The Grandmother Plot

by Caroline B. Cooney

  “Freddy, drive up there now. Take a photograph of her and send it so I can see you really went.”

  Yet again, he sat with his grandmother, Aunt Polly, and Mrs. Maple, who had a long, boring saga about a Presbyterian roof leak, a dead piano, and an ancient music manuscript. He was having a hard time listening. Or even breathing. Kara had so little use for him that she wanted proof he visited.

  “Freddy,” said his grandmother softly. “You don’t have school today?”

  He took her hand. She smiled her pixie smile, the one that made his heart turn over. “No school today,” he told her.

  “Were you playing in the Way Back?”

  “I was. Just this morning.”

  She smiled again and his heart hurt. Even George and Lily Burnworth said it was impossible to take care of her at home. But what if Kara was right? What if he had to?

  Freddy said to his dead mother, You should be here. You shouldn’t have gone and died on us. I don’t know how to do this right, Mom.

  He heard his mother say—as she often had—You’ve never done anything right, Freddy.

  He kept an eye on Philip, who was leaning on his cane for balance and therefore couldn’t hit anybody with it. If he found something to hang on to, though, he might strike out. Irene, sidling around and muttering her numbers, was within range. There were no aides in sight. If Irene had to be rescued from Philip, Freddy would have to do it. He liked Philip, whose desperate anger seemed perfectly reasonable. He didn’t want Philip to go over the edge and be sent away to some other institution.

  Philip was a big man. He’d probably been an athlete. What was he thinking inside his all-wrong, half-jailed mind? Could he remember old high school and college triumphs? Or was he blank? Either one would be a taste of hell.

  Freddy stood up in case he had to intervene.

  “If I approach an expert in Ives music manuscripts,” Mrs. Maple said, “and if it’s the real thing, I’ll have to tell Kemmy it’s really hers.” She handed Freddy her phone to see a photograph.

  He scrolled through a bunch of them and couldn’t help laughing. “Mapes, is this thing the Ives piano? Your girlfriend is right—it’s a plant stand. And what’s on this great, big shelf over it?”

  “My smashed brass.” She described her collection.

  Freddy wanted to run right out and get himself some smashed brass.

  “Anyway, that’s my dilemma,” said Mapes.

  Freddy was all too familiar with dilemmas. Commit crimes, don’t commit crimes. Stick with the Leper, don’t stick. Play it wrong and get head crushed. Play it right and have a brilliant future as a maker of flying glass bands.

  Wait.

  A whole band? Yes! Next he could make drums. Detachable. Each one a separate pendant.

  Freddy was exhilarated, ready to roll. He glanced toward the parking lot and there sat Mrs. Maple’s red SRX, sparkling in the sun. What if Doc and Skinny had followed that red SRX to MMC when Mapes picked up Freddy and Grandma last week? What if they had her plate number? They’d have to know somebody in the DMV to get a name and address from the plate. Minor request if you have a cop on the payroll. Or a cop who owes you. Or a cop who buys from you. Like Shawn, say.

  But I’ve already decided they didn’t murder Maude, so why would they have the slightest interest in somebody they didn’t even see who gave me a ride once?

  “I’ve tried to play it,” said Mrs. Maple. “It’s definitely based on the old hymn ‘In the Sweet By and By.’ In the church version, you sort of rock yourself to sleep with the comfort of it. Charlie’s piece says—yes, there is a by and by, but you’ll be dead, and it won’t be what you thought.”

  Astonishingly, Philip began singing. “In the sweet…by and by…we shall meet on that beautiful shore.”

  Grandma chimed in. “By and by,” she sang.

  Outdoors, in the fenced garden, Mr. Griffin rapped courteously on the window, wanting to come back in. How had he gotten out there? The garden door was kept locked, because otherwise residents would be found crouching under shrubbery or hiding behind tree trunks. Freddy walked over and brought Mr. Griffin in. They moved slowly past two visitors talking loudly over the heads of their loved ones.

  “Do you think that poor woman really was murdered?”

  “Yes! Right there! In that room.”

  Mr. Griffin’s hand tightened on Freddy’s arm.

  Oh great, thought Freddy. The murder is supposed to be a secret from the residents, but those two blurt it out and Mr. Griffin understands.

  “I don’t think that man is married to her anyway,” said Mr. Griffin. Since his conversation was generally confined to the loss of car keys, this was a surprising remark.

  “Who isn’t married?” Freddy asked.

  “That man. But I’m married,” said Mr. Griffin. “I’m not sure where she lives. My wife. Do you know?”

  “I don’t,” said Freddy.

  “I can’t think of her name,” he said worriedly.

  “It’ll come to you, Mr. Griffin. Now sit here next to my grandmother.” Freddy was falling apart. He had to bail. “I have to go, Grandma,” he said, kissing her cheek. Although he didn’t have to go, and it always seemed sly to imply that he did.

  Walking past the cop spooked him. They wouldn’t station a guy here to comfort Mrs. Reilly. If they were keeping a cop at MMC for a whole shift, then they were sure Maude had not died of natural causes, but they weren’t sure who killed her.

  They were fending off another murder.

  Thank God for glass, Freddy’s own personal beautiful shore. He worked hour after hour. His headband and T-shirt were soaked with sweat. He burned himself a few times. No big deal. He was as excited as if he himself had wings.

  The ruby mouthpiece came out so dope. You had to put your lips there: it called to you.

  He could hardly wait to work on the wings. Too small and they’d look like fins. Too big and they’d be umbrellas. Placed wrong and the bong would be awkward to hold.

  Several hours later, he was ready to pop the hole in the bell for the downstem, a permanently welded straw of glass that turned the trombone into a bong. It was scary ripping a hole in the trombone. If he got it wrong, he was toast.

  The weld of the downstem was the functional focal point. The flying trombone might be art, but without a perfect weld, it was trash.

  He removed the handle: the temporary glass tubing that made the whole project possible. Now he had to get a piece of thousand-degree glass into the kiln using barbecue tongs wrapped in thermal insulation. Trusting his precious trombone to a two-dollar utensil, he slid it into the kiln, closed the door and turned off the shop lights. The lower level was now lit only by the tiny lights of various devices: the smoke detector, the computer, the digital time display on the cable box.

  Through the sliders, he saw only dark. How many hours had he worked? Freddy didn’t even know what night it was. Losing track of time scared him, like he might lose track of his entire life.

  If he hadn’t already.

  SUNDAY

  Chapter Nineteen

  Freddy woke up nervous. The remnants of a bad dream shifted before his eyes. Something about Maude, about death, about hands. He checked his phone to see what day of the week it was. Not that it mattered. Freddy’s weeks had no meaningful landmarks.

  He couldn’t open the kiln because his glass had not yet annealed. He had to wait, not one of his major skills. If he had any major skills. The trombone might prove that he had only minor skills.

  It was raining out, so he and Snap took a brief run, and then the dog settled down on his comforters while Freddy composed hashtags for his future trombone auction.

  #brassbandbongs#glassrigsongs

  #glassthatsings#Freddywings

  Then he researched Norwich jails online. The site claimed prisoners had telephone privileges, so M
rs. Aminetti would tell Shawn she’d given Snap to Freddy. Shawn would call as soon as he could and Freddy would reassure him that Snap was okay, plus find out if the Leper was the reason for Shawn’s arrest.

  All three of his sisters texted. They did not follow him on Instagram because they did not know about freddyglass. They were texting about the photo he had dutifully sent from MMC.

  Emma—Be sure to visit Grandma again today.

  Jenny—When are you bringing her home?

  Kara—Grandma needs you to find her another facility.

  Freddy sent a group response.

  How come she only needs ME? How come she doesn’t also need YOU?

  How many days in a row had he visited? It felt like a million.

  But if he visited again, he could at least settle one of his anxieties. Visiting for an hour didn’t really protect Grandma, but he didn’t think Grandma needed protection. But who knew? Because who, really, would do a thing like that? Strangle the weakest person in a place full of the weak and helpless? He just plain couldn’t picture Kenneth doing it. He couldn’t picture anybody doing it. And yet it was the only thing he was picturing.

  He fed Snap leftovers that would otherwise die in the refrigerator. Snap wolfed down half a meatball sandwich from the deli and mac and cheese warping at the edges. He even ate some old vinegary coleslaw Freddy had bought thinking he should have a vegetable but then forgot to eat.

  It was too wet for the Way Back, so he kneed Snap into his crate along with water and kibble. The dog whined sadly.

  Shawn and Br were probably in their crates too, whining sadly. Freddy worried more about Br than Shawn. Shawn had chosen his corner. But Br…nightmare.

  There was only one other car in the visitor lot.

  Out the front door came a man Freddy recognized as Mr. Griffin’s son. He was probably fifty or sixty. Maybe even seventy. You thought of sons as being young, but around here, you found out they could be pretty old themselves.

  Then came the other son, arm looped in his father’s, escorting Mr. Griffin at the shuffling pace common to Alzheimer’s patients. Mr. Griffin was using his only topic. “Have you found my car keys? I have to get to work, you know.”

  “I have the car keys, Dad. I’m going to drive.”

  They’re taking him out for Sunday breakfast, thought Freddy. That’s nice.

  He couldn’t take Grandma anywhere anymore. Her tendency to eat liquids with her fingers was not restaurant appropriate. Oh, Grandma, he thought. All those great meals she used to fix, her love of table settings—the place mats, the cloth napkins, the carefully arranged knives and forks and spoons. The insistence on good posture, good manners, good topics.

  “Hi, Freddy,” said the older son. “I guess we won’t see you again. I want to thank you for the times you were so nice to Dad.”

  “You won’t see me again?”

  “We’re pulling Dad out. We can’t risk leaving him in a place where the staff might be involved with a violent death. It’s taken two days to finish the paperwork and get everything arranged, but we’re finally good to go.”

  Good to go, thought Freddy, means bad to stay.

  “We’re not the only ones,” said the son. “Will took Irene this morning.”

  Freddy could not imagine the household that could contain Irene successfully. Poor Will, listening to her count, watching her circle. As for Mr. Griffin, his desire to go to work was intense. The locked doors at MMC kept him off the streets, but at his son’s house, Mr. Griffin would find a way out, and off he would go. He would walk into traffic, walk on railroad tracks, walk into rivers for all Freddy knew, trying to get to work.

  In the common room, Mrs. Maple’s Aunt Polly stood forlornly, clinging to her walker. Polly had tried to dress herself, or maybe undress. She had gotten her bra over one shoulder and forgotten about it. The bra hung uselessly out from under the bottom of her T-shirt, the little beige cup swinging against her side. She was wearing neither pajama bottoms nor pull-ups. Her bare flanks and saggy, naked butt were on display.

  Jade hadn’t seen Freddy come in. “You’re a mess, Miss Polly,” she said, laughing out loud, and she photographed the half-naked Polly on her cell phone.

  “Jade!” said Freddy. “What are you doing? Don’t take a picture of her when she looks like that. Get her dressed!”

  Jade turned, saw that it was only Freddy, and shrugged.

  “Delete that photo,” he said.

  “Lighten up. Gonna give me something to share at break.”

  Freddy was dumbfounded. I trusted her, he thought. I trusted all of them. I said they were fine women. There’s nothing fine about Jade right now. And what else does she do to get her jollies? Press a pillow over a complaining mouth? “Jade, I have to tell Mrs. Reilly.”

  Jade looked at him with loathing and left the common room as if stomping on spiders.

  He sat next to Grandma on a couch. “Shall we…” said his grandmother. “Let’s…” she frowned. “Prrfkahh—uh.” She touched her lips as if maybe the right words were lying in her mouth and she could pick them up. Freddy put his arm around her shoulder, although he was the one in need of comfort. They sat for a while, just holding on, and Mrs. Reilly strode into the common room, glaring.

  Freddy tucked his grandmother’s hands in her lap and walked over to meet the director. He so didn’t want to be the grown-up or rat on anybody ever.

  “Mr. Bell,” said the administrator severely, “Jade has explained to me that you are making false accusations regarding her treatment of our residents. I stand by my employee. Jade is responsible and hard-working. She has been your grandmother’s aide many, many times in the last several months. As for your casting aspersions on my staff, as if I would ever let them laugh at one of our residents—as if they would ever think of such a thing—I am shocked.”

  Freddy came unglued. “Jade’s taking sick photographs of the people you’re responsible for, and you don’t give a shit? Your patients are getting murdered on your watch, and you stand here whining about false accusations? Gimme your phone, Jade. We’re taking a look.”

  “He’s lying,” said Jade. “I don’t have no photo like that.” Her voice was too belligerent.

  Freddy locked eyes with the administrator. Mrs. Reilly blinked, which Freddy had known she would. She said to Jade, “Is an apology in order?”

  Freddy said, “She doesn’t have to apologize. She has to delete the photograph.”

  Jade took out her phone. Clicked while Freddy watched. The photo was gone. In its place, he had an enemy.

  He sat back down with his grandmother, who had noticed nothing but examined his shirtsleeve as if she had never come across anything like it.

  Rule number one in pipes: Trust no one. Maybe it was also true in nursing homes.

  Last week, I was as happy as a three-year-old in play school, thought Freddy. Everybody loved me and I loved them. Now I’ve met the bullies on the playground.

  Chapter Twenty

  Laura made peanut-butter toast. She was not in the mood for her own church, where everybody would greet her cheerfully and expect her customary cheerful reply, and she didn’t want to be cheerful. She wanted to sulk about Howard and the Presbyterians.

  Gordon Clary was organist and choir director at a Guilford church. She would attend their service, see what kind of organist Gordon Clary was, and tell the self-proclaimed Charles Ives expert that she might actually have in her possession a very early Charles Ives manuscript.

  The drive was pleasant, hardly anybody else on the road, and the autumn leaves were magnificent. The Guilford church was two hundred years old, graceful and beautiful, all white with the original plaster decoration. She began to feel a little of the peace of Sunday.

  Gordon Clary played one of her favorite Bach works, Fantasia and Fugue in A minor, but so fast that the notes were a whirlwind. Laura was of t
he belief that Bach could always be done more slowly.

  The sermon was outstanding; the prayers were profound.

  But after his postlude, Gordon was in such a rush Laura actually had to block his exit to get him to notice her. “Laura Maple,” she said. “I sing soprano in the concert choir.”

  “Ah,” said Gordon Clary. “Of course.”

  “The Fantasia was splendid.”

  “Thank you.” He tried to steer around her.

  “Perhaps you will recall telling us last week that Charles Ives spent his summers as a boy in Westbrook.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Maple, but—”

  Laura knew she shouldn’t proceed. Charlie deserved full attention, and Gordon Clary wasn’t giving this any attention. Laura didn’t listen to her own wisdom and hurried into her story. “It turns out that his extended family rented houses on Magna Lane.”

  “No, I’m quite sure he lived at Cousins’ Beach.” He bustled away.

  Laura glared at his back. I could have given you truly fine, one-of-a-kind material for your doctoral paper, she thought. But you’re rude and you have bad tempos. You will never catch a glimpse of my manuscript or even be able to gaze upon my smelly piano. So there.

  Back home, Snap was whining to get outside. Freddy ran around the yard while Snap went after his ankles. It dawned on Freddy that Snap was having a wonderful time. You didn’t correct biting by making it more fun.

  Freddy got an old towel (all the towels here were old; Grandma was not given to flights of fancy at Bed Bath & Beyond) and rolled it up, and they yanked it back and forth. So much exercise called for a snack. Snap was okay with Mrs. Aminetti’s dog food, and Freddy was definitely okay with Mrs. Aminetti’s cookies.

  At last, holding his breath, Freddy approached the kiln.

  He almost said a prayer that the glass trombone would be good, but he wanted God out there feeding the hungry, not distracted by crime glass.

  He opened the kiln door.