Grendel's Guide to Love and War

by A. E. Kaplan

  I blinked for a minute. Behind me, Ed said, “Dude, that doesn’t even mean anything,” and I kicked him in the shin. “I’m not lying. I swear.”

  Rex and company turned and stormed down the driveway, and I pressed my back to the door and slid down to the floor. “This is very, very bad,” I said.

  “It sure is,” Ed said. “My phone is still out there.”

  Ed ended up passing out on my couch that night, since neither of us had work the next day. I woke up around eleven to the sound of a car horn blaring next door.

  I rolled out of bed, rubbing the exhaustion out of my eyes while I pulled back the curtain to squint through the window.

  In front of the house was an oxblood-red pickup truck with a license plate that read BBWOLF. I closed my eyes and pressed my forehead against the glass. “Oy,” I muttered. I pushed off the wall and found Ed making short work of the rest of the chocolate babka in the kitchen.

  “We may have a new situation,” I said.

  He looked up from the napkin he was using to hold his breakfast. It looked like he hadn’t bothered using a knife to cut it, but had wrestled a big hunk of it off with his bare hands. “What’s up?”

  I pointed out the window. “That truck,” I said.

  “One of Rothgar’s friends? Probably just spent the night.”

  “Indeed not. I know that truck. That truck belongs to Wolf Gates.”

  Ed coughed out a spray of crumbs. “Who’s Wolf Gates?”

  “Allison’s other nephew. Rex’s cousin.”

  “The one that went to NYU with Zipora?”

  “Yeah, only he hasn’t graduated yet.” I sat down on the windowsill and stared out at the truck. I’d met Wolf a handful of times at Minnie’s barbecues…he was one of those guys who had everyone eating out of his hand, maybe because of the way he looked (tall, handsome) or because he was generally charming. Other than that, I didn’t know much about him except that he was a senior at NYU. I also had the impression that my sister didn’t like him, but she’d never said why. The fact that he was here gave me kind of an unidentifiable bad feeling.

  Through the window, I saw Willow heading out to the mailbox. “Hang on,” I called to Ed, and dashed out the door.

  I got to Willow just as she closed the mailbox, stuffing a pile of bills and catalogs under her arm.

  “Tom Grendel,” she said, as if she hadn’t just served me up to the lions three nights before.

  “Really?” I asked. “That’s it?”

  “What’s it?”

  “Oh, come on. You totally hung me out to dry the other night, and you know it.”

  She cocked her head and did her best to look bored, an expression, I realized, she worked very hard to affect. “What exactly was it you wanted me to do?”

  “I don’t know. You could have…I don’t know. Not walked back into the house? Abandoned me to the whims of a pack of second-rate goons?”

  “Are you calling my brother a goon?”

  I cocked an eyebrow at her.

  “Wow,” she said. “You really are self-involved, aren’t you.”

  “I don’t think that means what you think it means. I was the one who got thrown in the lake.”

  “Ah. So you’re saying you would have liked for me to have been thrown in the lake, too.”

  “Rex…” The words died. “He wouldn’t.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. I stay away from Rex when he’s drunk. I’d advise you to do the same.”

  I frowned. “Are you sure you guys have the same parents?”

  For the first time, she laughed. “Oh, aren’t you the charmer. That was some epic business you pulled last night with the speakers.”

  I looked from her to her house to the red truck. “I did nothing to Rex’s speakers.”

  She smacked her lips. “Mmm-hmm. ’Course you didn’t. But it was awesome anyway.” She glanced back toward the house. “He’s still passed out.”

  “You wouldn’t be talking to me otherwise, would you?”

  She grinned. “In the interest of my own self-preservation, probably not. He’s pretty pissed at you.”

  “And the truck?”

  She rolled her eyes. “My mother decided we need more adult supervision until she gets back.”

  “And when does she think that will be?”

  “She doesn’t know,” she said. “She’ll be doing the hurricane thing for a week, maybe, and then she’s got some kind of convention to cover right afterward. She’s not sure she’s going to be able to come home in between.”

  I laughed. “So she sent Wolf? What is he, twenty?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  “Oh, perfect. So now Rex has someone on hand who can legally buy beer for him.”

  “Yeah, well. Wolf’s internship ended early for some reason. Nobody seems to know why.”

  There was a crash and a lot of swearing from inside the house, and Willow jumped back from me like I’d been about to electrocute her. “I’m going inside now.”

  “Okay.”

  She spun toward the house and jogged back down the driveway, dropping one of her envelopes. I bent down and picked it up. “Willow?” I called.

  She looked back, and I waved the envelope at her. She held out her hand. I held out the envelope, and she sort of sidestepped back to where I was.

  “I am not your manic pixie dream girl,” she said, grabbing the envelope and holding it against her chest. “I serve only myself.”

  I smiled at her. She smiled back. Then she walked backward toward her house. “Tom Grendel,” she said. “You are going to make my life into hell.”

  I bowed. And then sprinted back to Ed in the kitchen.

  “So,” Ed said. “Do you think Wolf is going to be like an actual grown-up here? He can’t possibly want to host a bunch of parties for high schoolers. He’s way too old.”

  “I don’t know. I mean, Zip wouldn’t be caught dead at a party with people our age. Anyway, we can always rehack the speakers.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “About that.”

  I lowered myself into the kitchen chair next to him. He’d given up on the babka and was eating a sandwich without any meat on it, because we were out. “What,” I said.

  “So I went out this morning to get the radio.”

  “I thought you got it last night when you got your phone?”

  “It was dark and I was tired, so I left it. Anyway, I went back this morning and it was gone. I think Rex must’ve found it.”

  I sighed. “Well, that’s just great. That was the only thing we tried that actually worked. What else can we do?”

  “I think we should wait. Maybe Wolf will turn out to be an actual human. Maybe you could talk to him, you know? About keeping the parties inside once your dad gets back?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Maybe.” I watched the Rothgars’ house, which seemed quiet enough, and wondered what Wolf was going to do. I had a vague memory of him tormenting Minnie and Allison’s cats by throwing them into the lake, which wasn’t a great sign. But that had been years ago, and Ellen Rothgar thought he was good enough to keep an eye on things. That was promising.

  I just had to wait and see.

  That afternoon, I headed over to Mrs. DeLuca’s house to finish our interview. I stopped in her yard on the way in to pull a couple of dandelions that had sprouted since I’d been there last. I don’t know how they pop up so quickly. It’s like one minute there’s nothing, and then there are twenty of them. Fortunately, I kind of like yanking them out.

  It reminded me of last summer, when Willow stopped by over Memorial Day weekend. Rex was someplace else—with his parents, maybe, or away at a Future Meatheads of America convention—so it was just Willow staying with Minnie and Allison. She came out one morning and found me weeding their flower beds.

  “Why are you here?” she said. “It’s like nine in the morning.”

  “I’m working,” I said. “If I wait until later, it’s going to be boiling.”

  “It’s
a holiday.”

  “Not for me,” I said, pulling on a dandelion that seemed to have developed some kind of a taproot structure. “It’s the curse of the self-employed: I only get paid if I work.”

  She sat down on the grass. It had rained the day before and everything was still a little wet, so she jumped back up and said, “Ick.” I handed her an empty leaf bag, and she folded it up and sat on top of it and watched me for a while. “Do you like doing that?” she asked, wiping bits of damp grass off her hands. “All this yard work?”

  “I don’t dislike it,” I said. “It pays better than I’d get working for someone else, and I get to be outside.”

  “You’re lying,” she said. “You like it.”

  “How am I lying?” I realized I was still clutching the dogged dandelion in my left hand, so I handed it to her. She rubbed the petals under her chin.

  “You were downplaying it,” she said. “I can see it. You like pulling weeds.”

  I shrugged, but I wondered how she’d known. I liked the act of taking a yard and making it nice to look at. I felt like I’d accomplished something. Plus, it was doing good things for my college savings. Mostly, though, I liked that she’d noticed that I liked it.

  “Do you have a favorite? Of all these flowers?” she asked.

  I hesitated. I liked all of them, truth be told; I’m not all that picky. But I pointed toward the flowers growing out by the mailbox that looked like the love child of a starfish and a violet. “Those are nice,” I said. “You don’t see those very often around here.”

  “What are they?”

  “Columbines.”

  She watched me pull a few more weeds before she went inside. Later that afternoon, I went home to find a glass of columbines on my bedside table. I wondered if she’d brought them when I wasn’t home on purpose, or if she’d come by hoping to see me and been disappointed. She left to go back to Chambliss before I saw her again, but I still wonder about it. If she normally brought flowers to boys and left them in their bedrooms. On the other hand, she never tried to call or anything afterward, so it probably meant nothing. She was just being ironic or something, I don’t know.

  Mrs. DeLuca’s house looked the same as I’d seen it last, and I was annoyed with myself for not coming yesterday. If anything, the kitchen was messier, and the whole house smelled musty, like no one had opened the windows in way too long. And instead of unsweet lemonade, Mrs. DeLuca offered me a glass of water and some stale graham crackers.

  I set up the recorder on the kitchen table and rifled through my notes. I really wanted to ask her some more about her husband, but that seemed like it might be treading into dangerous territory. I thought it might be better to start with her childhood instead. But before I could ask about her earliest solid memory, she said, “Do you have a sweetheart, Tommy?”

  My mind blinked to Willow, who was many things but certainly not my sweetheart. I said, “Not really, ma’am.”

  She scoffed. “You’re such a handsome young thing. I can hardly believe that. Isn’t there someone you fancy?”

  I laughed. “Is there someone you fancy these days, Mrs. DeLuca?”

  She chuckled. Her hand trembled as she reached for her water. “Those days have been over for me for some time, I’m afraid. The demographics are not in my favor.” She smiled. “Your gender needs to work on its longevity.”

  “I’ll put the word out,” I said.

  “You must be lonely,” she went on. “With no one in the neighborhood but us old ladies for company.”

  This was another thing I’d learned over the years: people will displace their own feelings onto you to try to talk about things they don’t want to say. I’m not really sure why people do this, but everyone does. I guess I do it, too, sometimes.

  “Are you lonely, Mrs. DeLuca?”

  She looked to be on the verge of denying it, but then there was a knock at the door. Mrs. DeLuca frowned, like she wasn’t quite sure what the sound was.

  “Were you expecting someone?” I asked.

  “No, Tommy. Would you answer it? If it’s one of those missionary types, please tell them my soul is not in need of saving, but thank you all the same.”

  “I’ll tell them,” I said, crossing to the door.

  It was Willow Rothgar.

  We stared at each other from across the threshold for a long second. “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “The mailman gave us some of her stuff by mistake. I was just bringing it over.” She glanced over my shoulder. “What are you doing here? I didn’t see a mower outside.”

  I rubbed at the skin under my eye. “I’m not mowing today. Actually.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Okay.” Which was fine, because I didn’t know how to explain that I was there to write down Marianne DeLuca’s life story.

  But then Mrs. DeLuca shuffled up behind me.

  “I was just dropping off some of your mail,” Willow said, right as Mrs. DeLuca said, “Is this your sweetheart, Tommy?”

  Willow blushed, which was oddly gratifying. “I’m just. I’m new in the neighborhood,” she said.

  Mrs. DeLuca took the envelopes without looking at them and glanced between us. “Thank you,” she said, and then, “Won’t you come in?”

  “Oh,” Willow said. “I—I—I. Um.” She looked over at me and I gave her an openhanded shrug, because I didn’t particularly want her sitting in on Mrs. DeLuca and me, but she’d been invited and I didn’t want to hurt Mrs. DeLuca’s feelings.

  “Okay,” she said.

  Willow and I followed Mrs. DeLuca back inside, and she must have decided that Willow merited a more formal arrangement than I had, since she led us into the living room instead of the kitchen.

  Mrs. DeLuca carefully settled herself in the flower-covered armchair next to the fireplace, which I’m pretty sure had never been used because she stored her knitting basket inside it. This left Willow to sit next to me on the couch, her hands folded in her lap and her posture almost rigid. She tilted her head slightly toward me and whispered, “Tommy?” which I blatantly ignored.

  “This is Willow,” I said. “Minnie and Allison’s niece.”

  “Oh!” Mrs. DeLuca said. “Yes, Allie’s always been so proud of you, honey. She’s always telling everyone about her niece the star reporter.”

  “Um,” Willow said, her eyes cutting away. “No. That’s actually my mother. Ellen. The reporter.”

  Mrs. DeLuca made a tsk sound. “I’m sorry,” she said, fumbling with her glasses. “My eyes aren’t what they used to be. Of course, Allie mentioned you, too, dear. Said you were fixing to be the valedictorian.”

  I hadn’t known Willow was fixing to be the valedictorian. Her face colored. “I just do my best,” she said quietly. “I still have two years left.”

  “Tommy,” Mrs. DeLuca said, “my arthritis is bothering me something fierce today. Would you mind putting on the kettle for tea?”

  “Of course,” I said, getting up. Willow shot me a panicked look, but Mrs. DeLuca was probably the least scary person I knew, so I ignored it and went into the kitchen. I managed to find the teakettle in one of the lower cabinets, but I quickly realized I couldn’t fill it because I couldn’t get near the kitchen faucet.

  The place really was in a bad state. I doubted I could find three clean teacups, even if I could have filled the kettle. The sink was full of last night’s dinner dishes, plus whatever she’d used to make breakfast. I wondered when her helper was coming over again.

  I glanced back toward the living room, where Mrs. DeLuca was asking Willow about her father and Willow was saying he was on a business trip, then I started loading the dishwasher. I’d put three plates in when I felt Willow’s presence at my back.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Helping you,” she said. She saw the kettle sitting on the cold stove and frowned.

  “You’re here to help me turn on the stove?”

  “Have you even started?”

  I went back to loa
ding the dishes. “I haven’t filled the kettle yet. Feel free. I think you can get to the faucet now.”

  She leaned past me to fill the kettle and then set it on the stove. Stepping back, she gave me a puzzled look. “Are you going to clean the entire kitchen?” she stage-whispered.

  I’d finished the plates and was loading the silverware. “I’m going to clean until she notices I’ve been in here too long to boil water.”

  “Won’t she be embarrassed?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Probably. But she needs help. Look around.”

  Willow looked around. Then she grabbed some paper towels and started wiping the counter.

  “You don’t have to do that,” I said.

  “I’m not just going to stand here and watch you.” She trashed the first paper towel and got another one. “Doesn’t she have kids or something?”

  “Not close by.” I shut the dishwasher and turned it on. Then I hunted around for the trash bags and, after finding one, opened the refrigerator.

  “What are you doing now?”

  “Cleaning it out,” I said.

  She took the bag from me. “I’ll do that part. You can sweep.”

  I looked at her quizzically, and she said, “It’s more like lawn mowing. You’ll be good at it.”

  “As the lady wishes.” I got the broom and the dustpan out of the pantry, where they’d apparently gone unused for some time. It would have made more sense to vacuum, probably, but I didn’t want to disturb Mrs. DeLuca with the noise. “Just throw out anything furry or expired.”

  She gave me a dirty look. “I know how to clean out a refrigerator, Tom.”

  By now, the water was boiling, so I found Mrs. DeLuca’s favorite chicken-shaped teapot, filled it with a few bags of the Darjeeling she always drinks, and set it up to steep on the table, setting the timer on the stove for five minutes. Willow glanced at me and then stopped cleaning to watch with her eyebrows up.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I’ve never seen a boy make tea before.”

  I shrugged. It’s something you pick up when your social circle is as antiquated as mine. “I make a mean mint julep, too,” I said. I set a plaid cozy over the teapot, and Willow pointed toward the recorder, which was still sitting on the table next to my notes. “What’s that for?”