was going to be a cakewalk to a free meal, it had another thing coming. Your grandmother was very proud of her baking, and didn’t take kindly to uninvited guests. ‘Leave my bread alone!’ she yelled. She grabbed a broom from behind the door and jabbed it at the raccoon the same way a warrior jabs a spear. But that dan
g raccoon was an ornery one. It locked hold of the broom straw like a furry demon. Mom shook and shook the broom, but the raccoon wouldn’t let go. So she wound up like a baseball pitcher and flung it all—broom and attached raccoon—clean out the kitchen door and into the backyard.”

  “Whoa!” I say.

  Dad nods. “Yep. Like I said, raccoons are smart. It only needed one lesson to learn not to mess with your grandmother.” He chuckles and shakes his head, and I know he can see it all in his mind as if it were happening right now. That’s the great thing about a story. It brings the past, and people, alive.

  I can see it, too, my wonderful, no-nonsense Grandma Chrissy bouncing that rascal raccoon out of her kitchen. “I’m glad I’m like her,” I say. “I just wish I had known her.”

  “I wish you had, too,” Dad says, sadness welling up in his eyes. But he takes a deep breath and swallows hard, and that’s the end of that, like always. Back to normal he reaches down and pulls off a long piece of grass and starts chewing on one end, looking like … well, looking like a farmer.

  Which catches me by surprise. I’ve never thought of him that way. To me he’s always been Harlan Bell, Oregonian, high school English teacher, Dad. But standing here where he grew up, telling a story about his mother, then chewing a piece of grass, it’s as if a whole other part of him has suddenly come into focus: Harlan Bell, Kentucky farm boy.

  I’m mulling over that historical fact, when Dad’s cell phone rings, and just as quickly as it surfaced, the farmer part of him disappears. In one quick urbanman motion, he pops the phone off his belt, flips it open, and answers, “This is Harlan.” He listens for a moment, then his eyes cut to me. “Sure, she’s right here.” He hands the phone my way. “It’s for you. An invitation.”

  I stop short. An invitation? From who? Uh-oh, probably TJ. What if he wants to come visit? Bring more flowers? Or, worse yet, wants me to go somewhere with him? I look to Dad for hints, but he’s not helping.

  “It’s okay with me,” is all he says.

  I take the phone and raise it toward my ear like it might explode, thinking fast, thinking of excuses. “Hello?”

  It’s a Higgins, all right, but—whew!—not TJ. “Hey, Cassie, it’s me, Vicki. I’m wondering if you’d be interested in getting together for a little chat, just the two of us, you know, woman to woman.”

  Woman to woman. I like the sound of that. It makes me feel … grown-up.

  “I didn’t tell your dad this,” Vicki Higgins goes on, “but the subject of discussion I have in mind is him and your grandpa. Over breakfast tomorrow would work best for me. There’s a fun café downtown called the Early Bird. Pick you up at eight o’clock. What do you say?”

  What do I—who clearly need all the help with this Dad-Grandpa thing I can get—what do I say?

  Hmm, let me think about it … for a nanosecond.

  I say, “Perfect! See you then!”

  11. Let’s Hear It for Ignorance

  “Yep, your granddaddy was wild, but your daddy was even wilder,” Vicki Higgins says as we barrel down the farm lane, dust flying, then whip onto the road to town. She’s almost yelling to be heard over the classic rock tune—“Love Potion Number Nine”—but I don’t mind. Three minutes in the car and already I’ve learned three new things about Dad and Grandpa. At this rate I’ll know everything by the time we’ve ordered breakfast!

  “Wilder, like on his thirteenth birthday when Harlan tried to ride a bull in the pasture behind the house,” Vicki Higgins goes on. “It threw him right over the fence. Which is a good thing. It’s nice to have a fence between you and an angry bull. Still, it was impressive to watch. Or insane, depending on your point of view. Men can be real idiots, as you may have noticed.”

  “Mo-om! I’m not stupid!”

  It’s TJ from the backseat. We’re giving him a ride to soccer camp. He’s been very quiet, stealing looks at me in the side mirror, until now.

  Vicki Higgins laughs. “I didn’t say stupid. Generally you male types have plenty of intelligence. I said idiots, as in no common sense. And anyway, I also said men, which you are not … yet.” To me she whispers, “Lord help us when he becomes a man!”

  “Hey, I heard that!”

  Vicki laughs again as she pulls into the middle school parking lot. “Okay, my man, exit here for soccer camp!”

  TJ scrambles out of the car. I can see he’s both angry and embarrassed at the same time. He glares at Vicki.

  Her face softens when she sees she’s pushed it too far. “Oh, honey, you know I love you, and think you’re wonderful. Don’t be like most men and get riled so easily.”

  “I’m not riled,” TJ shoots back, obviously … riled.

  Vicki leans out the window and blows him a two-handed kiss, then strikes a rock star pose and croons along with “Love Potion Number Nine.”

  It works. TJ laughs, despite himself. I should have brought a pen and paper for taking notes. Vicki really does know how to handle guys. This is going to be the most educational breakfast of my life!

  The Early Bird Café is small and simple: three rows of tables, a long counter with stools that spin, and slow fans turning overhead. A sign by the cash register says PLEASE SEAT YOURSELF, so we do just that.

  “How about over there in the corner,” Vicki suggests. “Then we can see all the goings-on while we chat.”

  Vicki’s high heels click on the linoleum floor as we thread our way through the tables. She greets people. “Howdy, Debbie.” “Morning, Kelsey, Amy.” “How’s it going, y’all?” Everyone seems happy to see her.

  She introduces me to an elderly couple—Buster and Geraldine—who are sitting side by side with their elbows touching. And a group of men—Stanley, David, and Jerry Michael—who are rolling dice to see who pays for the coffee. And a woman—Brenda—who is picking sesame seeds from between her teeth. They all are glad to meet me and full of sympathy for Grandpa Ruben, especially Brenda. “You tell that old rascal to get well soon, ya hear!”

  I promise I will, and thank her.

  Finally Vicki and I sit down. A man named Pete, the owner of the Early Bird, comes over and brings us menus, then takes our orders. On his recommendation I go for the ham and cheese omelet with hash browns, and orange juice. Vicki insists on the Dieter’s Special—“Even though I’d rather have bacon!”—and coffee—”Strong, like I prefer my men.”

  This gets a laugh out of Pete. “Vicki Higgins,” he says, “you are something!”

  I agree. Watching her is like watching a master at work. She’s got the gift of understanding people, just like Mom, and Grandma Chrissy, too, I’ll bet. She’s bound to know exactly what’s going on with Dad and Grandpa, and what to do about it.

  After Pete brings our drinks and leaves, Vicki tells me about the car wreck Pete was in five years ago. He was hurt bad and would have died if it weren’t for Charlie, a local plumber who happened upon the scene and stopped the bleeding until the ambulance arrived. Since then every time Charlie comes in for food, Pete won’t let him pay for his meal. Charlie says he was just doing what anybody would have done and keeps shoving money at Pete. No way. Pete shoves it right back and says, “No charge!” They’ll probably be at it forever. Neither one will give up.

  “That,” Vicki Higgins says, “is male stubbornness at its best, both of them sticking to what they think is right.” She pushes her auburn hair over her shoulder, and I notice her dress is exactly the same color. No accident there. Vicki Higgins is as classy as she is smart.

  “Then there is the other kind of stubbornness,” Vicki continues, “that trumps the good kind ten to one. Like stubbornly refusing to put dirty socks in the laundry basket, even after being asked three thousand times. Or jumping to conclusions, then stubbornly ignoring evidence to the contrary. Or pride, that stubborn male I-refuse-to-back-down kind of pride that ends marriages and starts wars, or just plain leads to trouble.” She shakes her head. “My ex was particularly good in that department. Poof! Thirteen years of him and me down t
he drain.”

  She stops to stir her coffee, and for a moment it’s as if the wind has gone out of her sails.

  But Vicki Higgins will have none of that. She takes a deep breath, sits up straight, and smiles. “I will admit that the stubborn streak in men can be entertaining. For example, do you know that in high school your daddy ate one hundred and three prunes just because a friend bet him he couldn’t?”

  I go pie-eyed at the number. “One hundred and three? Really?”

  Vicki nods. “He paid the price … for two days!”

  “Ugh!” I say.

  Vicki agrees. “Yep. Can’t put all the blame on Harlan, though. Stubbornness is hereditary. He got it from your grandpa, who still refuses to switch to daylight savings time. He finds it a silly nuisance to reset his clocks twice a year, so the rest of the world can go jump in the lake as far as he’s concerned.”

  We’re laughing at that when Pete brings our food. Yummy. We dig right in. Vicki insists I try her cantaloupe. “It’s to die for, honey.”

  I finally talk her into sampling my omelet. “Well, okay,” she says, “if it will make you happy. But just a little bite.”

  She closes her eyes while she chews, a look of pure bliss on her face. She giggles when she opens her eyes again and sees me staring.

  “I’m not proposing that women are incapable of stubbornness,” Vicki says, picking up where she left off. “Lord knows we are, me in particular. But having admitted as much, it’s still men who have the corner on the market … by a long shot.”

  She stops and helps me get ketchup out of the bottle and onto my hash browns, showing me how to thump the bottle in just the right place.

  “Which is why, given the stubborn nature of your father and grandfather, I suggested we get together and talk. I have some advice concerning that dilemma, if you’re interested.”

  I stop, a fork full of ketchup-loaded hash browns halfway to my mouth. Interested? This is Vicki Higgins talking. Lay your wisdom on me! I take a deep breath and wait, literally on the edge of my seat.