Shortly before dinner was to start, Arthur and D.W. wandered into the living room to find Grandma Thora seated on the couch, busily knitting a shawl out of pink yarn. The old aardvark woman adjusted her horn-rimmed glasses, sized up the two kids, and smiled. "My, my, how you kids have grown," she remarked sweetly.
Glancing about warily, D.W. tiptoed up to Grandma Thora and whispered in her ear, "It's something they put in the vegetables."
Seconds later the front door swung open, and Grandpa Dave started to shuffle through the doorway, supporting himself with a metal walker. The man looked more wrinkled and weary than Arthur had ever seen him, and had lost about half of his hair from the last time. He was not aging gracefully.
"Grandpa Dave! Grandpa Dave!" cheered D.W., rushing toward the visitor with her arms wide. Too tall to navigate under the walker, she leaped around it and warmly embraced the old man's leg.
"Whoop-dee-doo," muttered Arthur as he approached his grandfather to offer up an obligatory greeting. While Grandma Thora always had a fun activity prepared for her visits, Grandpa Dave could never be bothered with anything but sleep, checkers, sleep, stories of fabulous buried treasures, and more sleep.
Mr. Read trailed his father into the house, carrying an object that appeared to Arthur as a very unwelcome omen. A large suitcase.
Grandpa Dave spoke in a weak, husky, but friendly voice. "Hello there, D.W.," he said, rubbing his granddaughter's long, wavy hair. When he raised his eyes to look at Arthur he seemed to become disoriented, as if he were looking at three or four Arthurs instead of one. "And...and you must be D.W.," he added, pushing himself into a standing position.
"That's D.W.," said Arthur, pointing at his sister. "I'm Arthur."
"Oh, of course." Grandpa Dave chuckled. "What does D.W. stand for?"
It didn't take Arthur long to realize that his grandfather wasn't "all there". Mr. Read eventually hauled in three suitcases from the car, and laid them in the guest bedroom. Arthur was afraid to ask, and didn't need to--obviously Grandpa Dave was settling in for an extended stay.
Soon all the Reads, as well as Grandma Thora, were gathered around the feeble man as he rested on the couch and breathed heavily. Apparently tired out from his journey, he could only manage a few short sentences, such as "I'm grateful to all of you" and "I hope you have plenty of diapers."
As was her wont, D.W. climbed into her grandfather's lap and wrapped her arms around his flabby neck. "Oh, you're a heavy little girl," he remarked. "How old are you now?"
"I'm almost six," D.W. replied with glee. "I go to Arthur's school now."
"Six years old," mused Grandpa Dave. "I started school when I was six years old. I had to walk two miles each way with my big sister. We didn't have modern conveniences like cell phones and GPS units."
"Francine's mom is my teacher," D.W. went on. "And Nadine's in my class, and Emily, and Tommy, and Timmy, and James..."
"It's good you have so many friends," said the old man. "How old are you now?"
"You asked me that already," D.W. pointed out.
Befuddled by Grandpa Dave's absent-mindedness, Arthur strolled into the kitchen, where his mother and Grandma Thora had gone to chat quietly. "What is it?" asked Mrs. Read when she saw the boy.
Arthur's pupils darted back and forth, as if he felt ashamed for asking a question about something that was most likely none of his business.
"What's wrong with him, Mom?" he finally inquired. "He looks so tired. I mean, even more tired than usual. And he forgets stuff. He called me D.W."
Their expressions solemn, Grandma Thora and Mrs. Read seated themselves at the table, and Arthur followed suit.
"Your grandpa has a disease," said Mrs. Read slowly. "It's called Alzheimer's disease. There's no known cure."
Her statement only confused Arthur further. "How long is he going to stay here?" he asked.
"Probably until he dies," his mother answered.
Grim scenarios flooded Arthur's mind. Walking down the stairway one morning to find Grandpa Dave lying face-down on the carpet, dead...the family gathered around him, weeping...Pal howling with grief...
"How long will that take?" he asked nervously. Recognizing his poor choice of words, he added, "I mean, when will it happen?"
"I don't know," replied Mrs. Read. "Weeks, months, maybe years."
"Why does he have to stay here?" Arthur wondered.
"Because he can no longer take care of himself," his mother explained. "Alzheimer's disease is a degenerative condition of the brain. It makes you forget things."
By now Arthur had become extremely worried. "Is it contagious?"
Before Mrs. Read could answer, Arthur's imagination dissolved into a fantasy sequence...
He found himself in a Lakewood classroom, with Mrs. Frensky at the front of the room, drawing letters and pictures on the blackboard. Glancing around, he saw not only his sister D.W., but her first-grade classmates, including Vicita, James, and the Tibbles. Shaking his head with disbelief, he blurted out, "What am I doing in first grade?"
Mrs. Frensky lowered her chalk and smiled patronizingly. "Don't you remember? You forgot everything you learned in elementary school, so you have to start over."
"But I'm too old for first grade," insisted Arthur, his consternation growing. "I'm...uh...D.W., how old am I?"
"Ninety-nine million," replied his smirking sister.
"Yeah, what she said," Arthur told Mrs. Frensky. "I'm way too old for first grade."
"In that case," said the teacher, "you should have no trouble spelling the word 'cat'."
"Um...uh..."
Arthur didn't understand how such a simple word could stump him. Had he fallen and hit his head? He knew it started with a K...or maybe an S...
Finally the answer dawned on him.
"Goo goo dah dah boo boo," he cooed in a babylike voice.
Mrs. Frensky groaned. "Oh...he's getting worse."
Vicita sniffed the air. "What's that smell?"
The fantasy sequence ended as Mrs. Read started to reply to Arthur's question. "No, it's not..."
"C-A-T!" cried Arthur in a panic. His mother and grandmother were taken aback at his outburst. "One times seven is seven," he muttered feverishly. "Two times seven is fourteen. The capital of Missouri is Jefferson City."
"Are you all right, Arthur?" asked Grandma Thora.
"You don't have to worry about getting Alzheimer's disease," Mrs. Read informed him. "Only old people get it."
Arthur heaved a sigh of relief.
