My Bad Grandad

by A W Hartoin

  “Have they drugged him?”

  “That’s one possibility. We hardly see him anymore.”

  Uncle Morty drove Mom crazy with his constant grumpiness and endless gaming, but she’d gotten used to him being around. I think he was kind of her spare husband. He unclogged drains and was willing to taste test anything she cooked up. Getting Dad to eat, period, was a challenge.

  “This can’t last, can it?” I asked.

  “I think it might,” said Mom. “I saw him a week ago and he almost smiled.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “Whoa. That’s crazy.”

  “Tell me about it.” She led me to the table and handed me a sheet of paper. “Here’s Grandad’s feeding schedule. He’ll try to trick you, but don’t deviate. I’ll know. I already weighed him.”

  What’s happening?

  “You weighed Grandad?”

  “Yes and he’d better not lose a pound. Dr. Cristoforo is very concerned. Ace is on the edge of osteopenia. He’s just not eating enough.”

  “I’m supposed to force Grandad to eat?”

  “I have to do it. Grandma J will kill us both if he loses an ounce.” She patted a small cooler. “Here are his Ensures. He needs at least one a day, but don’t let him substitute one for a meal. And you have to watch him drink the whole thing. He’ll try to pour it out when you’re not looking.”

  I had no clue that it was this bad. My dad didn’t eat, but this sounded worse. “Does Grandad have a problem? Did you ask the doctor about anorexia?”

  “He doesn’t have anorexia. He thinks he looks great and eating takes too much time. He’d rather work.”

  “Sounds like Dad.”

  “Exactly. I’m going to weigh him when you get back, so you’d better keep him on track,” said Mom.

  “This is ridiculous. He’s a grown man. If he doesn’t want to eat, I say we leave him alone.” Mostly, I didn’t want to force feed Grandad like a foie gras goose.

  “Grandma wasn’t watching him two weeks ago and he passed out in church.”

  “Never mind. I’ll feed him.”

  “Good. I’m glad we got that straight.” Mom grabbed the cooler and herded me toward the butler’s pantry. “And don’t let him buy a motorcycle. Grandma says no.”

  “Oh, my god. He has to eat and he can’t have a bike. What if he wants one?”

  “He does want one, but the answer is no.”

  “How am I supposed to stop him? He’s my grandad. He’s in charge.”

  Mom spun me around. “You are in charge. Got that?”

  “He’s got money. What am I supposed to do, steal his wallet?” I asked.

  “Grandma J locked their credit and changed their bank codes.”

  My mouth dropped open. “Are you kidding? Isn’t that extreme? Why can’t he have a bike?”

  “Because your grandfather has glaucoma, passes out when he doesn’t eat, which is as often as he can get away with it, and he thinks road signs are just suggestions.”

  “Never mind.”

  “Now go to Sturgis.”

  “It’s like you want me to leave,” I said.

  “Grandad’s at the garage. He’s packed and ready to go.”

  “I thought maybe we could sit a minute and talk.”

  Mom turned around and stared at me. “What?”

  “We never talk. Let’s talk.”

  “Did you do something that I should know about?”

  Absolutely.

  “I just want to be with my mother. Is that a crime?” I had to grin. I couldn’t help it.

  Mom relaxed. “You’re just bothering me. For a moment, I was worried.”

  “You were worried that you might have to spend time with your only child.” I was very tragic and Mom rolled her eyes. “I need a moment to myself.”

  “You get six days, not a minute more.”

  “If you come back early, I’ll disinherit you.”

  “You did that when I was eleven.”

  “Oh, yeah. I cannot believe you used that Steuben glass pitcher for collecting worms.”

  “Dad said it was a reproduction.”

  “I can’t believe that man bought me a reproduction for our anniversary. And then you broke it.”

  I shouldn’t have reminded her about that.

  “Get out. You and your father and your grandfather drive me crazy,” said Mom, shoving me through the butler’s pantry.

  “I’m going. I’m going. Hey, what happened to all of Dad’s special peach schnapps?” There was an empty bottle in the liquor cabinet.

  “I used it medicinally. Take your grandfather and go. I’m going to have six days alone. Peace and quiet.”

  I stopped halfway through the back door, remembering Aunt Miriam’s request. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? Maybe Aunt Tenne can stay with you.”

  “Why would I want that? Besides, she and Bruno are busy getting ready for that show in Miami. Will you please leave before Ace decides to remodel the garage before he goes?”

  “Maybe Aunt Miriam can come over while we’re gone?”

  “Yes, yes. I’ll call Miriam.” Mom pushed me out the back door, and then asked, “Did you bring the Mauser?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m not planning on shooting anyone.”

  “Your taser?”

  “It died.”

  She dashed away and returned with what looked like a little black flashlight with spikes on the end. “Take this one.”

  “You should keep it.”

  “I’ve got two. You know your father,” Mom said. “It’s got a great flashlight.”

  I took the taser and my loving mother closed the door, locking it behind me.

  “Alright, Wallace. Come on.”

  Wallace had relaxed the instant Mom locked the door and was barking like normal.

  “I’m going to get you a sedative if you don’t knock it off.” I carried the pug, my suitcase, and Grandad’s cooler down the stairs and through the back garden to the garage. I expected to see Grandad’s old Expedition parked there, but instead there was a motorcycle with a sidecar. It wasn’t new. It wasn’t within shouting distance of new.

  Grandad polished the bike with a diaper, smiling and humming. “Isn’t she a beauty? Perfect for a road trip.”

  “Where are we going? 1952?”

  “This, my dear, is a 1942 BMW with original paint and sidecar. Look at those lines.”

  “It’s swell. Where’s the Expedition?”

  “In my garage.”

  “Are we going to get it?” I asked.

  Grandad cocked his head sideways and the early morning sun glinted off the white in his sideburns. “We’re taking this amazing piece of machinery.”

  I turned around. “I better go tell Mom.”

  “Stop right there,” said Grandad and he smacked me with the diaper. “We are riding this bike to Sturgis. Your mother doesn’t need to know.”

  “I love you, Grandad, but I value my life.”

  His dimples popped out and his blue eyes twinkled. “And your mother values her peace and quiet. If we delay, I think I might have time to take out the windows…on the entire first floor.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “Never get between a man and his motorcycle. This is a don’t ask, don’t tell situation. Capiche?”

  I rubbed my eyes and against my better judgement, agreed. “Fine. But if she kills me, it’s on you.”

  “I can live with that.”

  That was my grandfather, single-minded to the last.

  “Mom said you couldn’t have a bike. Where’d you get this?”

  “I borrowed it from The Girls.”

  I walked around the bike. Wallace was sniffing like crazy. The bike was beautiful and in mint condition with gorgeous green paint and tons of chrome. The sidecar had a big windscreen and a luggage rack with a leather suitcase that looked vintage strapped to it.

  Grandad squatted, his bony knees jutting out. He scratched Wallace behind the e
ars. “What’s with the dog?”

  I explained that Pete stuck me with her.

  “That boy is never going to forgive you,” he said.

  “He might. I’m taking this pug to South Dakota,” I said.

  He stood up and I could hear his joints creak. “I divorced a woman for less.”

  It was the first time he’d mentioned his first wife to me, although he knew I’d met her at Cairngorms Castle. “Why did you divorce Dr. Watts?”

  “I don’t remember. I must’ve had a reason.”

  “You think?”

  He shrugged. “It was the sixties. I sowed some oats and I’m going to sow the rest this week.”

  I ran my finger over the BMW’s pristine paint. “In this?”

  “It’s a great machine.”

  “I’ve never seen it before.”

  “It was Josiah’s. He made me ride in the sidecar. Now it’s your turn,” said Grandad.

  I froze. “You knew Josiah?”

  Grandad didn’t answer. Instead, he insisted on showing off all the doodads and thingies on the bike. I barely listened. The bike was sweet, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to spend a ton of time in it.

  “How far is it to Sturgis?” I asked when I could get a word in edgewise.

  “‘Bout nine hours.”

  “Nine hours in that? Are you kidding me?”

  Grandad gave me the stink eye. He was definitely not kidding. Wallace darted over and peed on the front wheel. For once, we were in total agreement.

  An hour later, we still hadn’t left. Grandad had a travel checklist and it was taking forever. He kept forgetting that he’d already done stuff. He checked the oil three times. I nearly lost my mind when he went back for a fourth. Maybe this was what the over-seventy crowd considered sowing their oats, but there wasn’t much difference between that and the old grandad. I kept hoping Mom would come out and put a stop to the insanity, but she didn’t. She was probably soaking in her clawfoot tub, sipping tea and reading a steamy romance.

  I tried sneaking up to the house to pound on the door, but Grandad caught me and forced me to put my stuff in one of his stinky army bags. Like Dad’s Korean War army tent, it smelled like feet. I guess they issued the smell. My clothes would never be the same. We also had army canteens. I don’t know what kind of plastic they used to make them, but the water always tasted like licking asphalt. I planned on embracing dehydration.

  I watched Grandad checking the tire pressure again and started getting antsy. “Are we going to leave or what?”

  He checked the enormous watch on his bony wrist. “We’re waiting a couple more minutes.”

  Oh, no.

  “What are we waiting for?”

  Just then, someone started a lawnmower.

  “There we go. Has the pug done her business?” Grandad asked.

  “In Mom’s rose bed.”

  “Not poop?”

  “Yep.” It served Mom right. Force-feed Grandad and sit in a sidecar for nine hours. I almost wished I’d gone to Red Rocks with DBD.

  “Carolina’s not going to like that,” he said.

  “Bummer.”

  The lawnmower got closer and closer. I started to have a bad feeling that it wasn’t a lawnmower.

  “Is that?”

  Grandad threw up his hands. “Aaron!”

  Coming up the alley at the speed of a sea slug was Aaron, my designated partner. Dad had assigned him to me when I investigated Gavin’s death and I couldn’t seem to shake the little weirdo. It was like he thought we were in a relationship. I assure you, we weren’t. No normal relationship, anyway.

  For once, Aaron wasn’t riding his normal WWII scooter, which was a relief, but it didn’t last long. The bike he was on was possibly older and had a good amount of rust on its small frame. My so-called partner pulled up and flipped down the kickstand before turning it off. Grandad walked around him, getting a close look at a bike that looked like it’d been found at the dump and for good reason.

  “That’s a classic, my friend,” he said.

  Aaron didn’t answer. He got off and picked up Wallace, who went instantly limp like she’d been cracked on the head.

  “Are you going to Sturgis?” I asked.

  Please say no.

  Predictably, he didn’t say anything.

  “He sure is. Aaron’s up for a party,” said Grandad, squatting by the engine.

  “I’ve never known that to be true,” I said. “What is that thing?”

  “Flying Flea,” said Aaron, taking off his helmet that looked like it was original to the bike. He wore ski goggles over his glasses and there were already bugs splattered on them.

  “Are you seriously riding that thing to Sturgis?” I asked.

  “Huh?”

  “Aaron. Hello. It’s nine hours. How fast does it go?”

  “Forty-five.”

  “You can’t ride that. We’ll never get there,” I said.

  “I fixed it.”

  I tilted my head. That could mean anything. “How?”

  “Now it goes fifty.”

  “Well, that’s a huge improvement.”

  “Yeah.”

  I spent ten minutes arguing with Grandad about Aaron’s bike. I could spend nine hours in that sidecar, but not a minute more. While I was arguing, the bad feeling got worse. I thought it had to do with Aaron’s bike falling apart and killing him. It didn’t.

  “Why are you going anyway?” I asked him. Aaron was a chef of surprising skill, despite the fact that he looked like a ComicCon reject.

  “Barbecue.”

  “There’s good food in Sturgis?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you going?”

  “Barbecue.”

  This was getting me nowhere. “Well, you’re not riding that bike. It’s ridiculous.”

  “I need a bike.”

  “That doesn’t count.” That bad feeling intensified, overwhelming me with dread and then panic. All I knew was that we had to escape whatever was causing it. “We have to go,” I said. “Right now.”

  “What about the Flea?” asked Grandad.

  “I don’t care. Let’s go. I have a feeling.”

  “We can’t.”

  I winced. “Why not?”

  “Everybody’s not here,” said Grandad.

  A roar of Harleys started up in the distance. I had nothing against Harleys. They were kinda sexy, but those Harleys—I don’t know—sounded angry.

  “Who’s that, Grandad?” I asked.

  “Robert and your friend—what’s her name?”

  I went blank. Friend. Robert.

  My hands clenched into fists. “Oh, my god. You don’t mean Raptor, I mean, Raquel?”

  “Yes, of course, Raquel. You know Raquel.” Grandad took a squirmy Wallace from Aaron and said, “In you go.” He stuffed her in the sidecar with a friendly warning, “Don’t chew anything or make a mess. I’ve eaten dog before and I can do it again.” Grandad looked at me. “Something wrong?”

  Wrong? No. Why would there be anything wrong? I would be spending the foreseeable future in the heinous sidecar of an eighty-year-old motorcycle with an incontinent pug and Raptor, who considered me a waste of skin, was going to Sturgis. I went to nursing school with Raptor and she loathed me from the moment we met. It was a long four years.

  “Um…why?” I managed to choke out.

  “Well, I can’t carry that dog on the bike,” he said.

  “I mean why—”

  Raptor roared up on a brand new shiny Harley in full leathers. Beside her was Robert Babinski, Grandad’s only Vietnam buddy that lived in St. Louis. Robert was also Raptor’s grandfather on her mother’s side. I’d forgotten that or maybe I’d blocked it out.

  Robert was the reason Raptor and I got thrown together so much during nursing school. Since we were family friends, wouldn’t it be swell to go out to dinner in a big group after our capping ceremony sophomore year? It wasn’t swell, not one bit. Raptor always ruined everything that I lov
ed. Grandad used to take me out to lunch every once in a while. It was awesome. He thought everything I did was genius. He was the only one in the family to think so and it was a nice change from “Why are you wearing that?” and “Stop complaining. It’s for the family” and “You could’ve gone to church on Saturday night.” No, I couldn’t. I was drunk.

  In any case, I loved lunch with Grandad. That was until he discovered that Raptor went to school with me. Then he and Robert showed up to take us both out and it sucked. I usually got kicked and I think she might’ve spit in my lemonade once. It tasted like evil and she was surprisingly happy that time and kept asking how I liked it.

  But that was before Colorado. I’d helped out Raptor’s sister, Cecile, by smuggling Alice’s Answer, a cannabis oil, across state lines to treat her son’s seizure disorder. Since then, it’d been approved in-state, but I’d given Keegan the time he needed to survive. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. That was a huge favor, illegal and everything. Raptor had almost been decent to me ever since. Maybe she’d be nice this time.

  Raptor took off her helmet and shook out her dark, curly hair. “Why are you going?” she spat at me.

  Or maybe not.

  Grandad glanced at me and I swallowed the real answer. “I’ve never been to Sturgis.”

  “You want to go to Sturgis?”

  “Sure,” I said stoutly. “Apparently, you do, too.”

  “Nice sidecar,” she said with a sneer.

  Robert got off his bike and admired it. “What a ride, Ace. Where’d you get it?”

  “Mercy’s godmothers loaned it to me.”

  Robert whistled and said, “Your connections are sweet.”

  Raptor hissed at me, “What did you get, a tiara?”

  Because Grandad was watching and this whole thing was for him, I smiled and said, “I got to spend four hours laminating dough. One of my biceps is now bigger than the other one.”

  Raptor rolled her big, brown eyes.

  “What were you laminating?” asked Robert.

  “Dough.”

  “Do you bake?”

  “Not on purpose.”

  Grandad hugged me, making Raptor scowl harder. “Mercy’s being modest. She can bake anything.”

  “Showoff,” she muttered.

  What did I ever do to you?

  “Can we go?” I asked.

  “Not yet. We’re not all here,” said Grandad.