Gramma
Gramma by Stephen King
George’s mother went to the door, hesitated there, came back, and tousled George’s hair. “I don’t want you to worry,” she said. “You’ll be all right. Gramma, too.”
“Sure. I’ll be okay. Tell Buddy to lay chilly.”
“Pardon me?”
George smiled. “To stay cool.”
“Oh. Very funny.” She smiled back at him, a distracted, going-in-six-directions-at-once smile. “George, are you sure — ”
“I’ll be fine.”
Are you sure what? Are you sure you’re not scared to be alone with Gramma? Was that what she was going to ask?
If it was, the answer is no. After all, it wasn’t like he was six anymore, when they had first come here to Maine to take care of Gramma, and he had cried with terror whenever Gramma held out her heavy arms toward him from her white vinyl chair that always srnelled of the poached eggs she ate and the sweet bland powder George’s mom rubbed into her flabby, wrinkled skin; she held out her white-elephant arms, wanting him to come to her and be hugged to that huge and heavy old white-elephant body. Buddy had gone to her, had been enfolded in Gramma’s blind embrace, and Buddy had come out alive… but Buddy was two years older.
Now Buddy had broken his leg and was at the CMG Hospital in Lewiston.
“You’ve got the doctor’s number if something should go wrong. Which it won’t. Right?”
“Sure,” he said, and swallowed something dry in his throat. He smiled. Did the smile look okay? Sure. Sure it did. He wasn’t scared of Gramma anymore. After all, he wasn’t six anymore. Mom was going up to the hospital to see Buddy and he was just going to stay here and lay chilly. Hang out with Gramma awhile. No problem.
Mom went to the door again, hesitated again, and came back again, smiling that distracted, going-six-ways-at-once smile. “If she wakes up and calls for her tea — ”
“1 know,” George said, seeing how scared and worried she was underneath that distracted smile. She was worried about Buddy, Buddy and his dumb Pony League, the coach had called and said Buddy had been hurt in a play at the plate, and the first George had known of it (he was just home from school and sitting at the table eating some cookies and having a glass of Nestle’s Quik) was when his mother gave a funny little gasp and said, Hurt? Buddy? How bad?
“I know all that stuff, Mom. I got it knocked. Negative perspiration. Go on, now.”
“You’re a good boy, George. Don’t be scared. You’re not scared of Gramma anymore, are you?”
“Huh-uh,” George said. He smiled. The smile felt pretty good; the smile of a fellow who was laying chilly with negative perspiration on his brow, the smile of a fellow who Had It Knocked, the smile of a fellow who was most definitely not six anymore. He swallowed. It was a great smile, but beyond it, down in the darkness behind his smile, was one very dry throat. It felt as if his throat was lined with mitten-wool. “Tell Buddy I’m sorry he broke his leg.”
“I will,” she said, and went to the door again. Four-o’clock sunshine slanted in through the window. “Thank God we took the sports insurance, Georgie. I don’t know what we’d do if we didn’t have it.”
“Tell him I hope he tagged the sucker out.”
She smiled her distracted smile, a woman of just past fifty with two late sons, one thirteen, one eleven, and no man. This time she opened the door, and a cool whisper of October came in through the sheds.
“And remember, Dr. Arhnder — ”
“Sure,” he said. “You better go or his leg’ll be fixed by the time you get there.”
“She’ll probably sleep the whole time,” Mom said. “I love you, Georgie. You’re a good son.” She closed the door on that.
George went to the window and watched her hurry to the old ’69 Dodge that burned too much gas and oil, digging the keys from her purse. Now that she was out of the house and didn’t know George was looking at her, the distracted smile fell away and she only looked distracted — distracted and sick with worry about Buddy. George felt bad for her. He didn’t waste any similar feelings on Buddy, who liked to get him down and sit on top of him with a knee on each of George’s shoulders and tap a spoon in the middle of George’s forehead until he just about went crazy (Buddy called it the Spoon Torture of the Heathen Chinee and laughed like a madman and sometimes went on doing it until George cried), Buddy who sometimes gave him the Indian Rope Burn so hard that little drops of blood would appear on George’s forearm, sitting on top of the pores like dew on blades of grass at dawn, Buddy who had listened so sympathetically when George had one night whispered in the dark of their bedroom that he liked Heather MacArdle and who the next morning ran across the schoolyard screaming GEORGE AND HEATHER UP IN A TREE, KAY-EYE-ESS-ESS-EYE-EN-GEE! FIRSE COMES LOVE AN THEN COMES MARRITCH! HERE COMES HEATHER WITH A BABY CARRITCH! like a runaway fire engine. Broken legs did not keep older brothers like Buddy down for long, but George was rather looking forward to the quiet as long as this one did. Let’s see you give me the Spoon Torture of the Heathen Chinee with your leg in a cast, Buddy. Sure, kid — EVERY day.