A Tough Nut to Crack

by Tom Birdseye

  Vicki Higgins purses her lips and looks me over thoughtfully. Finally she begins. “I took a good gander at that birthday photo, too, especially after I saw the effect it had on you. I downloaded it onto my computer and blew it up good-sized so my middle-aged eyes could be sure before I judged. One glance was all it took. No mistaking bad acting, is there?”

  She doesn’t wait for me to respond. No need. We both know the answer. Dad and Grandpa were faking it for my sake. The party solved nothing. What I need to know now is why. And how to fix it. What next?

  As if she can read my mind, Vicki Higgins nods. “I’ve known both your daddy and your granddaddy a very long time, and so, of course, have wondered about their … um, ‘relationship,’ or lack thereof.”

  She pauses and flicks a grain of salt with her fingernail. “I’m not one to easily give up, Cassie. But I’m not one for beating my head against the wall, either, and I hate to see someone doing the same. Especially someone as smart and wonderful as you.”

  Vicki Higgins reaches across the table and lays her hand on mine. “Despite any theories I may have entertained, the truth is that I have absolutely no idea what really happened between those two men. Worse yet, I’m not sure if I want to know. I love them both and would like to continue doing so. I’m afraid if I learn the nitty-gritty, it’ll send me into a tailspin.”

  She sits up straight and takes a deep breath. “Bottom line is this: Sometimes there are things in life that are better left alone, and it is my distinct impression that your dad and grandpa’s relationship is one of them. My advice to you is to let sleeping dogs lie. As much as I hate to say it, in this case, honey, ignorance is most likely bliss.”

  12. Detective Cassie Bell

  All the way home I put on a front of being civil, but the truth is I’m getting madder by the minute. There I was, absolutely positive that Vicki Higgins would have all the answers, and all I got was her telling me to quit.

  Quit? I’m no quitter! By the time she drops me off at Grandpa’s, I’m on the verge of a tizzy fit. All wound up I march into the kitchen, ready to confront Dad. Time for some straight talk around here, father to daughter, no holds barred. I want answers, and I want them now!

  The kitchen is empty. On the table is a note:

  Quinton was getting a bit stir-crazy. I’ve taken him fishing at Tank Pond. Be back in a couple of hours. I’ve got the cell, so call if you need anything, or want to join us. We’ll come get you!

  Love, Dad

  Fishing? At a time like this? Really burning now, I turn and stomp out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

  Where I find myself facing the door to Grandpa’s room.

  The closed door, just like it’s been since we got here.

  The next thing I know I’ve got my hand on the doorknob. I expect it to be locked, but a quick twist says otherwise. The door swings open, and before I have a chance to talk myself out of it, I walk inside.

  Grandpa’s room is small, filled mostly with an old four-poster bed and dresser made of dark wood. A cane rocker is squeezed in beneath a single lace-curtained window. It looks like a display in a museum, something out of the past.

  Which it is, of course—Grandpa’s past.

  Which is exactly what I need to figure out. The full and complete answer to the Dad-Grandpa dilemma is probably right here in front of me, in this very room.

  Sure, it’s Grandpa’s, and so technically I shouldn’t nose around. But this is for his own good, and Dad’s, and the whole family’s. How are we ever going to have fun together like Grandma Chrissy and Mom would want, if someone doesn’t solve this mystery and fix it?

  Simple: We won’t. So somebody has to do something. And that somebody is none other than Detective Cassie Bell!

  First stop? Dresser, of course. That’s where Dad keeps his important stuff, in the bottom drawer, back right-hand corner. Like father, like son, is my guess. I pull Grandpa’s bottom drawer open and find … work pants, jeans mostly, the bib-overall kind, just the sort of clothes you’d expect an old farmer like Grandpa to wear.

  Hmm, next drawer up? T-shirts neatly folded, mostly white, but not all. Here’s a blue one that says “Kentucky Wildcats” across the front, and a green one advertising John Deere tractors, and a kind of melon-colored one that says “Old Fart” in big block letters.

  Ha! You gotta love the guy.

  Okay, moving right along. Top right-hand drawer holds socks. Lots of socks. Some of which, I notice, need mending or a short trip to the garbage.

  Last drawer … I slam it shut quicker than a blink. It’s full of underwear, and at least one pair of boxers has Donald Duck all over them. There are some things a granddaughter just shouldn’t know about her grandpa, and his choice of underwear is one of them.

  I shake off the Donald Duck image and head for the closet. Sure, why didn’t I think of that first? Closets are where lots of people hide their secrets.

  Grandpa’s is crammed—work shirts, dress shirts, sweatshirts, slacks, and one Sunday suit and tie. Farmer boots are lined up across the bottom, along with sneakers, two pairs of shiny dress shoes, and even a pair of sandals. Interesting stuff, yes. You can learn a lot about somebody from just looking in their closet. But no help where I really need it.

  I shut the closet door and survey the room. Under the bed? That’s one of my favorite storage areas, right after the floor, which I consider to be one big shelf. Maybe Grandpa keeps stuff there, too. I drop to my knees and find … nothing but dust bunnies.

  Hmm, maybe I’m on the wrong track. Maybe I should look in another room, Grandpa’s farm office, for example, or the living room, or—

  Screech! Hold up, Cassie, what’s this? A wooden box under the bedside table. I scoot across the floor and pull the box out into the rectangle of sunlight from the window.

  The box is no larger than one for shoes, and plain and simple, worn by age. A tiny metal latch holds it closed. I unclip the latch, and the lid pops open …

  … to reveal a man and a woman, smiling up at me from an old, yellowed photo. They’re standing side by side. Their faces are young, but I recognize them just the same. Grandpa has his arm over Grandma Chrissy’s shoulder. She has hers around the back of his waist. They look so comfortable together, the perfect couple, standing together in front of a field of wheat.

  I lean closer and can see that the crop looks ready to harvest. “What fine grain it will be!” Grandpa must be saying. Grandma Chrissy no doubt agrees. “It’ll make the best flour and the most delicious bread.”

  I can almost smell the fresh loaf, just out of the oven, almost feel a warm slice in my hand, almost taste that first bite.

  Yum …

  With a sigh I set the photo aside to see what’s next. Whoa! Grandpa in a military uniform. He looks really young. I turn the picture over, and there in neat cursive is written “Ruben Bell, July 1952, U.S. Marines, South Korea.”

  So Grandpa fought in the Korean War. I didn’t know that. I look back in the box to find two medals. One is gold and black, and shaped like a heart. In the center is the profile of George Washington, like you see on a quarter. It’s hanging from a purple ribbon. The other is a silver star, fixed to a red, white, and blue ribbon. Beside them lies a newspaper clipping.

  The article is so old and yellow I’m afraid it will fall apart if I pick it up. I lean close and read ….

  Hey, it’s about Grandpa! Right there it says—“Sergeant Ruben Bell”!

  Wow! He was fighting on a hill near a place in Korea called Panmunjom when two of his men were wounded. Under heavy enemy fire he dragged them both to safety … get this … with a bullet in his leg. “Sergeant Bell would simply not give up,” the article says. The medals are the Purple Heart, for being wounded, and the Silver Star, for gallantry in action. My grandpa was a hero!

  Wait a minute. So Grandpa was a hero in the Korean War and Dad …

  Uh-oh. Dad really doesn’t like violence. He gets upset if I even look like I’m going to whack Quinton, no matt
er how much Quinton deserves it. At the high school Dad sponsors a club called Students for Peace and Global Responsibility. His heroes are people who tried to make the world a better place in nonviolent ways, like Ghandi, and Martin Luther King, and Mother Teresa, and the Dalai Lama, not generals.

  Or sergeants.

  That’s got to be it, then! Dad and Grandpa argued over Grandpa being a soldier. And Grandpa got mad, then madder. And Dad got madder still. And said he didn’t want to be a farmer. And left and ended up in Oregon. Where he couldn’t help harvest Grandma Chrissy’s wheat. Which made Grandpa even madder. Until they couldn’t even talk on the phone without arguing. So they stopped communicating altogether. And here we are today.

  I get up and pace the floor, back and forth, back and forth. Okay, so it’s a lot to overcome. But they can do it. They’ve got to. Otherwise, what? We go back to Oregon, and that’s it, no real family like the one I’m supposed to have?

  No way. I’ve got to do something. But what? I pace the floor some more, and it hits me: Get those two bullheaded men together and make them talk it out. Now!

  A girl with a mission, I grab for the old black phone sitting on the bedside table. It’s one of those old rotary-dial types. But it works. I crank the numbers and within seconds Dad’s cell is chiming away.

  Ring, ring.

  I’ll get those two talking.

  Ring, ring.

  Then I’ll start patching it all up.

  Ring, ring.

  C’mon, Dad, it’s Cassie, who is going to make everything perfect!

  Ring, ring.

  Finally he answers. “This is Harlan.”

  “Get to the hospital right now!” I yell into the phone.

  Worry jabs into Dad’s voice. “What is it?”

  “It’s an emergency!” I say. “Meet me there!”

  And before he has a chance to say another word, I’ve hung up the phone and am sprinting down the stairs and out the front door.

  13. Falling Right and Left

  I’m halfway to town before it hits me.

  The heat and humidity, that is. Whew! You’d think I’d learn. This is not Oregon, Cassie. This is Kentucky, the land of sweat. Rivers of it are streaming down my face, stinging my eyes and tasting like salt. My heart is pounding in my ears. The world is starting to go all fuzzy and white, and my head is swimming.

  So it takes a moment to realize that a red Mustang has pulled up alongside me and someone is calling my name.

  “Hey, Cassie, where’s the fire?”

  It’s Vicki Higgins, shouting across a wide-eyed TJ in the passenger seat. She’s smiling, but even through the fog of my oncoming heat stroke, I can see she’s concerned.

  “I’m about to faint just watching you run,” she says. “Want a ride?”

  I try to remind myself that I’m ticked off at Vicki for advising me to call it quits with Dad and Grandpa. But it’s too dang hot to stay angry. And the air-conditioned coolness floating out of the open car window is just too delicious to ignore.

  “Boy, would I,” I say, and dive into the backseat.

  Minutes later we’re walking through the door of Macinburg General Hospital and onto the elevator. Vicki, to her credit, is biting her tongue and not riddling me with all the questions I can see she’s dying to ask. As the elevator door opens onto the fourth floor, she leans close and whispers, “Whatever you’ve got going, Cassie, I’m on your side, and I’m here if you need me.”

  Like Mom and Grandma Chrissy, I think. I can feel them on my side, too. “Thanks, Vicki,” I say and really mean it. This is no time to hold a grudge.

  Vicki smiles and puts her hand on my shoulder. I stand up a little straighter, take a deep breath, and walk around the corner into Grandpa’s room.

  His face lights up when he sees me. “Hey, it’s my favorite granddaughter!”

  I try to act relaxed and force a laugh. “You mean your only granddaughter.”

  Grandpa nods. “True. Aren’t I a lucky guy? To what do I owe the honor of this visit from my favorite and only granddaughter?”

  I don’t have time to answer. Behind me there is a shuffle of feet, and I turn to see Vicki and TJ parting as Dad and Quinton come rushing into the room. Worry creases Dad’s forehead.

  “What is it?” he asks, looking from Grandpa to me and back again. “What happened?”

  Grandpa shrugs. “Nothing. I’m doing great; walked clear to the end of the hall and back not more than an hour ago.”

  “Huh?” Dad says, clearly confused. He turns to me. “But on the phone you said there was an emergency.”

  I take an involuntary step toward the door, then catch myself and stop. “Oh, yeah, that,” I say, wincing. “Maybe my … um … choice of words wasn’t the best. I guess you thought I meant a medical emergency, huh?”

  From the look on Dad’s face, I figure I’ve got about four heartbeats before the fireworks start. At the same instant it occurs to me that I haven’t really thought beyond this moment. How to begin the most important conversation of my life? I have no clue what the right thing to say might be, so I just blurt out the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

  “I know why you two don’t get along,” I say. “And I have to tell you that I think it’s silly to still be angry about something that happened years ago. It’s time you both got over the war.”

  Dad and Grandpa gape at me, then at each other, then back at me. “The war?” Grandpa Ruben finally says. “What are you talking about, Cassie?”

  I amp up the speed, talking fast. Get it all out on the table, now. “I read all about you being a hero in the Korean War, Grandpa,” I say. “And how you saved people and got shot and earned medals, and all that. Then here comes Dad, and he is really, really against violence. I can see how you wouldn’t understand, and be angry and all.”

  I gulp a big breath and turn to Dad. “I can see how Grandpa not understanding and getting mad would make you mad, too. So mad that you wouldn’t even want to talk to him, or have us meet him, or be a fam—”

  The word family catches in my throat, and for a second I think I’m going to cry. But I swallow hard and keep rolling, like Mom and Grandma Chrissy would want me to.

  “We are a family, though,” I say. “And we should act like one and let bygones be bygones. You know, forgive and forget, and all that stuff. So could you please—please!—shake hands and say I’m sorry?”

  Grandpa Ruben’s eyebrows are going up and down as fast as he keeps blinking. “Cassie, honey,” he finally says, “your dad and I never had a problem over my military service in Korea. As far as I can remember, we never even discussed it. Besides, fact is I experienced war firsthand, and I hate it. It’s mankind’s worst invention. I’m glad to hear your dad’s against it, too.”

  If words can be a wall, then I just ran headfirst into one. I’m stopped dead in my tracks. No war over the war? Really? I was so sure I had this figured out.…

  Wait a minute now, maybe I do have this figured out, just minus the war part. “Okay,” I say, “forget Korea. Would you please make up about Dad not becoming a farmer and not being here to harvest Grandma Chrissy’s wheat?”

  Now it’s Dad’s turn. “I always felt free to choose my own career path, Cassie. There was never an argument over my being an English teacher.”

  “That’s right,” Grandpa chimes in. “I’m the one who introduced him to Shakespeare. I’ve read all of the old bard’s plays. Want to hear a few lines? I do a great Falstaff.”

  I’m beginning to feel a bit dizzy but shake it off and press on. “What about Dad moving to Oregon? Was that it? Did you want him to stay in Kentucky, Grandpa, and you two got into a fight over that?”

  “I moved here to Kentucky from Tennessee when I was eighteen,” Grandpa says. “Who am I to tell a man where he should live?”

  “Did you two get into it over money, then?” I want to know. “Lots of families fall apart over money.”

  Dad shrugs. “We neither one of us have much of that. Nothing
to argue about.”

  “Um …” I’m really grasping now. My theories are falling right and left. “Religion?”

  “No.”

  “Politics?”

  “No.”

  “Teenage rebellion?”

  “No.”

  “Baseball? Are you a Yankees fan, Grandpa? Dad can’t stand the Yankees.”

  “No. No. No.”

  “Well, what then?” I plead, out of ideas and desperate.

  Dad focuses on the floor for a minute, then looks up at me, and his eyes have gone hard. In a cold whisper he says, “Your grandfather cheated me.”

  14. Do Not Pass Go

  Grandpa’s mouth falls open, and for a moment all he can do is sputter. Finally he finds his voice, and it comes out in a roar. “I didn’t cheat you! You just couldn’t stand getting beat, that’s all!”

  Dad goes crimson. If he were in a cartoon, there would be steam coming out of his ears. “Get beat? I didn’t get beat. I got cheated! You rolled a four. You should have landed on Boardwalk. I had six hotels lined up there. The rent would have emptied your bank.”

  “Yes, if I had actually rolled a four,” Grandpa shoots back. “But the dice hit your glass of iced tea and fell off the table. Everybody knows if that happens you get to roll again.”

  “Do not,” Dad says. “You play the dice where they lie.”

  “Do too!” Grandpa insists. “You roll again.”

  “Do not!”

  “Do too!”

  “Do not!”

  “Do too!”

  “Do—”

  “Stop!” The word explodes from my mouth so suddenly it catches even me by surprise. All heads snap in my direction.

  “Do you mean to tell me,” I say, unbelieving, “that you two haven’t spoken to each other for all these years because of a game of … Monopoly?”

  “No, Cassie,” Vicki Higgins says, stepping between Dad and Grandpa. “It’s not just because of Monopoly. Remember what I said at breakfast? As intelligent and loving as your father and grandfather may be, you’re looking at what could be a pair of the stubbornest men on planet Earth.”