The Grandmother Plot

by Caroline B. Cooney

  “You gave it to him?”

  “Well, loaned. It’s still mine. He was positively greedy over it, stroking the paper. But I ran into a problem.”

  What did Kemmy know of problems? The battle against crying was lost. Laura tried to pretend she was coughing, but sobs vaulted out of her chest and tears rained on her cheeks.

  Kemmy pulled her down onto the little sofa, and Laura surrendered, weeping.

  “I know,” Kemmy said in a warm, comfort-the-two-year-old voice. “I know how hard it must be. Even for saints, it must be hard.”

  Laura jerked away. “I’m not a saint!”

  “What did you do, cut your visit short by ten minutes? Come on, Laura. You’re the best person I know.”

  “I’m the worst person you know. I didn’t visit my own mother, Kemmy, when she got Alzheimer’s. She was one of the bitter, angry, swearing, paranoiac types, and I hated being around her, and when she didn’t even recognize me, why suffer through visits? She bit the aides, she threw things, she swore at me, and I abandoned her. She lasted two more years. She was a wonderful mother, and when she needed me, I paid other people to deal with it. At her funeral, Kemmy, I was relieved.”

  Kemmy’s arms tightened around Laura. “I can’t even imagine it,” she said. “My mother died of breast cancer when I was thirty-one, and I would have given anything for more time with her. But years like you’re describing—maybe not.”

  “My children went on loving their grandmother. They visited. They seemed to be okay with whoever she was at the moment, even when she wasn’t anybody, even when she was worse than anybody. They used to ask me along.”

  She remembered Lindsay’s long, slow look. Jonathan’s silence.

  Laura had read another hundred pages of Charlie’s biography. Charlie’s mother was rarely mentioned. The biographer eventually explained that nobody in the Ives family mentioned her. Hundreds of extant letters…and nobody referred to the mother.

  Laura, too, was invisible to her children. In a lifetime of shocks, that was the most shocking. These two wonderful beloved people, for whom she had sacrificed so much and whom she adored, had largely forgotten her. She had to beg for holidays. They always had other plans. Reluctantly, they would agree to fit her in. She never came first.

  “Did the children forgive you for not going?” asked Kemmy.

  Laura’s headache increased. “I don’t think the children considered it in those terms,” she said finally. “But I taught them a lesson. And they learned it well. Visiting your mother is optional.”

  Freddy and Snap wrestled with a towel. Then he collected food and water and fastened Snap to the tire swing in the Way Back.

  He thought about Philip. Last night, he had decided Doc or Skinny or Auburn could have nothing to do with it, because they couldn’t have offed Philip. But nobody had offed Philip, if Jade’s information was correct, so Doc and Skinny and Auburn were still in the running.

  Back at the house, he discovered a loaf of bread in the freezer, which was a pleasant surprise. He fixed toast and buttered it heavily. Jade was absolutely right. Toast was safe. Way too safe. He needed to go out for a real breakfast. He thought about bacon and all the ways that bacon could appear on a menu, and then Emma called.

  If Mrs. Maple didn’t know about Philip, neither did Emma, which was a very good thing.

  How had he acquired so many women in his life? All of them disapproving and not one of them a girlfriend?

  The best way to find a girlfriend around here was to get in touch with his high school crowd. But somehow he didn’t want to. Kara said it was because he was ashamed that he did nothing but make silly little beads while his classmates were having worthwhile careers and starting families. Kara wanted to set pieces of Freddy on her little shelf of inspection and rearrange him to suit.

  Freddy prayed that Kara wouldn’t visit after all. It was kind of a selfish prayer, but Freddy thought all prayer was selfish. Come on, God. Do it my way.

  “Frederick,” said Emma from Alaska, “how are you? How are beads?”

  Freddy thought of his Alaska TV shows. How many of those guys lived above the Arctic Circle because they were running away from the law? Probably not the ones who chose to be featured on the National Geographic channel. Freddy didn’t want to live in a below-zero world. Plus he couldn’t live there anyway. No oxygen delivery.

  “Kara’s bent out of shape that you have not yet taken Grandma home with you. I know that would be impossible. I know you’re doing the best you can.”

  Traditionally, Emma figured her little brother was doing the worst he could. Freddy wondered what was up with the new phase. “Listen, Emma. What would you think of looking for a place for Grandma in Alaska?”

  “Freddy, even if I thought for one minute that our ninety-three-year-old grandmother could tolerate the upheaval, the plane flights, the new spaces, and the new faces, I couldn’t consider it because we could be transferred next week to New Mexico or whatever. But you don’t need me. Kara is flying down to give you a break. Although a break from what, I’d like to know,” she said, her real attitude showing. “You make beads. Your whole life is a vacation. I have two children. They’re in school. They have sports. They need supper. They have a truly monumental amount of laundry. You don’t have anybody but yourself.”

  “I have Grandma,” he countered.

  “No, you don’t. MMC has Grandma. You whip up there for a minute or two and then whip back to your glass studio. Kara’s not too thrilled that she has to stay with the Burnworths.”

  “George and Lily Burnworth are the best.”

  “He performed my wedding, you remember.”

  “Sure,” said Freddy, who didn’t remember a thing about Emma’s wedding. She’d had one. All three sisters had had one. But brides looked alike, that white thing going on, and the flowers and stuff. He did remember the annoyance of renting a tux. But he didn’t remember it separately, per wedding.

  “I’m not that into Mrs. Burnworth,” said Emma. “She’s a bit judgy, you know.”

  Freddy thought Mrs. Burnworth was totally nonjudgy. “She bakes a great pie,” he offered. “Well, except she doesn’t. They buy homemade pies from a neighbor.”

  “No! Then she’s a hypocrite on top of everything else!” Emma launched happily into a discussion of hypocrisy in establishment religion, which Freddy thought was a little harsh considering it was just a slice of pie.

  “What’s this rumor about Josh Burnworth?” asked Emma.

  Josh Burnworth was way younger than Emma. Younger than Freddy for that matter. How old was Emma anyway? Freddy was twenty-six, so Emma must be thirty-five. And Josh was maybe twenty-two. Could somebody in Alaska hear rumors about somebody she didn’t even know in Connecticut who was, like, twelve or thirteen years younger? “I haven’t heard any,” he said.

  “It was on Facebook,” said Emma. “Josh was picked up for possession. Not grass either. Coke. Preacher’s kids, you know. All that religion. It’s not good for them.”

  “Josh?” This was impossible. Josh was a totally decent guy. Volunteered weekends for something really do-goodery. A Big Brother or something. Maybe ran a soup kitchen.

  …or maybe tried to rescue Danielle and Auburn.

  Br.

  Burnworth?

  No wonder the pastor hadn’t found time to visit MMC.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  When Kemmy had left and Laura was alone again, she felt the dark engulfing her. Before it took over, she made herself phone her daughter.

  “Oh, hi, Mom,” said Lindsay in the surprised voice she always used, like, I thought you were dead.

  Laura cut to the chase. “Lindsay, I miss you. And the worries I have about MMC and Aunt Polly and life in general and so many other things are closing in on me. Honey, can you visit? Maybe spend the night?”

  There was the usual long pau
se, the mental sorting through of appointments and obligations, the choosing of a good excuse, the postponement of any physical association between mother and daughter.

  The pause continued until it was too much to bear. Laura touched the cell phone lightly, ending the call with the faintest pressure from one finger. She turned her phone off and silenced the ringer for good measure. She wanted to walk away from everything—house, town, music, children.

  But could she walk away from her aunt?

  Polly had never married, though she held out hope for many years. Never had children of her own, though she ached for a family. Polly accepted being a gym teacher as her calling. Sports and teams, balls and rackets and other people’s kids were her life. Polly never set aside her cheerful exuberance until she met the only opponent she could never defeat: Alzheimer’s.

  But Polly kept smiling, and Laura never looked at that smile without pride that she was related to this brave woman and grief that Polly never had what she so deeply wanted: somebody to love her back.

  A pickup truck pulled into Laura’s driveway.

  Could it be the organ crew? But it wasn’t their truck, and she didn’t recognize the skanky men who got out. Laura had a moment of intense fear. Had Maude felt this way, looking up at her murderer? Lock the door, Laura told herself. Call the police.

  But the men were already at her back door, and Laura in her sluggishness had not gotten there first.

  On Instagram, Freddy followed guys who collaborated on rigs, one making the prep, one making the pipe. What a great life, going cross-country from studio to studio.

  As soon as Kara gets here, that’s what I’ll do. No one will ever find me, because even I will never know where I’m going.

  But crossing all those state lines, probably ought to have car insurance.

  Freddy telephoned his grandmother’s insurance agent. It turned out that getting car insurance was not that simple. He had let it lapse. They couldn’t start it up in two minutes, especially since the vehicles weren’t his. The fact that he had power of attorney for his grandmother did not seem to impress the agent. It would be a slow process.

  “I’ll pay cash,” Freddy offered. “I’ll drive straight to your office.”

  They did not take cash. All payments went to their central office by check or direct withdrawal.

  Freddy gave him the VIN numbers for the truck and the Avalon.

  The agent would call him back.

  Being called back was just another form of nagging. Freddy’s commitment to going middle class with insurance and everything faded away.

  He picked out a pipe for Jade. Last year, before Cynthia broke up with him and destroyed his studio, he’d made her a sort of a glass Cinderella slipper, actually a glittering, crazy high-heeled shoe, but you could smoke out of it. It was totally awesome. It would be good to get rid of it, even though he still had daydreams where he and Cynthia got back together and the glass slipper would be a great peace offering.

  The phones rang continually. He ignored Kara, Jenny, and Dr. Burnworth, but then came the only call he could not ignore. “Mr. Bell, this is Vera, the nurse. Your grandmother is not doing well. Can you get up here?”

  Freddy took Route 9 at rocket speed. All he could think of was Philip.

  What if it hadn’t been an accident? What if there was somebody up there shoving people to their death? Just because the cop left the door open didn’t mean some insane staff person didn’t walk Philip outside and give him a push onto a rock! He should never have driven away last night.

  His grandmother was in her room, an ugly generic tissue box in her lap. At one time, she had cared deeply about tissue-box design and color. She even crocheted tissue-box covers. The Bible on her coffee table still held its hand-crocheted bookmark. The empty fruit bowl still sat on its doily.

  Grandma saw Freddy, drew a shuddery deep breath, and held out her skinny arms. “Oh, Arthur!” she cried. Her face was streaked with tears.

  The wheelchair boxed her in. There was no sofa or armchair in her little bedroom so Freddy picked her up, settled himself on the bed with her sideways on his lap, and rocked her. “Tell me,” he said, realizing that no, he could not become a migrant collab flameworker. He could not abandon Grandma to Kara unless Kara wanted to have her. He was pretty sure the calls he had ignored from Kara were postponing her visit; a child had a fever or a horse had an abscess. Anyway, what would he do with Snap if he headed for the horizon? Give him to a charity?

  “What’s wrong, Grandma?”

  She raised a stricken face. “Arthur, I think she died.”

  Wayne Ames walked in, with Vera right behind him. Freddy couldn’t believe the guy was intruding again. “Later,” he mouthed, letting his fury show only in his face, because he couldn’t let Grandma hear it in his voice. “I think so too, Grandma,” he said. “It’s very sad.”

  “What was she doing?” said his grandmother urgently. “Where was she going?”

  “Peru.”

  Grandma was incredulous. “Peru?”

  “I know. You wouldn’t catch me going. She wanted to see Machu Picchu.”

  “Ask her who died,” said Ames.

  Freddy glared at the detective, drew his finger across his throat, and pointed to the door. Get out, he mouthed.

  Jade peered in the doorway, scoping out the action. No doubt she had her cell phone ready to take a video.

  Instead of leaving, the cop went down on one knee, looked into Grandma’s eyes, and said, “How did she die, Mrs. Bell? Did you see it happen?”

  Freddy thought, I’m going to ambush him in some alley. Or just kill him here, with witnesses, and get credit for ridding the world of a cop who makes my grandmother cry.

  Grandma began a rare series of complete sentences. “Freddy, how did she die? Isn’t she younger than I am? Freddy, where’s Arthur? He was here. I’m sure he was here.”

  Freddy was not equipped to handle this. He wasn’t sure anybody was equipped. There were residents who wept, trembled, and begged. Their minds froze and unfroze, and they could find no peace. He so didn’t want his grandmother feeling that way. His only tool was distraction.

  “You know what, Grandma?” he said, smiling into her face. “It’s October! The trees are yellow and red. That maple tree over by the old elementary school, the tree you painted every year, when you did watercolors? It’s gorgeous again this year. Let’s go for a drive. We’ll collect good leaves. You used to press leaves in the dictionary. I bet there’s still a leaf or two in our dictionary. And maybe we’ll find horse chestnuts. You like to have a bowl of chestnuts on the table in the fall.”

  Vera handed Freddy a damp washcloth. He wiped his grandmother’s face.

  It bothered Freddy that all these women seemed to be working double shifts. Okay, they were short-staffed and it was an act of decency to work long hours. Unless you were offing your patients and needed those extra hours to cover your tracks or set up your next one.

  But he really liked Vera. He respected her. She couldn’t possibly be out there harming helpless people. Unless she was. As for Jade, she could be in the doorway from curiosity, from wanting to see if Freddy had brought her the right flowers or to find out what the cops knew about the deaths of Philip and Maude.

  “Do I need a sweater?” asked Grandma uncertainly.

  She was already wearing a sweater.

  “I’ll get your coat, Mrs. Chase,” said Vera.

  Over Grandma’s head, Freddy said very quietly to the cop, “She’s talking about my mother. Her daughter, Alice. Beat it.”

  “I don’t think she was talking about Alice,” said Wayne Ames in a loud, belligerent voice. “I’ve been questioning her about her meany-beany statement.”

  Freddy lost it. “You questioned my grandmother?” he shouted. “You piece of shit! You stay away from my grandmother!” He felt himself becoming molte
n, like glass. He was going to burn himself and everyone around him.

  Vera said, “Now, Freddy,” in the universal voice of women who want docile men.

  Jade held up her cell phone, taking the video.

  “If I weren’t holding my grandmother in my arms, I’d break your jaw,” he yelled at the cop. “What I’d really like is for you to get dementia. I’d love to see you frightened and lost and your whole life upside down and inside out and then you’re locked up in an institution and you can’t even salt your food and some cop barges in asking you about murder, which until then you hadn’t even realized happened and now some cop has ruined any possibility of feeling safe or good.”

  Freddy was shaking.

  Jade was filming.

  “OxyContin” said his grandmother.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “Hi, Mrs. Maple!” called the skanky guys. “We’re here for your piano.”

  Oh, for heaven’s sake. Laura held the door for them instead of having a nervous collapse.

  The junk run guys didn’t comment on the smell of the summer piano or the state of her music room. They accepted the cash and the dump fee, popped the piano on a dolly as easily as if it were Tupperware, bumped it down the back step, shoved it up a ramp onto their truck, and drove away.

  At least something had gotten done today, even if the junk-run guys were the ones who had done it. The stinking piano was gone. Check. She was still upright. Check. She wasn’t currently weeping. Check.

  She couldn’t bring herself to go back inside where the smell lingered and gloom reigned. She forced herself to stop thinking of Lindsay. Having disposed of Charlie’s practice piano (which it probably hadn’t been anyway), she thought about Charlie’s practice organ. His father had rigged out their old square piano in Danbury with dummy organ pedals so poor Charlie could practice at home in silence. Wasn’t there a Charles Ives Museum in Danbury? She should visit.

  She walked on and on. She didn’t feel better. Her throat was closed. She was probably getting diphtheria.

  A white sedan honked and pulled over to the curb next to her. Its windows were shaded, and Laura couldn’t see who was driving. Her heart lurched.