Despite being worn out from the previous day's drama, I was up early...
...awakened abruptly by the sound of the front door closing decisively. Grandad was off on his morning walk...
...and, snatching my phone off the nightstand, I hastily dialed Sam's number.
She answered on the ninth ring.
"Argh! Caruls! Wh-whut time ish id?"
"7:23," I informed her, "...and what the hell that?"
Instead of answering my question, she groaned loudly, "Argh! 7:23? Call back later...and I promise I'll get up...just in time to catch the sunset!"
"Sam...wake up...now!" I demanded...
...and she slurred, sleepily and grumpily (and not at all convincingly), "Okay, okay! I'm awake...and what's so important that you're calling me at this ungodly hour?"
"Last night, that's what! What the hell was that?"
"You're welcome, Carls; glad you liked it," she mumbled, still sounding only semi-coherent...
...and, suddenly realizing what she thought I was saying, I gasped, "No! Th-that's not what I was referring to! Not at all! I-I'm sorry, honey...I loved your gifts...both of them! They're wonderful...honest! It's just...that...what I mean is...I...don't understand any of what happened while you were here last night."
There was a long pause on her end of the line...
...which was followed by a loud yawn...
...and then, still sounding groggy, she asked, "Do remember that gardening catalog your Grandad mentioned at dinner? The one I found in the garage last week?"
"Of course I do. What about it?"
"Well, he, uh, he left an envelope on top of it, with my name on it; and inside was a round-trip ticket to Yakima...and a bus schedule...and a note."
"A note? What did it say?" I demanded eagerly.
"Only that I was to be at Marioni's by 5:15, on Friday," she replied," and to ask for Brian, the manager when I got there, and to not say a word about it to you."
"That's it?" I asked, incredulous.
"That's it-oh, yeah, he also included his phone number, and instructions to call him if I had any trouble finding Marioni's."
"He didn't mention anything about my birthday in the note?" I asked, now equal parts confused, frustrated, angry, and disappointed.
"No," she answered, "he didn't, but I thought that's what the whole thing was going to be...a surprise party for you. Anyway, I got to Marioni's on time and found Brian, who told me that your grandad came the day before and ordered a pre-paid pizza; with instructions to make it the next day, as soon as he called the shop."
"Did Grandad call you while you were waiting for it to come out of the oven?" I asked.
"No, he didn't," she replied, "but that's when I called you. Anyway, after about thirty minutes Brian handed the pizza to me, and told me to deliver it to your address-ASAP-so I did."
"Okay," I replied, finally beginning to get the gist of what had happened, "so then you...hey, wait a minute! You just said that you knew, yesterday, that it was my birthday...so why didn't you even mention that while you were here?"
"Cupcake," she answered (with surprising patience), "I was going to wish you a 'Happy Birthday' right there at the front door, but when you grabbed me, I saw your grandad's face over your shoulder; and right away I could tell from his expression that something was very, very wrong; and, well, instinct took over from there."
"Oh. I see. So then he...wait! What were...I mean...when did you become such an expert on roses?"
"I didn't," she replied, "gardening totally bores me to death; but I was more than willing to do it, for your sake. I was pretty sure he'd left that catalog under my bus tickets for a reason...so I decided to tune into Zoo Tube and study every video I could find on the subject, you know, just in case."
"Well, okay, but...Sartre, Sam? SARTRE?"
I clearly heard the smile in her voice as she asked me, "Oh, that. Have you ever hear of a site called Cheet Sheet?"
"No," I admitted.
"That doesn't surprise me; but, to make a long story short, the site is for people like me, who have better things to do with their time than study...I mean, how do you think I keep passing final exams, even though I sleep through most of our classes?"
"Uh...I thought you just copied my work," I answered.
(Unsurprisingly) sidestepping an admission, she instead declared, "Anyway, the site sums up even the most complicated academic subjects, in just a few short sentences."
"Okay...but how did you know he was going to make us watch that particular show?" I asked.
"Process of elimination, Carls. After everything you've told me about what's happened between you and your grandad, and that he blames me for a large part of it, it's obvious that he thinks I'm some kind of thug; so I decided to try to make the best impression possible while I was there."
"And?"
"And you told me that he's always making you watch awful TV shows and that he only has crappy basic cable; so I looked up the online Yakima TV guide, for the time slots between 7 and 9 P.M.; and I and figured, since you said he loves The Historian Channel, that it was the most likely one. I didn't know for sure if we'd be watching it, but just to be on the safe side I looked up Twentieth Century French Philosophy on Cheet Sheet; and it mentioned both Sartre and Existentialism and...Ta-Da! Instant expert!"
"Oh, I see...but still, Sam, it was my birthday!" I fumed. "I can't believe he'd torture me that way!"
"Well, as I mentioned, I wasn't sure what to expect when I got there," she repeated. "Still, I thought he had invited me there to celebrate; but as soon as I saw his face, I knew something was up."
"Yeah, something was up!" I snapped. "Haven't you been paying attention to all the stories I've been telling you? I'll tell you exactly what's up...he's being absolutely satanic to me...and he's loving every minute of it!"
There was a long pause...
...and then, she answered slowly, "No, Carls. He's not."
I couldn't believe what I'd just heard.
"After everything he's done to me, how can you even say that?" I said...too loudly.
"Because up 'til now I only had what you told me to go on," she replied, "but last night, I finally saw for myself and...and now I know exactly what's going on."
"Yeah, and so do I...he orchestrated the whole thing, brought you all the way down here and then bullied us both into silence, all because he loves to make me suffer!"
"No, Cupcake, she answered, "he didn't...and he doesn't."
"I can't believe what you're saying to m-I mean, come on, Sam!" I shouted. "Whose side are you on, anyway?"
"Yours, of course," she replied without hesitation, "but-"
"Well then," I continued, now highly indignant, "it should be glaringly obvious to you that he enjoys inflicting torture, and making my life a living hell!"
"That's what it sounded like at first," she admitted, "but now I've seen for myself whats going on between you two...but especially with him."
"Huh? What are you talking about?"
"Try to see it from-" she began...
...and I lost it.
"From his perspective?" I yelled. "See, I was right! You are taking his side-"
"You know what, Carls?" she interjected suddenly, "Let's change the subject."
Immediately regretting how I'd been acting (and reacting), I stammered, "B-b-but-"
"No, Carls," she continued wearily, "from now on we'll just talk about safe, boring subjects...like the weather. So, are you expecting any rain down your way this wee-"
"No!" I shouted. "Look, I...I'm sorry! Please tell me what's going on with Grandad, and tell me how you know!"
After pausing to reconsider, she relented and said, "Well, okay...as for how I know, I've been on my own practically since I could walk; and one thing that I learned in a hurry is that the only way to survive, especially in the city-"
"I know," I interrupted, "the only way is to learn to act tough."
Her answer surprised me.
"No, Cupcake, actually that's second way. What's first is to learn to size people up-quickly and accurately."
"Well then," I replied, "if that's the case, then please tell me what's going on here...before I lose what's left of my mind!"
She exhaled audibly, then stated, "Okay. Do you ever feel like...well, like no one loves you?"
"Huh?" I answered, completely confused. "What kind of question is that?"
"A serious one...so do you, Carls?"
After thinking it over for a moment I answered, "Actually, no. Even after Mom and Grandmom died, there was always Spencer...and Dad...and now you; so, no, I guess I've never really had to think about it."
"Well, Carls, I have thought about it...for years...until...do you remember your 5th grade birthday party...and what happened between us?"
"Of course I remember. Spencer invited the entire class to our apartment for the party, and I got some fantastic gifts; but you didn't give me the one you'd brought until after everyone else had left...and you seemed ashamed that it was only a candy bar...but you were being way too hard on yourself! It was a gourmet candy bar, and I know it had cost you at least six bucks...and I knew, even back then, that you never had any money to feed yourself, let alone for gifts, so-"
"No, Carls," she said quietly. "I mean, what happened right after that."
I paused to think about it, then said, "Well, you um, you looked like you were about to cry...or to run...or maybe both, so I grabbed onto your shirt-with both hands-and said, 'None of the other gifts I got even come close to the one that's standing right in front of me. You're the best gift of all, and I love you so much.'"
"And that's the first time in my life anyone has ever told me that they love me," she stated...
...and I almost dropped my phone.
"Wh-what?" I spluttered "I don't believe that!"
"It's true," she corrected me. "Until then, I felt no one loved me at all...just like your grandad does now."
"He doesn't feel that way!" I shot back hotly, taking her remark very, very personally.
"Cupcake, that's exactly how he feels," she insisted. "You told me that Spencer stopped calling him years ago, because they argue constantly."
"B-but Spencer does call him," I insisted.
"Yeah, now he does, but that's only because he wants to check in on you."
"Well, yeah, but...but Grandad has a girlfriend," I countered.
"Who's an ugly drunk; who insults him constantly, so where's the love in that?" she replied.
"There's Mrs. Payne," I added quickly, still determined to be right.
"Carls, she didn't write that love letter, like you thought she did."
"Okay, that's true," I conceded, "but still, I'm sure she loves him as a friend, otherwise he wouldn't constantly be helping her out with-"
"Has she ever invited you two over for dinner...to show her appreciation?"
Well...no," I admitted.
"Has she ever baked him any 'thank you' cookies?"
"No."
"Has she ever knitted him a sweater?"
"No."
"Of course she hasn't," Sam concluded, "and it's because she's only using him."
"But he has friends," I protested, "...what about Rick?"
"Do the two of them ever do anything besides play golf together?" she asked. "I mean, do they ever go to each others' homes, or hang out together anywhere?"
"No. It's really more of a business relationship," I admitted.
"So, Carls, that leaves you. Only you. Before you went to Yakima, you used to call him at least once a month, just to see how he was doing, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"And now comes the hard part, Cupcake, but I have to say it; during that fight the two of you had, when you said, among other things, that you hate him, you broke his heart completely."
"But I've apologized for that!" I yelled. "Over and over and over...so why isn't he forgiving me?"
"Because he doesn't believe you. After all, actions speak louder than words."
"Well, wh-what about all my actions, helping out around here? Slaving to keep this house spotless, and cooking for him, and going along with all the mind-numbing activities he plans? Doesn't that count for anything?"
"Unfortunately, no."
"BUT WHY?" I insisted. "He keeps tormenting me-over and over-and, ever since we fought I've said and done everything I can to show him how much I regret what happened!"
There was a long pause, and then Sam answered slowly, "What he's doing is hurting him, too...every bit as much."
"Then WHY does he keep doing it?" I demanded.
"Because he's watching, Carls...watching and waiting."
"Waiting for WHAT?"
"He's waiting for you to...to snap from the pressure."
"Huh?"
"He's watching for you to crack...and say you hate him again," she stated flatly.
"He's not!
"Yes he is," she continued, "and all the while he's doing these things to you, he's hoping and praying that you won't...and that he's wrong about it, because if you do say it again, it would destroy him completely."
Finally, I got it.
"You mean he's...he's...testing me?"
"Yes."
"Sam, how can you know that?"
"Just by the way he looked last night...and the way he was acting. It told me everything."
"Well then...how much more of this torture am I going to be subjected to before he believes that I really regret what I did, and that I didn't mean what I said?"
"That I don't know."
"Sam, this is so wrong...and so unfair!"
She sighed, then stated, "I...I just want you to know that I agree with you completely on this, Carls; it was rotten of him to do that to you on your birthday, and all the rest of it, too, so please don't think I'm defending him."
"Well, okay, but how much more?"
"I...don't know," she repeated, adding, "you'll just have to give it time; but it's probably going to help the situation that I'll be working on his yard every weeken-"
"You mean you're still coming on Sunday?" I interrupted. I had forgotten all about it.
"Yes," she confirmed, "and every Sunday after that."
"For...how long?"
"For as long as it takes," she answered determinedly...
...and, suddenly, I had an idea.
"Look," I cut in eagerly, "last night when I was watching the news with Grandad, the weatherman said that it's supposed to get up into the mid-nineties on Sunday, so while you're here, I can...I'll bring you some iced tea! And then I'll get to see you!"
"No," she answered quickly. "If I get thirsty, I'll just drink from your garden hose."
"Yuck! Believe me, Sam, you don't want to! I did that once-"
"And?"
"And once was enough! All that comes out of it is nasty, disgusting, warm, brackish water!" I informed her.
"I don't mind," she replied.
"Well, I do mind! You're going to be working your butt off for Grandad-for free-for God knows how many weeks, so I don't see how he could possibly refuse you a glass of-"
"Carls, don't you dare!" she cut me off.
"But...but it'll only be for a few minutes, and then I swear I'll go right back into the hous-"
"No!" she shouted. "I don't want you to! Don't even come out into the yard!"
"But-" was as far as I got...
...before she broke in, "Listen...no matter what happens while I'm there, you need to stay far away from me!
"But, S-"
"No!" she yelled. "Don't even consider it! The only thing that matters is for your grandad to see us deliberately avoiding each other...at all times! That's the only way he's ever gonna believe how sorry we are! So I want you to give me your solemn word-right now-that you won't even look out the windows while I'm here...okay?"
Even though I knew she was right, it still hurt badly, so I didn't answer...
...but, realizing how important this was, she wasn't about to let it go.
"Carls?"
Still highly upset, I sulked silently.
"Promise me?" she repeated.
No reply.
"Carls?"
More silence.
"Carls!"
"Okay, okay! I...I promise."
As usual, Grandad and I ate dinner without speaking, which was fine by me. I was pretty much accustomed to it by now, and besides, since it was Friday night my mind wasn't on conversation anyway...
...it was instead focused, laser-like, on Saturday morning, which was approaching all too rapidly...
...and so, instead of relishing the silence, I was on the edge of my seat...
...because I was dreading him announcing-at any moment-that I was going to be accompanying him to the country club tomorrow, for my first golf lesson...
...but much to my surprise (and relief), he didn't say a word on the subject the entire time we were at the table. But still, the idea continued to plague me...
...while I cleaned up the kitchen...
...while we sat through the evening's mandatory TV suckumentary (Accountability and Performance in the Senior Civil Service)...
...and long after I got into bed. After tossing and turning for nearly an hour, I realized that falling asleep was going to be impossible...
...until I knew for sure...
...and so, getting up quietly, I opened my bedroom door and sneaked down the hall into the living room...
...where I breathed a sigh of relief. Grandad is a creature of habit, and every Friday night he leaves his golf clubs by the front door if he's planning to play the next morning...
...and now they were-thank God-nowhere in sight!
And so, I returned to my bed, assured as I (finally) nodded off that, no matter what other inane activity he might have planned for the two of us tomorrow, it couldn't possibly be as horrible as wasting half a day of my life bored to death out on the golf course.
XXXXX
When I opened my eyes the following morning, my alarm clock was in my direct line of vision.
10:37 A.M.
And I was out of bed like a shot.
I couldn't believe it. Grandad never let me sleep in this late; he thinks it's a waste of valuable hours on this earth to lie around in bed when you could (and should) be doing something constructive...
...and, worried by his failure to wake me that something might have happened to him, I tore out of my bedroom and into the hallway...
...then quickly approaching Granddad's bedroom door, which was open a crack. I knocked, but there was no response, so I opened it the rest of the way and looked inside.
Empty.
My next stop was the kitchen, which was also empty, so I glanced out the back window, expecting to see him tending the garden (he wasn't), or yacking with Mrs. Payne over the back fence...
...but there was no sign of him. With a shrug, I turned away from the window and toward the fridge...
...where I found the following note, held in place with a magnet shaped like an orange wedge:
Running errands; be back shortly.
I smiled wryly. It figured that he'd put no return time on the note...God forbid I'd be able to celebrate his absence with no fear of his returning any second and spoiling my fun; but why, I wondered, didn't he take me with him, like he always did (not that I wanted him to)!
After a glass of cranberry juice and a bowl of cereal, I took a long, hot shower, intending to revel in his absence anyway by calling Sam as soon as I'd dressed; but, upon opening the bathroom door, I was surprised to see him descending the stairs from the top floor of the house, and, realizing that my bathrobe was hanging wide open in the front...
...revealing my very naked breasts...
...I hastily pulled it shut, but he seemed not to notice as he hurried past me and headed out the front door.
I went into my bedroom, shutting the door behind me and, as I dressed, I heard him ascend and descend the stairs four more times, but soon turned my attention from wondering what he was up to to how I was going to spend my morning. As mentioned earlier, Grandad would definitely object to me just hanging around all day, doing nothing, and so I needed to come up with a way to at least look busy...
...but-due to my endless, daily efforts-the house was already immaculately clean. I wasn't about to ask him for suggestions(!), and so I continued to wrack my brain for ideas, eventually settling on a project.
I could polish the furniture.
When I finally emerged from my bedroom, Grandad was nowhere in sight. After stopping at the hall closet for Pledged and a dust cloth, I headed to the living room, where I found him seated on the couch, with his face buried in the morning paper.
"Uh, good morning," I said with as much conviction as I could dredge up.
Momentarily, he looked at me over the top of the Yakima Morning Tribune and nodded, then disappeared behind it again, while I walked over to the mantle and began spraying and wiping. I worked my way around the room in silence, not thinking about anything except making every surface as shiny as possible; and, after about twenty minutes, I'd completely circumvented the room, leaving only one piece of furniture left to do: The coffee table in its center. Walking over to where it (and Grandad) sat, I bent over and began polishing.
A few seconds later, Grandad cleared his throat meaningfully, and, straightening back up, I looked at him questioningly.
After a long moment spent staring back at me in silence he said, "I would have taken you with me this morning, but there wouldn't have been room for you in the car."
I had no idea what he meant by that, so I just answered, "It's...okay, I didn't need to buy anything...or to go anywhere."
Another stretch of silence followed; finally, Grandad broke it.
"I'm not going to church tomorrow," he announced...
...and my eyebrows shot up. This was completely unlike Grandad, and, having no idea what was going on I waited, still not speaking, for him to elaborate.
After another long pause, he took a deep breath and stated, "I've decided that...it's time for me to...to let go of Grandmom's things."
Unsure of the best way to respond to this, I merely nodded, actually feeling sorry for him, having to relive all those painful memories, as he sorted through her stuff...
...an entire attic's worth.
"It's going to be a huge project," he announced..
...while I nodded sympathetically...
"...so you'd better get started on it first thing tomorrow morning," he stated...
...and my jaw dropped.
"There's a truck coming from the Second Chance charity first thing Wednesday morning, so you'll definitely need to be finished by then," he added.
I just stood there, stunned.
He couldn't possibly be serious!
That was at least a week-long job...
...and he expected me to do it?
Alone?
In Only Three Days?
"That's why you don't have to go to church tomorrow, either," he continued. "As for me, I'm not going because Mrs. Lippincott has asked me to have brunch with her."
At this pronouncement, despite the awful project he'd just dumped on me, I wanted to laugh out loud.
Asked him to have brunch with her?
Asked him?
More likely, she ordered him!
But enough about her, I thought grimly. I mean, it was both pathetic and tragic that she had her liver-spotted claws hooked into Grandad so tightly that she could even convince him to skip church...
...which, being a devout Christian, he never, ever does...
...but my situation was worse...far, far worse!
But, as horribly unfair as all of this was, I knew that I didn't dare argue...
...not after everything that had happened between Grandad and myself. Not after what he'd vowed to do if I defied him again...even one more time.
The sound of his voice snapped me out of my stunned state.
"I've left a lot of empty boxes at the top of the stairs for you," he announced, and then, without another word he stood up, turned on his heel, and walked through the kitchen and out into the back yard.
Sam was furious when I told her.
"What?" she yelled. "That hobknocker! He knows thatI'm going to be there tomorrow! So why didn't he ask me to do it?"
"I don't kno-hey! That's it!" I exclaimed, suddenly inspired. "I'm sure I can convince him that I can't possibly finish such a huge project in only three days...and, since you're going to be coming here anyway, to work on the yard, I...I'll ask him if you can help me instead!"
"No!" she shouted. "That's absolutely the worst idea you've ever come up with!"
"Well...maybe you're right," I admitted. "He does get cranky when his lawn is unkempt, so you really should take care of that first, and then we-"
"Carls, don't you dare even suggest that to him!" she yelled. "I promised him I wouldn't try to see you AT ALL when I'm there!"
No amount of begging and pleading on my part convinced her to change her mind...
...and so I spent the rest of the day dreading the next one.
XXXXX
Sunday morning arrived all too soon and, entering the kitchen at 7 a.m.-as instructed-I found Grandad, with a coffee mug in one hand and the morning newspaper in the other.
Neither of us spoke.
After I'd finished a banana, two croissants, and a glass of milk, I sighed silently. There was no way to delay it...
...and absolutely no way out...
...and so, rising from my chair, I announced, "Well, I guess I'll get started."
Grandad set his paper down and turned in my direction, stating, "All right, here's what I want you to do. Anything that was hers, put it on the left side of the room. Anything of mine, put over on the right side. Anything you're unsure of, stack in the middle, and I'll look those items over later."
I nodded.
"Oh, and one other thing," he added, "Where's your phone?"
Unbelievable! He was heartlessly imprisoning me in attic AND sentencing me to at least three days of mind-numbing, hard labor AND cutting my only lifeline to the outside world?
Struggling to keep my voice as even as possible (easier said than done), I answered, "It's on my nightstand. Recharging."
After taking a long, hard look at my face he nodded, apparently convinced that I wasn't lying, then glanced at his watch, and said, "Good. Work until twelve, then take half an hour for lunch, and then work through the rest of the afternoon. You can stop at five, and pick up tomorrow where you left off...oh, and make sure you keep the attic door closed so dust doesn't filter downstairs...oh, and make sure you keep the noise down; Viol- er, I mean Mrs. Lippincott will be coming over for brunch shortly."
Not trusting myself to deliver a non-toxic answer, I merely nodded, and then headed-fuming-out of the kitchen and up the stairs to the attic.
After navigating my way around the multiple, tall piles of flattened boxes he'd left at the top of the landing, I crossed it and opened the attic door...
...and my heart plummeted.
It was worse-far, far worse-than I had remembered. The spacious attic, which comprised the entire top floor of the house, was crammed with an indescribable mish-mash of every conceivable kind of junk; some of it in boxes, but much of it piled indiscriminately in countless, untidy stacks, where Grandad had hastily thrown it several years ago, when he was hurriedly ridding the downstairs of every single reminder of Grandmom he could find. The only upside to this whole nightmare was that the room was at least air conditioned, because otherwise-it being the dead of summer-I'd positively roast up here.
Now way past furious, I kicked all the boxes through the doorway, into the attic, and closed the door behind me...
...soon realizing that acting enraged was a valuable waste of my limited energy. There was no way out of this predicament...
...which meant that I shouldn't (and couldn't) waste any time getting started...
...and so, picking up the nearest box, I opened it and looked inside...
...and screamed...
...because it contained what appeared a baby's severed head...
...its mouth gaping, and its lifeless, staring eyes opened wide...
...with the rest of the rigid, naked corpse lying underneath it...
...but then I realized, relieved, that this was the base of the ceramic Cupie doll lamp that I'd knocked off my nightstand and broken, when I was six...
...and that it had been up here for years because no one had ever bothered to repair it...
...and, hands shaking, I crossed the room and put it next to the door, in a spot that I thereby designated as the 'Junk' pile.
I spent the next hour tackling another twenty to thirty boxes...
...which contained an incredible assortment of crap (I won't bore you with details)...
...and, just as I was crossing the room and adding a box of musty old curtains to the junk pile..
...I heard the lawnmower start up.
With a smile, I glanced at my watch. Sam was here! And at nine a.m. sharp, no less! But still, whether punctual or not, it was achingly bittersweet to have her so close to me...
...yet so far away...
...and so, conveniently 'forgetting' my promise that I wouldn't peek ….
…I hurried across the room, over to the its only window and, after skillfully navigating my way around several tall piles of junk, I knelt down and looked out.
No Sam in sight. The view from here is not of the front yard, but of the side yard...
...so all I could see was our cement patio...
...and realizing that unless Sam decided to come over here and sweep the area I wouldn't be able to see her at all, I turned, with a sigh, back to my work.
After another half hour or so of pointless, backbreaking labor, I stopped to survey what I'd done thus far...
...immediately realizing, with a sinking heart, that I'd barely made a dent in the innumerable mountains of debris...certainly not a noticeable one.
Damn!
Grandad's gonna freak out! He's going to take one look and think that I've been goofing off up here all day! I thought, even though I've been working like a goddamned galley slave...
...being tortured all the while by the sound of the lawnmower, as it (and Sam) approached/retreated from the house! With an exasperated sigh, I turned back to my work...
...or, rather, up to it...
...because I now found myself looking at the uppermost shelf of a tall, built-in oak bookcase, which I'd just finished emptying. Standing on tiptoe, I craned my neck, but, since it was well over six feet high, I couldn't see, from where I was standing, if there was anything on top of it...
...and I couldn't climb up to check because none of the nearby cardboard boxes would support my weight...
...and so, I did the only logical thing: I reached up to the top of the bookcase and swept my right hand along it. Seconds later, I was cursing loudly...
...as I knocked the large, unseen and uncapped jar over, sending a liberal shower of a pale yellow, wet, greasy substance cascading down on myself.
Fortunately, my head was tilted backward, so none of it landed directly in my face...
...splashing instead onto my chin and then down the front of my shirt.
Swearing again, I leaned down and picked up the quart-sized, wide-mouthed, clear plastic jar from the floor, where it had landed, wanting to see what I'd just dumped all over myself...but the label, if there had ever been one, was now gone.
I wasn't concerned so much about the T-shirt, which was an old one, but still I needed to clean up and change; and so, after adding the now-empty container to the ever-growing pile of trash, I opened the attic door and strained my ears...
...eager to avoid both Grandad and a lecture on carelessness...
...but there was nothing but silence...
...which was puzzling. Shouldn't Mrs. Lippincott have been here by now? But then again, I mused, when I was downstairs I hadn't seen him cooking anything, so maybe they had gone out for brunch, rather than staying in. Still, wanting to err on the side of caution, I descended the stairs as quietly as possible...
...and then made a beeline for the laundry room.
Shutting the door behind me, I headed over to the utility sink in the corner, where I stripped my shirt off and cleaned the oil (or whatever it was) from my hands, chin, and chest. After throwing my shirt into the sink to soak and pulling a clean one from the dryer (I'd washed a load of laundry the night before), I decided that, as long as I was there, I might as well empty it out completely, so I loaded the rest of my clean clothes into a basket, walked out the door, and headed for my bedroom.
Halfway up the hall, I froze in my tracks.
Grandad's office door was open (as usual), and he was sitting at his desk (as usual), but, even though his eyes were looking down at the desktop, I clearly saw his face...
...and the expression on it can only be described as 'utterly destroyed.'
He seemed not to see me, so I took a tentative step forward and said, "Grandad?"
Raising his eyes to mine, he stared for a long moment, then shook his head and lowered his face into his hands...
...while I stood there...confused...completely unsure of what to say, and then, once again...
...I looked down at my watch.
Since he'd invited Mrs. Lippincott for brunch, she definitely should have been here by now.
What was going on?
Hurrying into my bedroom, and shutting the door behind me, I dropped the basket of laundry onto my bed, making a mental note to fold everything later, then headed back across the room; and then...
...just as I reached for my doorknob, it dawned on me...
...the reason that Mrs. L. hadn't come over...
...it was because she had broken up with Grandad!
After he'd put up with all that abuse from her, which he'd never taken from anyone before, and which was probably eating him up inside (but which he'd endured out of loneliness and desperation), she'd dealt the final, cruel blow and had dumped him; and judging from the expression on his face, she had done it in the nastiest way possible...breaking his heart completely!
That bitch!
I stood there for a moment, silent, trying to figure out what I should say. But, then again, what could I say to him? What if I said the wrong thing and made the situation worse? What if I somehow (inadvertently) reminded him of what her ditching him really meant...and then, in his anguish and despair, he decided to make me move to Yakima permanently, because he didn't want to end up completely alone?
That thought was way too horrible to contemplate, and so I shoved it back into the far recesses of my mind and just stood there, hand on my doorknob, wracking my brain to determine what-if anything-I should say...
...but no insights presented themselves...
...but then again, I couldn't just walk past him and say nothing...
...and, realizing that I'd just have to wing it and hope the right words came to me, I quietly opened my bedroom door and stepped out into the hallway...
...to find his office door closed...
...which should have been a relief...but it wasn't.
He didn't want to talk...
...but suddenly, I needed to.
Desperately.
I needed to talk, not to him, but to Sam, to get her objective take on this and to get her advice about it...
...because there was so much about this situation that could potentially go very, very, very wrong...
...but then again, this morning Grandad had made it very clear that he didn't want me talking to her.
And then, even though I knew I shouldn't, I turned and looked back across my bedroom...
...over to my night stand.
Over at my phone...
...but fear kept me rooted to the spot. If he caught me talking to Sam, God only knows what might happen...
...but still, I couldn't wait on this. I needed to talk to her.
Now.
Nevertheless, I remained standing there...torn, leaning first toward one decision and then the other...until, after nearly ten minutes of deliberation, I crossed the room and, trembling, hid the cord in my nightstand drawer, and slid the phone into my back pocket...
...and then, heart hammering, I stepped back out into the hallway...
...stopping in front of Granddad's still-closed office door.
Not daring to breathe, I actually considered knocking...
...for a fraction of a second...
...until I heard him, on the other side, moan, "No...oh, God, no!"
This was followed by what I swear was a muffled sob...
...and, shaken, I backed away silently...
...and sneaked back upstairs...
...where I reached around to my back pocket...
...and pulled my phone out...
...but then, I hesitated again.
Bad idea.
Incredibly bad idea.
And so, ignoring my overwhelming need to talk to Sam, I just shoved it back into my pocket and returned to work with a will...while listening to the tortuous drone of the lawn mower...
...but, less than fifteen minutes later, I couldn't take it anymore...
...I absolutely had to ask her advice; and so, I pulled my phone out again...
...but, just as I started to dial her number, I froze...
...because I heard footsteps ascending the stairs. I knew they were Granddad's because, ever since his knee surgery he's walked with a slight limp...
...and these footsteps definitely sounded uneven...
...and, heart in my throat, I shoved my phone back into my pocket.
He halted at top of the stairs, and then I heard him cross the landing...
...where he hesitated...
...while I stared, apprehensively, at the closed attic door...
...hoping with all my heart that when he opened it my expression wouldn't betray what I'd been about to do.
The silence stretched on, for nearly a minute...
...and then, to my confusion, I heard him descending the stairs.
He had wanted to talk to me, but had changed his mind. But...was that a good thing?
And suddenly, regardless of the risk, I had to talk to Sam. Still, what if he changed his mind, yet again, and came back up here and caught me? I stood there, wrestling with this dilemma for what seemed forever...
...until, completely confused and stressed, I gave in. I just couldn't take it anymore. I had to know what she thought about all of this...
...and what she thought I should do.
And so, even though I had been told not to...
...and well aware of what I was risking...
...I crossed the attic, walking over to the corner that was farthest from the door; and, dragging the rickety wooden armoire that was standing there away from the wall, I crouched down behind it and, hands shaking, I pulled my phone out and dialed Sam's number.
Seconds later, I heard the lawnmower stop.
She must have seen my name in her phone's display, and obviously wanting to save me from getting us both into trouble, she disconnected me at the third ring, without even answering.
But I wasn't about to give up so easily.
And so, I hit the redial key, over and over until, finally, she picked up on the sixth call.
"Carls!" she exclaimed, clearly exasperated, "What are you trying to do...you're going to get us-"
"Sam, where are you right now?"
"You know where I am; I'm outsi-"
"Yeah, I know that...but where?"
She hesitated for a moment, then answered, "Down at the far end of the yard, near the street, but-"
"Sam...I have to talk to you!"
"You can't! You know you can't! We're gonna get bust-"
"Sam! I have to! Right now!"
"Okay, okay!" she relented, "but just for a second...and why?"
"Something horrible just happened, while I was cleaning out the attic!"
"Like what?" she asked. "What did you find up there...a few dead bodies?"
"N-no! That's not why I'm calling! It's because Grandad is-"
"Is what? Is threatening to make you clean out the basement next?"
"No! I'm calling because he...he's highly upset!"
"So, what else is new?" she asked, in an infuriatingly-dismissive tone.
"No! Sam, listen to me! It's not like that at all! I just saw him sitting at his desk, and he...and he looks completely devastated. I-I think it's because...I think Mrs. Lippincott just broke up with him."
"HALLELUJ-" Sam started to sing...at the top of her lungs...but then dropped her voice back down to a whisper and added, "Oops! Sorry about that. Are you...sure, Carls?"
"Yes! I'm sure of it...because nothing else could possibly make him that upset! Sam, I'm really, really worried; he actually looked like he was about to bawl his eyes out. To make it worse, Mrs. Lippincott was supposed to come over for brunch, and I don't think she was here at all...which means that she must have broken up with him over the phone! What a cowardly, rotten..."
"...drunken thing for her to do!" Sam finished my sentence.
"Anyway," I continued, "the reason I'm calling is because I have no idea how to handle this. Should I try to get him to talk abou-"
"No! Don't do it!" she exclaimed. That's a horrible idea! Do you really want him to use you as the nearest verbal punching bag, as a stand in for her?"
"Well, no, but-"
"Carls," she cut in, "now you listen to me. People get dumped every day, and they deal with it. You're granddad is a grown man, and he'll eventually get over...still, I have to say this is the best news I've heard all-"
"Sam! Stop it! He's still my grandfath-
No, I didn't mean it like that! I meant that...he's lucky to be rid of that evil, old troll."
"No!" I insisted. "As awful as she was to him, he must have wanted female companionship badly, otherwise he would have broken up with her months ag-Sam, I'm really, really worried; I've never seen him like this!"
"Well," she answered, sounding confused, "...what happened, exactly?"
I told her.
"See?" she exclaimed, "I was right! He's going to be a lot better off without-"
"No, Sam, it may seem that way to you, but he looks utterly destroyed; and now...you're probably right...I mean, now he's gonna take his frustrations out on me worse than ever!"
"You don't know that for," she countered, trying-and failing-to reassure me. "Maybe he'll hole up in his room for a while and you won't have to put up wit-CRAP! CRAP, CARLS! HE JUST WALKED OUT THE FRONT DOOR...AND HE'S LOOKING OVER HERE...RIGHT AT ME! AND HE LOOKS EXTREMELY-GOTTA G-"
The line went dead...
...and at that moment, I swear my heart did too.
He had seen her! He had heard the mower's engine stop, had looked out his office window to find out why, and seen her talking to me...
...which she'd sworn in her letter to him that she'd never do...
...and, clearly, he was furious...
...and now Sam and I BOTH were in for it!
He was already distraught over Mrs. L kicking him to the curb, and now that he'd caught Sam breaking her promise to him...
...and me deliberately disobeying and lying to him...
Jumping out from behind the armoire, I hurriedly shoved my phone back into my pocket and began pacing frantically. I couldn't hear anything up here and, since I couldn't see the front yard from the attic window, I had no absolutely no idea what was going on...
...and so I just continued pacing, trembling violently, with my eyes riveted to the closed attic door, waiting to hear his heavy footsteps on the stairs, before he opened it and ruined my life for the next five years at least.
But there was only silence...
...and I was growing more stressed by the minute...
...well aware that, since he hadn't come up here yet, he must really be letting Sam have it.
Finally, about ten minutes later, I heard the mower start again...
...but it did absolutely nothing to calm me down...
...because he hadn't come upstairs at all...
...which meant that he'd probably sent Sam packing, and was now finishing the lawn himself...
...planning to deal with me as soon as he'd put the mower away.
But then, I stopped pacing, realizing that freaking out wasn't going to solve anything, and I took a very deep breath, trying hard to get hold of myself.
After all, I didn't have any concrete evidence whatsoever to go on...and so, maybe I was just jumping to conclusions...
...about all of it.
Maybe Mrs. L. hadn't really broken up with him after all...
...and now feeling slightly reassured (and more than a little hopeful), I crossed the room and pressed my ear against the attic door, praying that I'd hear him come back inside...
...because, if he did, that would mean it was Sam who was cutting the lawn...
...which would mean that Grandad had let her off with only a warning...
...but, even though I was listening as hard as I could, aside from the steady drone of the mower I heard nothing...
...and, turning my back to the door, I leaned against, it, slid down to the floor and, despairing, buried my face in my hands...
...but soon removed them again...
...because I was in enough trouble already; and, on top of everything else, I was really going to be in for it when this job wasn't completed by the three day deadline he'd insisted on.
Crap! How much time had I just wasted? Jumping to my feet, I started working with a will, filling box after box with junk; tearing around the attic as I sorted them into their respective piles...
...until, finally, exhaustion kicked fear's ass; and I had to stop and catch my breath...
...and, bent over, hands on knees, I looked down at my watch. Seven minutes until noon...
...but at that moment, food was the last thing on my mind...
...because, finally, the mower had stopped...
...which meant that he was probably waiting for me downstairs...
...where he'd sentence me to (at least) another five years of servitude...
...without my Sam...
...and so, I seriously considered skipping lunch. Even though it seemed pointless to hide up here like a coward, some part of me still wanted desperately to delay the inevitable for as long as possible and, turning back to my work, I lifted the nearest box.
Seconds later, I set it down again.
He had told me to break for lunch at twelve, and I'd only get into even more trouble if I disobeyed him yet again...
...for any reason...
...and besides, maybe things weren't as bad as I was imagining. Maybe I had totally jumped to conclusions...about the entire situation; maybe he had let Sam stay, and I just hadn't heard him come into the house...
...so maybe I should go downstairs...
...since, while there I could at least sneak a glance out the front window and see if she was now pruning his hedges...
...so I decided to...
...because, despite my fears, not knowing what had happened was driving me crazy. And so, I walked back over to the attic door and opened it...
...and immediately saw the tray of food at my feet.
A large bowl of pasta salad topped with grilled chicken, and a tall glass of lemonade. Clearly, he intended for me to eat lunch up here; and at that moment I realized that I had been mistaken earlier. He had come upstairs to bring me lunch...
...not because he'd wanted to talk about Mrs. L., but then again that wasn't really surprising; Grandad's not the type to share his emotions.
I looked down at my grimy hands. There was no bathroom up here, but by bringing me this tray, wasn't he telling me not to come downstairs?
Downstairs.
Suddenly, fear kicked back in and I found myself-once again-welcoming any excuse to delay facing him...for as long as possible. Besides, he'd brought me a salad, which meant that I wouldn't need to pick food up with my hands anyway, so there was no real need to wash them. And so, I sat down on the floor, with my back against the wall, with the lunch tray balanced on my knees and, eager to get back to work, I ate as quickly as I could.
I spent the next four and a half hours trying not to think about what was in store for me downstairs as I processed a mind-numbing array of junk, including endless boxes of discarded books, Christmas decorations, a wobbly old coat tree, rusty coffee cans full of screws, porcelain figurines, tennis rackets, assorted kitchen items, faded art prints featuring Parisian street scenes, at least thirty decorative candles, Grandmom's sewing machine, abandoned tools...and way too many more items to list.
Finally, five o'clock arrived and, even though I was dusty and exhausted, I considered staying up here, working for the rest of the evening, and well into the night...
...not just because I was dreading going downstairs and facing Grandad...
...but because I'd still made little noticeable progress...
...and was now completely convinced that I'd never finish the job in three days...
...not when there was still half a life's worth of detritus left to move!
Still, he'd told me to stop at five, and I was already in trouble...
...and so, even though I realized that I was in for yet more trouble when he demanded a progress report...
...and, due to his failure to come upstairs earlier, I was now absolutely terrified...
…I opened the attic door anyway and slowly descended the stairs.
The office door was open now and, cringing, I looked inside.
Empty.
Next, I glanced up the hallway, into the living room, but there was no sign of him there either. I had no idea where might be, but wherever he was I didn't want him to catch me with my phone; so I headed to my bedroom, planning to put the phone back on my nightstand to recharge before heading to the bathroom for a much-needed cleanup. Laying a weary hand on my doorknob, I opened the bedroom door...
...and walked into the room...
...to see Sam...
...standing next to my bed...
...between my two open suitcases!
Dropping the stack of clothes she was holding, she opened her mouth to speak...
...but, with my heart in my throat, I crossed the room in three swift strides and grabbed both of her upper arms.
"Wh-what is this?" I gasped, as loudly as I dared. "What do you think you're doing?"
Not bothering to whisper, she began, "I...I was just-"
"Sam, lower your voice! Do you want him to hear? Now, get back outside! Right now! Before he sees you!" I hissed...
...but she shook her head. "Look, after what happened earlier-"
"Sam, no! As fucked up as this whole situation is, if he finds you in here, trying to help me escape-"
"No, Cupcake...he's not going to-"
"The hell he isn't! Now get back outside! Right now!"
"I...can't!"
"You can...and you will! I have no idea what Grandad said to you outside, but now matter how horrible it was, me running away is only going to make things a hundred times wors-"
"Carls, he...he asked me to come in."
"What? Sam, you're lying! You know I'd never agree to this, and now you're making up some lame ass-story, just so I'll go along with...I know you mean well, but-"
At that moment I stopped speaking abruptly; realizing that every second I delayed in getting her out of the house increased our odds of getting caught, exponentially...
...and so, I stopped wasting time on explanations and, tightening my grip on her arms, I hauled her toward the door...
...but, seconds later, she reached up, grabbed both of my shoulders, and then steered me-despite my protests-back over to the bed.
"Sam! Let me go! Why are you doing this?"
"Because, Carlotta Taylor Shay, you're going home!"
"Sam, are you crazy? I can't go there! He'll know that Bushwell Plaza would be the first place I'd run. Only hours later, the police will be dragging me right back here!"
"We're leaving in the-," she began...
...as I struggled to break free and to get her out of the house-by force if necessary-while threatening, "Samantha Joy Puckett, get back outside...right now...or I'll nev-"
Suddenly, I stopped speaking again...
...because I was looking over Sam's shoulder...
...over at the entrance to my bedroom...
...where Grandad was now standing...
...holding two sheets, a blanket, and a pillow.
Without a word, he looked directly at Sam, then jerked his head in the direction of the living room...
...and with a nod, she removed my hands from her arms, walked out the door, and followed him down the hall...
...while I stood there in shock...
...swearing to myself that I was hallucinating.
I was going home?
Tomorrow?
And he was letting Sam stay the night?
My mind struggled-and failed-to process this...
...and, convinced that I was either asleep or insane, I began slapping myself in the face...
...hard.
Sam must have heard it because, seconds later, she ran back into the room, skidding to a halt in front of me. Reaching over, she grabbed my wrists and yelled, "Stop that!"
"This isn't real!" I shouted. "This isn't real-this isn't real-this isn't re-"
"It is real, Cupcake, she answered. "You're really going home tomorrow. Now, finish packing your bags, while I help your grandad."
Still stunned, I watched her retreating back as she left the room once more.
Grandad had decided to move with me back to Seattle? Impossible! But then again, Sam was helping him pack his own bags...right now...so-somehow-it must be true!
Suddenly, it all began to make sense. Mrs. Lippincott had broken his heart so badly that he had decided to move out of his home...
...and into mine. He obviously wanted to get away from Yakima...to put distance between himself and her...
...kind of like those old movies, where jilted guys joined the French Foreign Legion, but...
...but...
...but what was I doing just standing here? I was going home...in less than twenty-four hours!
Turning to my suitcases, I began to pack like a maniac. Still, it took nearly twenty minutes to get everything folded and put away, but finally I'd finished and, stopping only to put on a clean T-shirt, I hurried to the bathroom where I washed my face and hands, and then I tore down the hall and into the kitchen...
...where Grandad was standing, with his head inside the fridge (well at least it wasn't in the oven(!)...
...and, glancing out the kitchen window, I saw Sam, wearing Grandad's long, blue-and-white striped chef's apron; with our long barbecue tongs in her right hand, hovering over the backyard grill. I didn't catch her eye because she was focused intently on whatever was in front of her which, judging by the aroma wafting in through the screen door, was probably some kind of steak.
Finally, Grandad straightened up...
...and the expression on his face was absolutely heartbreaking. I watched in silence as he closed the refrigerator door and set a vast array of salad ingredients on the counter by the sink.
As he turned the faucet on with a shaking hand, I walked over and, picking up a head of romaine lettuce, I told him, "I...I'll take care of this."
Seeming not to hear me, he just stood there, looking devastated, so I repeated, "I'll make the salad...okay?"
At this, he nodded and leaned with his back against the fridge, staring at the floor, while I busied myself over the sink, my mind spinning, not with confusion...
...but with fear. Mrs. L. had dumped him, but what if she ended up having second thoughts? What if she missed having a target for her endless abuse and made up with him again...wouldn't that cause him to change his mind and not leave town after all...forcing me to remain here? That thought was too horrible to contemplate, so I turned my attention to the items I was adding to the large wooden salad bowl in front of me...
...while praying fervently, over and over, that I was just being paranoid.
About 15 minutes later, the sound of someone coming up the back steps yanked me back to the present, and I looked up from my work to see Sam, her hands full, wrestling her way through the back door. After setting a large oval platter with three huge Porterhouse steaks and a heaping pile of marinated and grilled potato wedges on the table, she hung the apron on its hook by the refrigerator, mumbled, "Gonna wash up," to no one in particular, and then headed down the hallway; while I stood rooted to the spot, desperately wanting to follow her...
...not even to touch her, but to get answers.
She returned five minutes later, hands and face scrubbed, and then Grandad, after looking down at his own hands, headed for the bathroom himself...
...and the instant he was out of sight, I ran over to the the table, which Sam was currently setting.
"Sam!" I whispered frantically, "What's going on? What did he say to you this morning?"
She straightened up and looked directly into my eyes(!), then whispered back, "Not much. When he came out of the house and I had to hang up on you, he just stood there, at the bottom of the front steps, looking at me, for what seemed forever."
"Well, what did you say?" I urged.
"What could I say? I wasn't sure what he'd seen, or if he'd seen anything at all, so I just stayed at the other end of the yard, waiting for him to walk over and tell me off...but instead, after a few more minutes of non-stop staring, he got into his car and drove off."
"Did he look...upset?"
"Very."
"Mrs. Lippincott was supposed to be coming over for brunch...did she?"
"No, Cupcake I'm sure she didn't. I was in the front yard the whole time, so if she'd shown up I definitely would have seen her."
"See?" I interjected. "She did break up with him!"
"Anyway," Sam continued, "about two hours later he was back with two bags of groceries, just as I was finishing up the hedges. He got out of the car and just stood there, watching me again, while I put the clippers into the garage. He looked like he had something to say, but I had no idea what, so finally I walked over to him and asked if there was some other project he wanted done; but he just shook his head and said that you were going home tomorrow, but you didn't know it yet, and that I should start packing your stuff, and would I like to stay over tonight, then we can leave together in the morning. I said, 'Sure.'"
"Then what?"
She opened her mouth to answer, but at that moment we heard the bathroom door open...
...and I hurried over to the fridge for a bottle of Italian dressing, while Sam grabbed the iced tea pitcher and started pouring.
Grandad walked back into the kitchen.
Apparently unsure as to what to do next, Sam looked over at him for instructions, but he seemed not to see her, so she just sat down where she had on Friday night, and Grandad sank into the seat across from her...while I took my usual spot, at the far end of the table...
...and then, in complete silence, we started dinner.
For the record, Sam did a great job on the steaks and potatoes, but I'm not sure if Grandad realized it because, even though his eyes were on his plate, mentally he seemed to be on another planet entirely.
About halfway through, I looked over at him again...
...completely unsure of what was expected of me. Since neither he nor Sam had said a word so far, were she and I supposed to be ignoring each other, like last time?
He didn't meet my gaze, so I sneaked a nervous glance over at Sam...
...who was looking right back at me...
...wearing the most encouraging smile I'd ever seen. Still, the entire situation was was so much like Friday evening, when neither of us had spoken because she was trying to show Grandad how sorry she was that he and I had fallen out...
...so, could I talk to her now? After all, he hadn't forbidden it...
...but then again, should I? Although I wanted to, badly, I was scared...
...not so much that he'd freak out that we were talking...
...but at what we were talking about. What could I possibly I say to Sam that wouldn't result in a reply that Grandad would find infuriating? I mean, he'd been highly upset all day, so had he really thought through his decision to leave Yakima carefully? What if Sam said something that he found offensive, and, suddenly coming to his senses, he realized that, by moving me back to Seattle I'd have (despite his continual presence) nearly unlimited access to her...which he'd surely find intolerable? I desperately wanted to avoid having him change his mind, which, as upset as he was, seemed entirely possible, yet I was dying to talk to Sam, and so I continued to sit there in silence, wracking my brain for a 'safe' question to ask her; immediately rejecting, 'So how's the family?' and, 'What have you been up to?'
I'd wrestled with the problem for nearly five minutes when, fortunately, Sam came to the rescue.
"Carls?" she said tentatively, "I called Spencer, a little over two weeks ago."
"Really?" I replied. "I didn't know that."
"Yeah, I did, and I was just wondering...when you talk to him, has he...uh...has he ever mentioned Chester Hamilton?"
I paused to think it over, then answered, "Um, no...I don't think so. Is that one of his supervisors?"
"No. You see..." she paused, seeming to be choosing her words very carefully (possibly sharing my apprehensions), then continued, "now that it's the beginning of senior year I...I've started thinking about my future, you know, career-wise. Anyway, you know how Mr. Rand, our art teacher says that I...that I show promise, if I'd only apply myself?"
"Yes."
She fiddled with her fork self-consciously for a long moment, then continued, "He...well, he got me thinking that maybe I...might be able to make a living, you know, as a commercial artist; so I asked Spencer about it."
I frowned.
"He's never mentioned any of that to me."
"No? He probably figured I'd tell you myself. Well anyway, one of the architects he's working with has a sister who's the director of The Chester Hamilton Art & Design School, in Philadelphia. Spencer's met her and she told him that they're always on the lookout for new talent...so I asked if I could borrow his camera and take pictures of some of the art class assignments I'd saved. He said I could, so I did, and sent them to Spencer in an email. He forwarded them to the school and they called me, a little over a week ago."
"What did they say?" I asked. "Was it supposed to be a phone interview?"
"No," she replied, "just an informal chat."
"Did they tell you you have a shot at getting accepted?"
Suddenly, she looked adorably, uncharacteristically shy and said, "Yeah, they, uh...they sent me a catalog and an application."
"Sam, that's wonderful! And Mr. Rand is right, by the way; you're very talented."
She dropped her eyes to her plate at my compliment (so cute), then asked, "So, I was wondering, Carls, when we get home, will you look it over after I fill it out...you know, to make sure it's all right?"
"Of course I will!" I replied warmly, then asked, "Have...have you thought about how you're going to pay for school?"
She nodded, hesitated for a moment, then looked back up at me and said, "Ms. Shelton, the director, told me not to count on a scholarship, because the competition is always fierce, but she also said that there's a ton of freelance graphic design work available in the Philly area, even for students, so it's possible-if I'm highly motivated-to work my way through school...as long as I can come up with the $15,000 initial payment."
Fifteen thousand dollars...oh, no, I thought, dismayed; she'll never get a student loan; there's no way her mom could ever qualify as her co-signer.
Sam seemed to sense my reservations because she added, "If I work part-time through senior year, and all next summer, I know I can come up with half of it...I know it, Carls; and Spencer says he's being paid well for this Atlantic City job, and that, if I can come up with half it will prove to him that I'm serious about this...and...and if so, then he'll lend me the other half, which I can pay it back to him, over five years, interest-free."
At this announcement, I whipped my head over in Grandad's direction...
...waiting for him to fling his fork onto the table and yell that there was no way a hooligan like Sam would ever honor any loan agreement...
...and that he was going to call Spencer immediately and forbid him to lend her even a dime...
...but he continued to sit there in silence, his eyes focused on his plate, seemingly oblivious to what was going on around him...
...which I took as being an incredibly good omen...
...and I turned back to my food with a huge smile, realizing that, since I'd be attending Princeton-which is only an hour away from Philadelphia-Sam and I would be able to spend every weekend together...
...or, better yet, if we both got cars we could find an apartment halfway between the two cities (to minimize our commutes) then we'd actually be able to live togeth-
The sound of Grandad's phone ringing snapped me out of my reverie, and the expression on his face when he looked at its display left no doubt in my mind who was calling him...
...it was V.L.L.!
Rising from the table, he hurried out of the kitchen and down the hallway, and the instant I heard the office door close behind him, I whispered to Sam, as loudly as I dared, "Sam, I'm so scared! What if she decides...do you think she's going to make up with him? And, if so, do you think he's going to make me stay here after al-Sam...NO!"
Instead of reassuring me that I was worrying about nothing...
...she was sliding silently out of her seat...
...and then, before I could grab her, she'd hurried past me and was sneaking down the hallway...
...and, horrified, I got out of my chair and followed...
...to find her standing directly in front of the closed office door!
Waving my hands in front of her face to get her attention (which was currently focused on what was happening behind it), I pointed up the hallway, rapidly and repeatedly, but she merely shook her head, put her finger to her lips, and pointed at the door...
...and, as terrified as I was that he'd open it any second and bust us...
...resulting in punishment(s) far too horrible to even contemplate...
...curiosity got the better of me and, leaning closer to the door, I listened in as well.
"No, Violet! No! Don't be like this! Look, I'm really sorry about what hap- and I'd make it up to you if only you'd let...but why? Why, Violet? Come on, let's talk this ov-but, Violet, Carly's my granddaughter, how can you demand that I-"
PANG!
Crap! The doorbell!
As desperate as I was to know exactly how I figured in all of this, getting caught by Grandad was now an imminent probability, and so I grabbed a fistful of the back of Sam's shirt and quickly maneuvered her down the hallway, into the kitchen; and after steering her back into her chair I tore across the living room and flung the front door open.
Oh, great. Mrs. Payne.
"Hello, Carly is your grandfather in?"
"Uh, well..." I gasped, still breathless from my exertions...and from pure fear.
"Well? Well, what?" she answered impatiently. "Is he in or not?"
"Um, he's, uh, kind of in the middle of something right n-"
"Hello, Esther," Grandad replied...
...and I jumped a mile. I hadn't heard him come up behind me.
"Good evening, Evere- oh, Everett! Is everything all right?"
"Of course," Grandad replied gruffly, "why wouldn't it be?"
"It's just that you look so...well, so-"
"What can I do for you, Esther?" Grandad asked, cutting her off abruptly before she could begin interrogating him in earnest...
...while I hurried back to the kitchen table, where Sam was sitting, trying hard to look like she wasn't listening in...
...as Mrs. Payne stated, "It's my garbage disposal. It stopped working."
Sitting back down, I looked back over to the open front door and saw Grandad frown.
"Hm...did you check the switch box?"
"Yes," she said. "The first thing I did was go down to the basement and check. All the circuit breakers are on."
"Well then, have you tried the reset switch?" Grandad suggested.
"What? No where's that?"
"On the unit itself," he said.
"I looked under the sink, but I didn't see any type of switch," she replied.
"Then it might be on the bottom of the unit," he concluded. Come on, let's go have a look; I'll bet that's what the problem is. If not, I'll come back for my toolbox and-"
The rest of the conversation was inaudible as Grandad closed the door behind them and followed Mrs. Payne down the front steps...
...and, seconds later, Sam jumped up from her chair and tore into the living room.
"What are you doing?" I demanded. "He could be back any second!"
"Don't worry I'll make this fast," she called over her shoulder.
"You'll make what fas-oh," I said...
...as I saw her snatch the TV guide off the coffee table and start flipping through it frantically.
A minute later she was back in the kitchen, trying to access the Internet with her Pearphone.
"Mouthwash...mouthwash," she murmured.
"Mouthwash?" I asked. "Tonight's episode is about mouthwash?"
"Yeah," she answered distractedly, still focused on her phone, "the Scopes company had a lawsuit against...well, it had something to do with monkeys."
I had to think about it for a minute
"Oh, you mean the Scopes Monkey Trial? Don't waste your time," I advised. "It had to do with the theory of evolution being taught in schools, which is a sore spot for Grandad, so he definitely won't want to watch that. Instead, you and I can be miserable together while we fake interest in the evening news."
"Sure," she answered agreeably, putting her phone away.
"But first, let's hurry through dinner so we can help Grandad finish his packing."
At this suggestion, she looked confused, then answered, "We don't need to."
"Oh. He's already finished? How many suitcases is he bringing?" I asked.
"Suitcases?"
"Yes, remember you said you were 'going to help him?'"
She shook her head "I was helping him with dinner, not with packing."
"Well then, let's hurry up so we can get started on it."
"Cupcake, I did offer to help him with it, before I got started on yours, but he said 'no'.
"You did?"
She nodded
"And he refused...because he's finished with it already," I guessed.
She shook her head, adding, "No, he said he doesn't need to pack, because he's not going to be staying with us" she replied...
...and I clapped my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming.
As soon as I was able to uncover it, I gasped, "Wh-what? Sam, are you saying what I think you're saying...that he's taking us home to Seattle...and leaving us there ? Alone?"
"I doubt that, Carls...what about Spencer?"
"What about him?" I asked.
"Well...didn't Spencer come home from Atlantic City?"
"No, of course not!" I declared. "He's not done with the project yet!"
She frowned.
"Are you sure? Maybe he just told you that he isn't...and it's going to be a surprise."
"I'm absolutely sure, Sam! Two days ago, Spencer sent Grandad and me a live feed from the construction site. I saw the inside of the club for myself...and it's nowhere near done! In fact, Spencer said that management has been hounding the entire crew-nonstop-and that they're all freaking out, because they're afraid they won't be finished by the deadline!"
"When's the deadline?" she asked.
"In three weeks!"
"Wh-what? she asked, now clearly stunned, "Carls...are you...are you saying-"
"Yes! Sam, Grandad knows all of this...and, since he told you that he's not going to stay in Seattle, that means..."
"It means that he's going to let us stay there...just the two of us...all alone?" she gasped.
"YES!" I yelled...
...and suddenly...I wanted nothing more than to be in her arms...
...and she knew it. Throwing her fork down, she jumped out of her seat...
...as I hastily fumbled my way out of mine...
..."No, Esther, next time be sure to check to make sure there are no forks-or anything else-down inside it before you turn it on," Grandad's voice announced, right outside the front door...
...and Sam, looking incredibly disappointed, sank back down into her chair...
...while I, equally disappointed, hurried over to the fridge in search of dessert.
A minute later, Grandad had joined us at the table again...
...looking as miserable as ever...
...while I dished out three huge, celebratory bowls of chocolate chip ice cream.
During the rest of the meal, Sam and and I did our best to hide our elation (no need to give Grandad any reason to rethink his decision), and after we'd finished, Sam turned to him.
"What time does the news come on, Mr. Shay?" she asked, with surprisingly-convincing eagerness.
To my surprise, he shook his head, then mumbled, "No TV...bed. Both of you be at the front door, ready to go, at five o'clock sharp."
That surprised me. Five a.m. was early, even by Grandad's standards, but I guessed that he wanted to be in Seattle before nine a.m. in order to avoid commuter traffic.
With an amused smile, I turned to Sam, expecting to see her face fall at the insanely early (especially for her) hour he'd suggested...
...but she merely smiled pleasantly and nodded...
...which made me want to laugh out loud.
But I didn't.
Realizing that he'd invited her to stay over after she'd come here this morning, which meant that she had no clean clothes with her, I walked to my bedroom, soon returning with a pair of boxers and a T-shirt.
"Here," I said, handing them to her, "go take a shower. Leave your dirty clothes in the bathroom and I'll put them in the washer, right after I clean up the kitchen."
For a moment I thought that she might actually offer to help me clean up the kitchen, which would have given me some time alone with her, since Grandad was now sitting-and brooding-on the couch, but she merely took the clothes from me and said, "Okay, Carls," and then headed down the hall...
...while I headed, disappointed, back into the kitchen.
Half an hour later, I'd washed the dishes and wiped the counters down and, as I returned from taking the garbage out, I looked through the kitchen archway, into the living room and saw that Grandad had moved over to the armchair, and Sam, clean and dressed for bed, was busily arranging sheets and blankets on the couch...
...and, despite wanting to stand there and watch her...
...from now until 5 a.m., I turned instead in the direction of the chair.
"Goodnight, Grandad."
He looked at me for a moment over the top of his paper, then nodded and disappeared behind it again.
About what I'd expected...
...and then, suddenly, I felt incredibly shy...
...and nervous...
...and, grabbing onto both sides of the kitchen doorway for support...
...I turned to her.
"G-goodnight, Sam."
Straightening up, she turned around and looked over at me.
"Goodnight, Carls," she replied...
...her eyes so full of hope...
...but, instead of crossing the room and throwing my arms around her...
...like I so desperately wanted to...
...I turned away instead, and hurried down the hall, and into the bathroom...
...where I grabbed her clothes, and then hurried into the laundry room...
...where I flung them into the washer, and then hurried into my bedroom...
...where I closed the door, and then leaned against it, with my head in my hands...
...both furious with myself for my cowardice and praising myself for my restraint...
...wishing with all my heart that I had hugged and kissed her, but knowing that I didn't dare.
Not in front of Grandad.
Not because he'd mind an innocent hug and kiss (he was used to that sort of thing-all the Shay women have always been very affectionate)...but because I knew for a fact that, if I'd touched her, there's no way I would have been able to stop at just a friendly hug and a kiss...
...and I absolutely could not have allowed that to happen...
...because if he'd witnessed what I would have ended up doing, it would have spelled disaster. There was no way that Grandad would EVER accept a gay granddaughter; and so I was going to make sure he never found out about Sam and me.
Raising my head from my hands, I crossed the room. Not bothering to shower or even to get undressed, I kicked my shoes off, got into bed, and lay there, staring at the ceiling.
I'd done the right thing...which was nothing.
After all, there was always tomorrow, back home at Bushwell Plaza, to be intimate with Sam...
...to hug her...and kiss her...and a whole lot more...
...and, reaching over to switch off the bedside lamp, I promised myself that, the instant the elevator door closed behind Grandad...
...and the door of apartment 8-C closed behind Sam and me...
...that's exactly what I was going to do.