“I don’t get it,” George said.
“Well,” George’s mother said, “I’m not sure 1 do, either… I was very small, remember. All I know for sure is that those books got a hold over her. She said there would be no more talk about it and there wasn’t, either. Because Gramma wore the pants in our family.”
George closed his history book with a snap. He looked at the clock and saw that it was nearly five o’clock. His stomach was grumbling softly. He realized suddenly, and with something very like horror, that if Mom wasn’t home by six or so, Gramma would wake up and start hollering for her supper. Mom had forgotten to give him instructions about that, probably because she was so upset about Buddy’s leg. He supposed he could make Gramma one of her special frozen dinners. They were special because Gramma was on a saltfree diet. She also had about a thousand different kinds of pills.
As for himself, he could heat up what was left of last night’s macaroni and cheese, n he poured a lot of catsup on it, it would be pretty good.
He got the macaroni and cheese out of the fridge, spooned it into a pan, and put the pan on the burner next to the teakettle, which was still waiting in case Gramma woke up and wanted what she sometimes called “a cuppa cheer.” George started to get himself a glass of milk, paused, and picked up the telephone again.
” — and I couldn’t even believe my eyes when.. ” Henrietta Dodd’s voice broke off and then rose shrilly: “Who keeps listening in on this line, I’d like to know!”
George put the phone back on the hook in a hurry, his face burning.
She doesn’t know it’s you, stupe. There’s six parties on the line!
All the same, it was wrong to eavesdrop, even if it was just to hear another voice when you were alone in the house, alone except for Gramma, the fat thing sleeping in the hospital bed in the other room; even when it seemed almost necessary to hear another human voice because your Mom was in Lewiston and it was going to be dark soon and Gramma was in the other room and Gramma looked like
(yes oh yes she did)
a she-bear that might have just one more murderous swipe left in her old clotted claws.
George went and got the milk.
Mom herself had been born in 1930, followed by Aunt Flo in 1932, and then Uncle Franklin in 1934. Uncle Franklin had died in 1948, of a burst appendix, and Mom sometimes still got teary about that, and carried his picture. She had liked Frank the best of all her brothers and sisters, and she said there was no need for him to die that way, of peritonitis. She said that God had played dirty when He took Frank.
George looked out the window over the sink. The light was more golden now, low over the hill. The shadow of their back shed stretched all the way across the lawn. If Buddy hadn’t broken his dumb leg, Mom would be here now, making chili or something (plus Gramma’s salt-free dinner), and they would all be talking and laughing and maybe they’d play some gin rummy later on.
George flicked on the kitchen light, even though it really wasn’t dark enough for it yet. Then he turned on to heat under his macaroni. His thoughts kept returning to Gramma, sitting in her white vinyl chair like a big fat worm in a dress, her corona of hair every crazy whichway on the shoulders of her pink rayon robe, holding out her arms for him to come, him shrinking back against his Mom, bawling.
Send him to me, Ruth. I want to hug him.
He’s a little frightened, Momma. He’ll come in time. But his mother sounded frightened, too.
Frightened? Mom?
George stopped, thinking. Was that true? Buddy said your memory could play tricks on you. Had she really sounded frightened?
Yes. She had.
Gramma’s voice rising peremptorily: Don’t coddle the boy, Ruth! Send him over here; I want to give him a hug.