Face the Winter Naked

by Bonnie Turner

  “Icebox!” Alice laughed. “That’s the perfect name for this country! I’ll bet your old friends were glad to see you.”

  Jean-Paul shook his head. “They all had new friends. Nobody wanted to hear about my Arctic adventures!”

  “It wasn’t easy for Jean-Paul after being away so long,” Cordell said. “It took him a while to make friends with the Eskimo kids when we lived here before. Then he had to do it all over again with the kids in Quebec.”

  Jean-Paul peeked over his shoulder at the man with the dog. From a distance the husky looked calm and gentle. In fact, with its tongue hanging out, it appeared to be laughing. He had never seen an animal with different colored eyes. This dog had a brown one and a blue one.

  The man glanced his way and smiled. In his panic a few moments before, Jean-Paul hadn’t noticed the long scar on the Inuit’s cheek.

  “I made venison stew for supper,” Alice said. “You’re welcome to join us.”

  Cordell scooped Pierre into his arms and tickled him under the chin with his beard, causing the child to giggle.

  “I’m so hungry I could eat a walrus,” he said, “whiskers and all!”

  Alice turned to Lise. “Come along, dear. We have spare cots at our cabin. I think this storm’s going to blow all night, so nobody’s going anywhere until morning. You might just as well get some rest before traveling again.”

  (Continued)

  Down the Memory Hole

  http://www.amazon.com/Down-the-Memory-Hole-ebook/dp/B002IYFFHY/ref=pd_sim_kinc_3?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2

  Summer vacation sucks when 12-year-old Buzz shares his room with a grandpa who has Alzheimer’s disease and his parents forbid him to associate with his best friend. The idea of giving up Mitch is bad enough. But how can he relate to an old man who wears adult diapers and thinks dog biscuits are people cookies? Someone who could die in the night and scare Buzz right out of puberty! (Ages 12 & up)

  Chapter 1

  I learned the hard way that life doesn’t always turn out the way we plan. For example, when my folks told me on my twelfth birthday I had to share my room with Grandpa Collins, my great plans for summer vacation fell apart.

  It all started when the doctor told us Grandpa had Alzheimer’s disease. I knew there wasn’t any cure, and the last thing I needed was watching my favorite grandpa die in my own room.

  “Why should I get stuck with him?” I asked my mother. “Why not Sara?”

  Mom laid a stack of waterproof sheets on the bare mattress of the hospital bed. She hadn’t said much about the situation after the first shock, but she knew she’d get most of Grandpa’s care whether she wanted it or not. Now she sighed and shook her head.

  “Think about it, Buzz. Your sister’s almost fifteen. Sara can’t share her room with a man. And even if she did, we couldn’t expect Grandpa to climb those stairs. My goodness, he’s so wobbly he could fall and break a hip.”

  She opened my closet and peered inside.

  “Now stop whining and bring me those boxes. I’ll put them in here for now.”

  “My closet isn’t big enough for both our stuff.”

  “Sure it is, honey. Just move your things over.”

  A stack of cartons sat on the floor at the foot of the bed. I picked up the biggest one and carried it over.

  “What’s in here?” I placed the heavy box on the floor, then pushed some shoes and other stuff to one side of the closet.

  “Books,” she said. “Odds and ends.”

  “Junk.”

  Mom smiled. “Maybe not junk to Grandpa, Buzz.”

  The box smelled mousy, like it came out of a damp cellar. I pushed it into the back of the closet, then went for another box.

  “So, when’s he coming?”

  She glanced at my clock. “Soon. He’ll be here to watch you blow out your candles.”

  “Some birthday, getting stuck with Grandpa.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t think of it as getting stuck,” Mom said. “We can’t turn him away—he’s your dad’s father, after all. And it’s only temporary.”

  “But—”

  “No buts.” A slight frown crossed her face, but she brushed it away and tried to smile. “We’ll work it out. There’s no other way.”

  I picked up a big box of Depends and stashed it in the closet with the other boxes. If any of my friends came over and saw those things, I’d never live it down.

  “Nobody cares how I feel.”

  “Oh Buzz, yes we do. We care very much. And if he had a choice, your grandfather wouldn’t intrude in your life.” She came over and hugged me. “Grandpa can’t make decisions anymore, so we’ll make them for him.”

  An invisible wall ran through the middle of my room, with Grandpa’s furniture on one side and mine on the other. It didn’t even look like my room anymore.

  ......

  When Grandpa came an hour later, he stood in the middle of the room looking confused and helpless. Mom set a vase of fresh daisies on his dresser, then turned to Grandpa with a smile.

  “I think you’ll be comfortable in here,” she said.

  When he didn’t reply, Dad gave Mom a little pat on the back. “The room looks nice, Ellen. I’m sure Pop’s grateful for your help.”

  I went up to Grandpa, wanting to say something, knowing I should. But when he looked right through me like I wasn’t even there, the words wouldn’t come. Instead, I put on my baseball cap, grabbed the ball, and went outdoors.

  When I came back inside a little while later, I found him asleep on the bed with his clothes on, and for the first time I got a real good look at him without being accused of staring.

  He looked awful. His eyeballs rolled sideways under the lids, like he was watching a movie, and his wrinkled skin reminded me of an empty lunch bag someone had carried for weeks in a back pocket. The veins on the back of his hands were fat blue night crawlers. I watched his Adam’s apple slide up and down when he gulped, and wondered how my folks expected me to handle this crazy situation. It wasn’t Grandpa’s fault, but my summer was ruined.

  I looked at the ball still in my hand, saw myself playing catch with him five years ago. He used to pitch a mean ball, and he taught me how to catch what he threw. Now I saw how wasted he looked. Don’t die, Grandpa. I shut my eyes real tight, and felt some tears squeeze out. Not only was my vacation ruined, but Grandpa’s whole life was, too.

  ......

  A few days after Grandpa Collins moved in, Dad explained there was no money for a nursing home. His snobby sister, my aunt Gladys, could help, but she wouldn’t take in their father for a million bucks. My room on the first floor was the only one big enough for two beds.

  “We’ll all have to make adjustments,” Dad said, “especially your grandfather. Alzheimer’s disease is a brain-cell disorder. It affects the memory.”

  “How long will he be here, Dad? I don’t know what to expect. What am I going to do?”

  He shook his head and shrugged. “Nobody knows how long he has, Buzz. Some people go on for years, but—”

  “I don’t want him snooping in my stuff.”

  “Suppose you had a brother in there?”

  “That’s different.”

  “Your grandpa was a kid once, Buzz. He’d know how you feel.”

  Dad leaned over and tugged at his sock, like when he got emotional at a sad scene in a movie. Getting mad and hitting the ceiling would be better than trying to hide his feelings. But he never did until the pressure built up so much he had to explode.

  ......

  For sure, Grandpa’s brain really was screwed up. Sometimes he forgot to wake up for two or three days in a row. Sharing my room with him was awful, especially at night when his snoring kept me awake, or when he started counting for no reason, or grunted like a bullfrog. One night he even used my closet for the bathroom—just opened the door and peed in my laundry basket. I was lucky my new skates didn’t get sprayed, too.

  “The poor man didn’t know what he was doing,” Mom said wh
ile cleaning up the mess the next day.

  She would have to put the Depends on Grandpa, and he’d take them off when nobody was looking. No matter what day or year his mind went back to, he sure as heck knew when he was wearing diapers.

  Alzheimer’s sounded like a German car. Grandpa was in the gray Alzheimer’s auto, but he couldn’t drive it. He ran stop signs and drove on the wrong side of the road. He couldn’t find the brake, and kept going till he ran out of gas, or crashed.

  His memory was so bad he couldn’t remember my real name, which is Baxter Eugene Collins. To him I was Barkley, his brother who died in a train accident at age ten.

  Dad told me a freight train hit the kid after his bike’s front wheel got caught in the railroad ties. His foot got stuck under a pedal, and Grandpa, hearing Bark scream, was running to help when a train came roaring down the tracks.

  I think somewhere in the back of his mind, Grandpa still saw the freight train crushing the life out of his little brother. Somewhere in his mind, he was screaming his brains out.

  I wondered if Alzheimer’s disease could be a mind running from a bad memory. If so, no wonder they couldn’t cure it.

  “With my luck, he’ll live to be a hundred,” I said to my best friend, Mitch Kenney. “I gotta get him out of my room, Mitch. Suppose he dies in there? Suppose I get up to go pee and trip over his corpse?”

  Mitch chuckled. “Then you’d get Alzheimer’s to block out the memory of seeing him dead.”

  “Yeah, right. You’re no help at all. But suppose he falls or something?”

  “Then you help him up.”

  “Well yes.”

  I knew I could. I hadn’t inherited the Collins’ giant genes for nothing. Not only was I bigger than most boys my age, but I could see my old baby fat turning to muscle. By the time I turned sixteen, I’d probably look like a weightlifter.

  I sat with Mitch on the bank of the mill pond after a June thunderstorm had crashed its way through Cedarville. A heavy rain had settled the dust. The sun shone again. The fresh air smelled like spring water tasted. Far to the east, a bolt of lightning split the sky. I counted the seconds between flash and thunderclap.

  “Five miles!” Mitch and I yelled together, then laughed because our minds were in tune.

  He pulled off his muddy shoes and stuck his feet into the cool water, then offered me a cigarette from a pack he swiped from his dad.

  I shook my head no. “You’re gonna get cancer.”

  “Gimmie a break, Buzz. Better than Alzheimer’s.”

  Mitch thought smoking was cool. I didn’t. But when you like somebody, it’s easy to ignore their faults. Except for the smoking, he was smart. I guessed his IQ was about a thousand, and hoped by hanging out with him, some of his brains would rub off on me. Mom and Dad said I was smart, too, because I could read before I went to kindergarten, and was always trying to figure things out. But Mitch was smarter. He didn’t even have to think, but just popped the answers off the top of his head.

  Already thirteen, Mitch was skinny and fidgety. His dark hair was too long. But it was summer, and his folks wouldn’t pay for a haircut till school started again. The pond was our favorite meeting place.

  The rain had stirred up the mud in the pond, and we poked around the bank looking for frogs for Mitch’s basement “zoo.” His three-pound Crisco can already held four small frogs, but we were searching for the big bullfrog we saw a few days ago. The zoo would be complete with him.

  It was a neat zoo, with salamanders, toads, a fox snake, and a box turtle. A mummy rat—a dead mouse wrapped in white tape—was our prize feature. While it lasted, before it rotted and stank up Mitch’s house, the mummy was great for freaking out his neighbor, Becky Roberts.

  ......

  I awoke one Saturday morning in June to the chirping of robins feeding their babies in the nest on my window ledge. I never knew how fast birds grew till I got a close-up look at these. Last week they were just three blue eggs, and this week, naked babies with scrawny necks and buggy eyes. All day long they hunched down in the nest staring at nothing. Then, a parent would land on the edge of the nest and those bugged eyes would disappear and they were all big open beaks. In another couple of weeks, they’d leave the nest and fly away.

  This time, I stayed in bed with my eyes shut, drifting in and out of sleep, watching my thoughts swirl like stinky socks in a washer. From behind our house came the warning whistle of the early train heading out of Cedarville.

  Grandpa stirred in the hospital bed on the other side of the room. Then he sat up and slid his bony legs off the side of the bed and leaned over to find his slippers. My Irish setter, Rusty, went over and sniffed his feet.

  “Git lost, you dumb old mutt.”

  It was the same every morning when Grandpa was in the current year.

  I called the dog over, and Rusty jumped onto my bed and started biting my toes through the sheet. Then he crawled up next to my face and lay down. He was shedding like crazy, and I spent the next half hour picking red dog hairs off my nose and tongue.

  Grandpa left the room, and when I heard the back door open, I knew he went outside to stand on the porch. I never worried about him leaving the yard, which was fenced to keep Rusty from chasing the neighbors’ cows. But I sometimes wished the door would lock behind him, he’d drive the Alzheimer’s to a cliff and roll over the edge.

  Rusty licked my chin when Grandpa came back inside and went to the kitchen before returning to my room. In the dim light, I couldn’t see what he was doing. But I heard him crunching something. A cookie? I asked Mom about it once, but she said I was dreaming; Grandpa had no cookies.

  Still, I heard him eating something almost every morning he was awake, and there were often crumbs in his bed. Once I even tailed him to see where he went, but he turned around suddenly and saw me. Pinning his hawk eyes on me he yelled loud enough to crack a sidewalk: “Sneaking around on me, Bark?”

  Before I could answer, Dad came downstairs to put the coffeepot on. When he bawled me out for pestering Grandpa, I couldn’t say I was trying to find Grandpa’s cookies so I could steal some. Instead, I faked a yawn, rubbed my eyes, and mumbled, “Can’t a kid even walk in his sleep?”

  When I finally decided to get up, I found Grandpa already in his easy chair, staring at an upside down Sports Illustrated. But I didn’t mind him being out, because it gave me privacy to inspect the things on top of his dresser: a snapshot of Barkley Collins at age four; a block of balsa wood with Grandpa’s initials carved into it; a photo of my great-great grandparents looking starched and sober on their wedding day. A cigar box with a broken lid held odds and ends of washers, screws, nails, coins, and tie-tacks.

  Best of all was a black velvet pouch containing a gold pocket watch with a train on the cover. The watch had stopped running long ago, like Grandpa, and Uncle Barkley.

  Grandpa’s Will said I would inherit the watch, but Grandpa had to die first, and I was afraid.

  ......

  My Saturday chores done, I was searching for my catcher’s mitt when I noticed Grandpa staring at me.

  “What do you want?” I asked him.

  “Where am I?”

  I was sick of the boring questions.

  “You’re in China.”

  “Where am I?”

  “China, Grandpa.”

  “Where am I?”

  “On the moon. Grandpa, you’re on the moon.”

  “How did I get here?”

  “You flew.”

  He let it soak in, then asked, “What am I doing here?”

  I looked up suddenly to see Sara in the doorway with a towel wrapped around her wet red hair.

  “You know you’re not supposed to tease him, Buzz.”

  Before I could answer, my dumb sister ran upstairs to dress for a piano lesson.

  It was bad enough I had to listen to Grandpa snoring and grunting everyday without Sara getting on my case.

  ......

  Sitting next to me at supper, Grandpa s
tared suspiciously at his plateful of food.

  “Ain’t hungry,” he said.

  “Try some fried chicken and gravy,” Dad said.

  “I ain’t gonna!”

  But Grandpa’s appetite won. He ate a back, a thigh, and two wings, plus two biscuits with gravy on top. All this he washed down with buttermilk and a chaser of prune juice, leaving a stack of greasy napkins on a pile of bones. At least he didn’t try to eat those.

  Then he belched and said to Mom, “Wasn’t fit for hogs.”

  I choked back a giggle when Mom dropped her fork. Seeing Dad was about to speak, she gave him a warning glance. I could almost hear her thoughts: He didn’t mean it, John.

  Mom was on the losing end today. When he finished eating, Grandpa stood up and shoved his plate so hard it sailed across the table and crashed into her glass of iced tea.

  “Oh!”

  She jumped up and ran to the sink for a towel as Dad yelled at Grandpa.

  “Darn it, Pop! Eat like a normal human being!”

  Mom swabbed up tea and ice cubes before setting the glass upright again.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “There’s no harm done.”

  Grandpa swayed, holding the edge of the table, his watery eyes focused on his son.

  “All done!”

  But Dad wouldn’t stop. “We can see you’re finished, but you’re not going to break the dishes!”

  “Oh, John,” Mom whispered, “he really can’t help it.”

  “Not again!” Sara said. “Why do we do this every day?”

  I gave her a dirty look. How would she know how bad it was? She didn’t live in the same room with him. The truth was, my sister usually avoided being around Grandpa.

  But all eyes were on Dad when he yelled at Grandpa. Once Dad started ranting, nothing in the world would stop him. His face turned red as he continued hitting the ceiling.

  “If you’re going to live here, you’ll have to behave!”

  He removed his wire-framed glasses and wiped a corner of his eye with an index finger. Adjusting the glasses again on the bumpy bridge of his thin nose, he lowered his head and peered at Grandpa over the top of them.