My Bad Grandad

by A W Hartoin

  “I don’t warm up crowds.”

  “Yeah, you’ll make ‘em hot. We’ll fit you with some red leather. Dominatrix. Lots of skin.”

  Nooo!

  “Mickey, listen to me. I am not doing that. The Pageant was a one-time thing.”

  “It was, but you’ve got the itch now.”

  I slapped my forehead. “I really don’t.”

  “I’ll call Genevieve and get her started on the website announcements.”

  “Don’t do that!”

  “We’ll fly out on Tuesday. George will call you,” said Mickey.

  Say something. Say something.

  “I have to work,” I burst out.

  Mickey paused. He was all about the work. “I thought your clinic was under water.”

  “Er…it is, but I’ve got to see what’s going on.”

  “Okay. Call me and we’ll talk money. Got to book today.” Mickey hung up and I let out a howl. Money. Chuck was going to want me to do this. I’d rather work twelve-hour shifts in the PICU, and desperately-ill children were something I usually avoided. I just couldn’t leave it on the floor like other nurses could.

  There had to be a way out of this and it had to be real. Mickey was bound to check with Chuck.

  I racked my brain and came up with nothing. My former agency was pissed at me for taking a regular job and hadn’t agreed to take me back yet. I could beg. Not my favorite. But desperate times and all that.

  I skirted my parents’ house and went through the side garden. The flowers had overgrown their beds and brushed my ankles as I walked past them, kicking up a swirl of heady scents. When I made it to the back of the house, a banging rang out, bracketed by cats yowling. I almost turned around. Mom’s Siamese yelling like that wasn’t a good sign. They rarely got riled up, but when they did, basically, a tragedy had befallen our house.

  That never boded well for me, but Myrtle said Mom needed a break and that banging got me curious. As long as I didn’t have to take the Siamese home with me, it’d probably be fine.

  I trotted up the back stairs and opened the door to the butler’s pantry. It looked normal, except the liquor cabinet that Josiah had imbedded into the cabinetry was open and several bottles were missing. The room smelled like…sawdust.

  “Mom!” I called out as I passed through the icy cold pantry and into the relative warmth of the kitchen.

  I stopped short inside the door. Mom was banging her head on the kitchen table, surrounded by a gawd-awful mess. The upper cabinets had been emptied onto the countertops. One cabinet had been removed altogether and was lying in pieces on the floor. There were a couple of sawhorses in front of the sink with a pile of battered lumber on them and a hand saw.

  “Mom?”

  She looked up and cradled her pretty face in her hands. She had a red spot just below her widow’s peak and her green eyes were glittering. “Oh, thank god, Mercy. Are you busy?”

  It was one of those moments when you know you should say “yes”, but somehow “no” comes out of your mouth.

  “Great,” said Mom. “You have to take grandad to lunch, a long lunch.”

  “It’s two-thirty.”

  “Brunch then.”

  “That’s in the morning.”

  Mom slapped the table, making the dishes stacked on the table rattle. “Are you trying to be difficult? He’s your grandfather. I don’t care where you take him, just take him.”

  I came into the kitchen slowly, careful not to startle the angry mother, and slipped into a chair opposite her. Safe distance, in case this was my fault.

  “What’d he do?” I asked.

  Mom waved her arm around at the disaster. “What do you think?”

  “I really don’t know. Are you redoing the kitchen?”

  “No, I am not. I am not redoing the kitchen or my bedroom or Dad’s office.” She glared at me like I might disagree. To be honest, I almost did, just to see what would happen, but before I could, a reedy voice floated into the kitchen. “Carolina, come help me with this door.”

  Mom slapped her hands over her eyes. “Oh, my god.”

  “What’s he doing to the door?” I asked.

  “Fixing it, I presume.” She came around the table and pulled me upright. “You have to get him out of here. He’s like a tornado but less predictable.” She stopped and poked me in the hip. “What are you wearing? I thought we discussed this.”

  We had discussed this multiple times. My mother did not approve of my beloved cutoffs. She decided that we decided that I would wear grown-up clothing and not something that made me look like a hobo. Who uses the word hobo anymore? Nobody. That’s who.

  “What’s wrong with them?” I asked. “They’re comfortable.”

  Mom pursed her lips. She didn’t approve of comfortable either. She called it sloppy. “You know, these…things don’t do a thing for you.”

  “I’m good with that.”

  “Mercy, please. You get photographed everywhere you go. Do you want people to see you like this?”

  People had seen me look a hell of a lot worse so I shrugged.

  “Comfort is not worth compromising the family business.”

  Here we go.

  “I’m not really a part of the business.”

  “In the world’s eyes, you are. You have to present a good face to the public. You’ve been involved in plenty of cases on your own and your father is the country’s most high-profile detective.”

  Do it for the family.

  “Do it for the family,” Mom said, satisfied with what she clearly thought was her trump card, the dreaded family. I’d been doing it for the family forever. I could pick locks and flirt my way into practically anywhere to ask the questions Dad wanted answered. I solved murders, kidnappings, and white collar crimes. I did it for the family. And because Dad didn’t like paying his stable of detectives when he could get me to do it for free. I was so over it.

  “Nah, I’m wearing what I like and I don’t care who sees me.”

  “Mercy.” Mom’s hand fluttered on her chest and she got all Southern belle. “Comfort is not that important.”

  “How would you know?” My Great Aunt Miriam stomped in and adjusted her veil. The elderly nun glared at Mom and Mom had the good sense to lower her eyes in the face of Catholic disapproval.

  “Aunt Miriam, can you see the way she’s dressed?” asked Mom. “Cutoffs, and that tank top is showing half her bra.”

  “It’s fine. She’s young.”

  My mouth fell open. Aunt Miriam defending me? It was unprecedented. She was usually my severest critic. My tongue started to dry out, but I couldn’t seem to close my mouth.

  Aunt Miriam glanced around the kitchen. “Carolina, this place has gone to the dogs. What have you been doing all day?”

  It was Mom’s turn to gape. Aunt Miriam loved her and thought she was top-notch. I was bottom-notch on a good day.

  “I’d like an iced tea,” announced the old nun. Neither of us moved and her eyes grew dangerous.

  “Carolina!” called out Grandad. “What’s keeping you?”

  “I…I…I’m coming!” yelled Mom and she dashed out. I think it was to escape Aunt Miriam rather than to help Grandad, an instinct I was familiar with.

  “Tea,” demanded Aunt Miriam.

  I rushed to the fridge and found a glass pitcher filled with peach tea tucked behind a crapload of Ensure drinks in every flavor they made. I filled a tall glass with tea and gave it to Aunt Miriam, although she needed the Ensure. She was so skinny. “What are you up to?” I asked.

  She took a sip, evaluated the bouquet, and nodded, satisfied. “I am not the sort of person to be up to something.”

  Yeah, right.

  “So we have nothing to talk about,” I said.

  She gave me a hawkish look that reminded me of a raptor hunting its prey. “When will your father be back?”

  I sat down and shrugged. “Beats me. Where is he?”

  “What kind of daughter are you? You should b
e paying attention.”

  “I have a life.”

  Aunt Miriam slammed her glass on the table. “Your family is your life.”

  Don’t I know it.

  I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms.

  “Your father is in Quantico.”

  “Seriously? What for?”

  “He’s teaching a class called Intellectual Instincts.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  She reached over and gave my arm a stinging slap. “Pay attention. That’s not important.”

  “Holy crap!” I scooted away from her and her fast hand. Aunt Miriam was the reason nuns got a bad rap. “Why’d you tell me if it’s not important?”

  “It is important. Are you trying to be difficult?”

  What’s happening?

  “It’s a gift.”

  She glared at me. “The point is that your father is gone.”

  “He’s gone all the time.”

  “You don’t care?”

  I rubbed my forehead. “About what?”

  “That your father is gone.”

  “So what?”

  “Your mother is alone here in this house.”

  Oh, the attempted break-in that I’m not supposed to know about.

  “Not really. Bruno’s here all the time.”

  Bruno was my Aunt Tenne’s other half. He was an exceptional artist and had a studio on the third floor.

  “He doesn’t count.”

  I thought he counted plenty. Bruno worked obsessively, something like fourteen hours a day.

  “Why does it matter? It’s been this way since I went to college.” I thought maybe she’d tell me about the attempts, but I’m not that lucky.

  Aunt Miriam pointed a bony finger at me. “I want you to move in.”

  Not gonna happen.

  “Did something happen?” Hint. Hint.

  “Just move in.”

  “Did something happen?”

  “Just do what I tell you.”

  “How come?”

  “Carolina Watts!”

  Mom walked in. “Do you need something?”

  Aunt Miriam got stiff as a board. “I was referring to Mercy.”

  “With her given name?” Mom looked at me. “What did you do?”

  I shook my head. “You tell me.”

  My grandad came in, wearing a plaid shirt and a leather tool belt that was so heavy with tools that it probably weighed half as much as he did. Grandad had the same build as his sister, Aunt Miriam. They made beanpoles look substantial. Like my dad, he was a dimpled redhead with pale blue eyes and a work ethic that wouldn’t quit. But Grandad was miniature at 5’8” compared to my dad’s 6’ 4”. “I can replace that door in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” he said.

  “Ace, it’s fine. Really,” said Mom, turning to me. “Mercy, you had something to say to Grandad.”

  “Er…yeah,” I said. “You want to go to lunch?”

  Grandad came around the table and kissed me on the cheek. “Can’t do it, sweetheart. I’ve got too much work to do and we have to pack.”

  “Are you and Grandma taking a trip?”

  “Nope. Grandma’s off at some charity thing.” He went to Mom and slapped her on the back. “Your mom’s going with me.”

  The expression on Mom’s face made all that butter pounding worth it. She looked like she’d taken a bite of my Great Grandmother Tilly’s vegetable soup and was trying not to spit it out.

  “They’re going to Sturgis,” offered Aunt Miriam.

  “Now don’t be upset, Miriam. You could’ve gone,” said Grandad, feigning naïveté. Aunt Miriam had the soup face, too.

  “No, I couldn’t,” she said.

  “You would’ve loved it. All the old gang, drinking.” Grandad’s eyes twinkled. Maybe not so oblivious after all. “Checking out the girls. I hear they do a lot of body paint there.”

  “Ace! I’ll thank you not to discuss it.” Aunt Miriam pursed her lips so hard they turned white. That morning was turning out pretty great. People were being bothered and it wasn’t me.

  “I’ll discuss it all I want,” said Grandad. “I’m getting a bike. A big one with lots of chrome and leather. We’ll all have them.”

  Grandad went to a reunion of his Vietnam buddies every five years. It was his turn to pick the location and he picked Sturgis. I couldn’t say anything. It was just so weird. Sturgis. Grandad. What the what?

  “But you’re not a biker, Ace,” said Mom.

  “I am now. Turning over a new leaf after my retirement. It’s time I cut loose.”

  I wasn’t sure what ‘cutting loose’ meant. He’d lived through the 60s and Vietnam. Maybe he was wild at heart, but I’d seen no sign of it. Grandad had retired three times so far. I had no confidence that this retirement would stick any more than the others had. He started out in the military and did twenty years. He retired. Then he decided that being a cop would be fun. That was his word, not mine. Fun. He retired after another twenty. Grandma said, “Woohoo!” She thought they would travel and be together. But it turned out that Grandad had a heretofore unknown love of woodworking. He decided to become a master craftsman and announced it at Thanksgiving dinner. It was the only time I ever heard my grandma curse. She, also, threw a roll at him. Grandad was undeterred and he spent the next year working ninety hours a week learning his craft and proceeded to set up a business that, of course, was crazy successful. He worked sixty hours a week and they went on one vacation to Vegas because there was a woodworking convention there.

  I wasn’t sure what prompted the latest retirement, but I think the word “divorce” was bandied about. Grandma had had enough.

  Grandad started pacing around the kitchen, measuring Mom’s cabinets. “These are shoddy craftsmanship, Caroline. I think they all have to go. I’ll make new ones by hand. You pick the style and we’ll be done in say, a month. Six weeks tops.”

  Mom looked barfy. “Ace. I love you for that, but you’re retired. Don’t you want to go to the VFW?”

  “I hate the VFW. Reminds me.”

  Mom’s hands started waving about. “You should relax. You’ve earned it.”

  Not going to happen. Did Mom really think that a man who’d been working since he was nine was going to spend all day napping in a hammock? Forget it.

  “How about the master bath?” asked Grandad. “You have loose hinges. Those cabinets are IKEA, aren’t they?”

  Mom shook her head frantically.

  “No? They smell like IKEA,” he said.

  They were IKEA. Mom ordered them and installed them herself with the help of her best friend, Dixie. I was in charge of destroying the boxes to hide their origins from Grandad. He would’ve made her cabinets. Awesome cabinets, but he would’ve been in charge. Mom wanted her own stuff and I didn’t blame her.

  “No, no. Not IKEA. We put those in…years ago when Mercy was little. You were a cop.”

  Grandad narrowed his eyes, thinking it over, but then he brightened up. “Then they’re old. It’s time to upgrade. I’m thinking we’ll match the character of the house. Something Josiah Bled himself would’ve designed. Mercy, sweetheart, get me my other toolbox from the truck. The big orange one. That’s a good girl.”

  Grandad rushed out, talking to himself about hinges and reclaimed wood. Mom plopped down next to me and started banging her head on the table again. “I’m.” Bang. “Going.” Bang. “To.” Bang. “Go.” Bang. “Crazy.”

  I pushed her back and rubbed the growing spot on her forehead. “Can’t somebody else take him?”

  “Cousin Shirley had him for two weeks. He put on their new porch. Your father says it’s our turn.”

  “What about Uncle George?

  “They went on that big Rhine river cruise and put on double locks so he couldn’t get in while they’re gone.”

  “Wow.” I looked at Aunt Miriam, who was edging toward the door. “What about the convent? Don’t you need something?”

  “We’re a closed order
,” she said.

  “No, you’re not. Mr. Sealy lives in the gatehouse.”

  “Well, one man is plenty.” She pointed her bony finger at me again. “Remember what we discussed.”

  With that, she dashed out the door through the butler’s pantry. I didn’t think we really discussed anything, to be honest. “He’s her brother,” I said. “You’d think she could take him for a while.”

  “I tried, but she said that she had to put up with him as a child and that was worse.”

  “How could it be worse? Grandad’s really sweet and she’s older.”

  “I asked that and she smacked my hand,” said Mom.

  I was starting to see a pattern with the whole hand smacking thing. Don’t want to answer a question, just give them a good smack. Mom’s lower lip was quivering and I had a moment of weakness. I am such an idiot.

  “I guess he could come over to my place. My kitchen is overflowing with all that junk Chuck got me.”

  Mom patted my hand. “That’s sweet, but you don’t own your apartment. You can’t just tear it apart. If you can just get him out of the house today, that would be great. I need a break and we’re going to Sturgis in a couple of days anyway.”

  I stared at my mother. “You’re really going?”

  Mom covered her eyes with her hands and groaned, “Yes. I’m going to Sturgis.”

  “You’re going to a motorcycle rally?”

  “Yes, damn your father.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He was supposed to go with Grandad. It was all planned and then Quantico called.”

  That was the way it worked in our family. Dad, and I suspected Grandad, made plans, which they fully intended to carry out unless an opportunity came along. Then all bets were off.

  “Made a promise, did he?” I asked with sarcasm.

  Mom’s head popped up from her hands. “Your father works very hard.”

  “I’ll remember that when he misses my wedding.”

  “Your father would never miss your wedding. You exaggerate.”

  I laughed and poured myself a glass of tea. “He missed my graduation. Both my graduations.”

  “A man was murdered, Mercy.”

  “And Quantico called.”

  Mom’s face got all stony. Dad drove her nuts, but he was her Tommy. Nobody, including me, had better forget how fantastic he was. “He does it all for—”