Seven Deadlies

by Gigi Levangie

  I felt like I’d been slapped. At that moment, I decided to quit tutoring Rodney—he was a lost cause. I couldn’t waste any more precious energy on him.

  “I’m sorry, Grandma,” I told the old lady that afternoon. “I’m just not getting anywhere with Rodney. I tried, I really did, but I don’t want to keep taking your money.”

  “I understand, child,” she said with a sigh. “I’m at the end of my rope, myself, but he is my only grandchild . . .”

  Grandma Bartholomew gave me a dry kiss on the forehead and pressed an extra, crumpled twenty-dollar bill into my hand. I looked back at her ghostly figure in the picture window as I walked toward my bus stop. I fought to keep tears from my eyes. The guilt lodged in my throat threatened to choke me.

  That night, Mama listened thoughtfully, her eyes closed, as I told her about the visit to the homeless shelter, about the accountant’s story, about why I had quit.

  “I am not a quitter, Mama, you know this.”

  “You did your best, mamí. You couldn’t keep taking Grandma’s money.” She sighed. “That wouldn’t be right.”

  “I’m worried about Grandma,” I said. “You know, Mama, I’m even worried about Rodney.”

  Less than a year later, I got a phone call from a Superior Court caseworker. Rodney had just turned fourteen and was filing for emancipation from his grandmother. He claimed abuse and siphoning of his trust fund. Grandma Bartholomew was fighting the emancipation. I knew that despite everything, she, too, was worried about Rodney.

  Several months went by. I got another call. This time from a man claiming to be Grandma’s attorney.

  “Rodney is trying to have Mrs. Bartholomew found incompetent. He’s filed a 1090.”

  My heart froze. “That’s not going to happen, right? How is Grandma?”

  “She’s fine. She’s upset, of course. She’s been in and out of the hospital with her high blood pressure.”

  I had to go visit her, and I had to try to talk some sense into Rodney. I took a bus after school and an hour later found myself standing in front of Grandma’s door. I knocked. No one answered. I pressed my ear to the door. I didn’t hear a sound. No music. No bridge game. No old voices hollering above an imaginary din. Nothing.

  I rapped on the door again. Finally, I heard someone unlocking the door. Lock after lock; the process took what felt like an hour.

  The door opened, barely an inch. I couldn’t see anyone.

  “Grandma?” I said. “It’s me, Perry. Perry Gonzales.”

  There was no light on in the apartment. All I saw was darkness.

  “Grandma?” I said. “Are you okay?”

  “Are you alone?” she whispered.

  “Yes,” I said, fear crawling up my spine.

  “No one followed you?” she asked.

  “No,” I said, turning around instinctively. Am I sure? What is she talking about?

  “Come in, come in,” she said, opening the door just a few inches more. “Quickly!”

  I hustled in and tried to navigate the living room, but the drapes were closed. I stood in the darkness while my eyes adjusted.

  Grandma was more stooped and shriveled then ever—she was disappearing before me.

  “Grandma, I got a phone call—your attorney . . . he said Rodney was trying to find you incompetent,” I said. “I wanted to check on you. Do you need help?”

  “Oh, child. I don’t think you can help. It’s Rodney,” she said. “He’s in trouble. He borrowed money from some bad people—he invested it in some scheme, lost it all. Now he’s trying to have me declared incompetent so he can get my pension, my social security, my accounts, everything I have. Perry, he wants to put me in a state-run home.”

  She looked so broken and small.

  “They can’t do that, Grandma,” I said. “They’d have to prove that you’re not capable of taking care of yourself.”

  “Rodney lies, Perry,” she said. “You know that. And he’s good at it. He can pass any lie detector test—he’s like a reptile; his blood runs cold. Perry, he’s forged documents, too—”

  “Where is he?” I said. “Maybe if I talk to him . . .”

  “He’s in hiding,” Grandma said. “I know where, but I can’t tell you. He can’t come home. Those people, they’re Armenian Mafia. They’ll kill him. The boy took their money; I told him not to. He told me they were suckers.”

  I left soon after, my heart heavy as I waited at the bus stop. I found myself watching my back and carefully checking out the other riders. When I got home, I ran to my mother, who was in the bedroom changing from work. I told her the story and asked her if there was anything I could do. She took off her earrings and placed them in her tiny silver jewelry box. She stared at me with her big dark eyes, our faces matching each other’s in the mirror, divided only by years.

  “There’s nothing you can do, mija,” she said as she shook her head. “Unless . . . Grandma Bartholomew can move in with us. You call her and let her know. She’s not going to a home. We won’t let that happen. We’ll give her our room. We’ll sleep in the living room.”

  I called and left Grandma Bartholomew a message on her home phone. She never returned my call.

  A few days later, I left another. She never called me back.

  Two weeks went by. I decided to visit again. I was worried about Grandma—she was so old and fragile. As I walked up the stairs to her place, I heard noise coming from inside.

  Music.

  I pressed the buzzer. I waited, then pressed it again. There were voices coming from inside—loud voices. Happy voices.

  I knocked.

  Grandma Bartholomew opened the door. Sunlight flooded the stairwell. She was wearing a bright pink sweater. Her hair was silvery and reflective as a mirror and held off her face with a bejeweled hair clip. She gave me a wide smile and hugged me.

  She wasn’t using her cane. Her dowager’s hump had shrunk.

  “Perry!” she exclaimed. “How are you? Come in, dear, come in.”

  I walked in and saw various residents enjoying crudités and champagne cocktails. Everyone was laughing and smiling. Gone was the dark, gloomy apartment I’d been in only two weeks ago.

  “Grandma, what happened? Is it your birthday?”

  “No, dear,” she said. “Not my birthday, but God willing, I’ll have another!”

  She handed me a ginger ale poured into a champagne glass.

  “Where’s Rodney?” I asked, looking around.

  “Rodney?” she said, pursing her lips. “Rodney, ah, left us.”

  “He left? Is he in another school?” I asked. “Did an aunt take him?”

  “Dear,” Grandma Bartholomew said, “can I trust you?” She looked at me with shining eyes. I’d never seen her so happy.

  “Of course,” I said. If there’s one thing I am, it’s trustworthy. My word is bond.

  “Follow me,” she said. “I have something to show you.”

  Grandma took my hand, and I followed her into Rodney’s bedroom, which was now empty of all his posters and photographs. His computer was gone. The room was filled with moving boxes, the words Salvation Army: Save for Pickup or Goodwill on them.

  “Dear, Rodney is gone,” she said, staring into my eyes. “You of all people will understand . . .”

  She turned and rifled through papers on his desk and put her bifocals on the tip of her nose as she picked up several sheets.

  “Here,” she said. “Read this.”

  It was a life insurance policy with Grandma Bartholomew’s given name on it—Helena Marjean Bartholomew—her address, and her date of birth.

  It named Rodney as the beneficiary.

  The policy was for $1,000,000.

  (Yes, that says one million dollars.)

  It was signed by Grandma.

  My hands were shaking as I read t
he papers.

  “I never took out this life insurance policy,” Grandma said. “You know what this means, don’t you, Perry?”

  Grandma’s tone changed. She no longer sounded like the sweet Grandma I knew and loved and shared tea with. She sounded resolute, cold, a businesswoman.

  “He was going to . . .”

  I didn’t finish my sentence.

  “My grandson was going to kill me,” she said. “I found a bottle of rat poison in his room, behind his bookshelf. Don’t ask me how I found it. I was lucky. He’d moved back in, told me everything was fine. That he had made his peace with the Armenians. I believed him.”

  She sighed.

  “And then I found the rat poison. And you know rat poison looks like sugar, Perry,” Grandma said. “And you know I like sugar in my tea.”

  “Where’s Rodney, Grandma?” I asked, my voice cracking. My throat was dry and my teeth started chattering.

  “Do you know what rat poison does to a person’s body?” Grandma asked. “It burns holes in your intestines. You die by choking on your own blood.”

  “Grandma . . . what happened to Rodney?” My voice fell to a whisper. My palms started to sweat. I wrapped my arms around my shoulders to keep from shivering.

  “Oh, they’ll find him someday, I expect,” Grandma Bartholomew said. “Here and there. The Armenians are smart and helpful people, and they respect their elders, but Lord knows you can’t outrun DNA.”

  My hand went to my mouth, holding in a scream.

  Grandma chuckled to herself. “How’s this for irony, Perry? The morning after I called those boys, I had a doctor’s appointment. As it turns out, my days are numbered. Without treatment, the doctors have given me just six months.”

  “Oh, no, Grandma,” I said. “You have to get treatment. You have to! We can figure all this out. My mother and I, we’ll help you—”

  “No, child.” The old lady patted my hand. “I’m happy. Every single day of those six months is going to be joyful. Every day will be filled with sunlight and friends and peppermint tea and the music of my youth. And when it’s all over, I’m going out with a smile on this old face. I’m at peace.”

  She looked at me, as though surprised I was still there.

  “Would you like something to eat, dear? Are you hungry? There’s plenty of food.” She gave me a big smile.

  “I’m good, Grandma,” I managed to say. “If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll be going.”

  “Okay, child,” she said. “Oh. Remember our agreement, now.”

  She waggled her finger at me. I nodded. The music changed to a new song.

  “Ooh, that’s my song,” Grandma said, clapping her hands and humming a few bars. “I’d better join my guests. Don’t want to be a bad hostess!”

  She hopped up from the bed and headed to the doorway, then turned.

  “Grandma had a few tricks up her antique lace sleeves, eh, Perry?” she said. “Sometimes, my dear, justice has to be served in a banana smoothie through a straw. Oh, and sweetie, just take anything you want from these boxes. It’s all going to Goodwill.”

  I stood on shaky legs and watched her rush to mingle with her friends. I looked around the room, which had expanded without the Forbes Fortune 500 faces bearing down on me.

  My eyes fell on a knit cap that would have suited me perfectly. A deep maroon. I knew it was cashmere. I thought about how good it would feel on cold mornings at the bus stop.

  I decided against taking it. It would have been greedy.

  The End

  Recently, I had to get a cell phone. I was

  initially against the idea, because I don’t want anything getting in the way of my five-, ten-, fifteen-, and twenty-five-year plans. (Bennington College . . . bestselling author . . . Harvard Law . . . Supreme Court bench.) Cell phones are a distraction: Cell phones mean texting, cell phones mean music, cell phones mean apps—which mean playing games.

  Esteemed Admissions Committee, you know me, Perry Gonzales, pretty well by now. Do you think I want to waste my life playing computer games? I’ve seen it happen before. I’ve seen what games can do.

  Games kill.

  My mother, the upstanding Yelena Maria Gonzales, insisted that I buy my own phone when her voice mail crashed after so many Mark Frost Academy parents left messages asking for my services. They offered money, apartments, vacations, sports cars (I’m fourteen years old). As you know, I’m a highly regarded tutor at Mark Frost Academy. I’m not being cocky—my reputation precedes me, as they say. I’ve been known to rescue even the dullest kids from the doldrums D’s and the far-from-fantastic F’s. I have a knack, a gift, if you will.

  One of the parents who called me was Sheldon Turkle (pronounced “Turk-LAY”) the head honcho of Completely WorldWide Studios. To be more precise, his office got in touch with me. His assistant, Bethanny, called, then put me on hold for five minutes, then called me again and forgot what she was calling about. She sounded like she was crying. In the background, I heard a lot of yelling and swear words, the specifics of which I won’t share with you.

  Between her tears, Bethanny begged me to go to the Turkle household that very afternoon. I told her I was busy, which is true. I have school, I’m the goalie for the Mark Frost Academy ninth-grade girls soccer team, I play clarinet in the school band, and I work five days a week. I couldn’t possibly tutor any more hours.

  Bethanny said Mr. Turkle would put me in a movie if I tutored his son, Timmy.

  I have no interest in being an actress, I told her. I’m a writer.

  She said Mr. Turkle would buy my first script.

  I told her I wanted to be a journalist. Or a novelist.

  She told me he would buy my opening line.

  We’ll see, I said. She didn’t sound too happy.

  A few days later, I called her back. I was feeling guilty, and as it turned out, one of my clients had gone into juice rehab (he’s fifteen and addicted to juicing). I had an opening that afternoon at four. Take it or leave it. Unfortunately for me, but fortunately for the purposes of this story and my future career as a Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist/PEN Award–winning novelist, the Turkles jumped on it.

  And on that day, at precisely four p.m., in an enormous, enormously cold, ultra-modern home filled with art and sculptures and absolutely not one speck of dust, nor carpets nor pillows nor comfortable chairs, I met Sloth.

  Young Turkle’s parents weren’t home. Dad was at work, and Mom . . . Mom was also at her job. Mirella, the El Salvadoran housekeeper/nanny, explained that Mrs. Turkle’s job was something called “appointments.”

  Mirella escorted me downstairs in a sleek steel, spotless elevator to the underground screening room. As we rode, we exchanged pleasantries in Spanish. She seemed pleased and almost relieved that I, the tutor, was Hispanic.

  The steel doors of the elevator opened and I was hit by a putrid, sickeningly sweet smell. Like body odor mixed with rotten fruit.

  I covered my nose and mouth while my eyes adjusted slowly to the dark.

  On a giant screen that dominated the giant cavelike room, dirty, bloodied soldiers were shooting and being shot by what appeared to be the undead.

  Here we go, I thought. I was beginning to sympathize with the undead, given my recent adventures in tutoring.

  A figure, a boy I took to be Timmy Turkle, was reclining on a sectional couch, the only one in the house, 3-D glasses glued to his head, hands attached to his video game controller. From what I could see, he appeared to be all limb and no torso, like an insect.

  Mirella called out his name; it was impossible to hear over the din of automatic weapons fire. She shouted his name again and again and finally reached over and shook him by the shoulder. Timmy shrugged her off and continued to shoot. The undead were having a bad day.

  “Maybe I should turn on the lights!” I shouted.
<
br />   “Should we wait for him to finish his game?” Mirella yelled.

  “No!” If I had learned one thing from my adventures, it was that the word no was due for a comeback.

  In fact, I thought as I searched for the lights, we should have a parade for the word no, have an annual No Day. A moment of silence for no. No could save humanity. No to war, no to poverty, no to video games . . .

  I flipped the light switch on (which is, incidentally, the reverse of no). Timmy made a high-pitched screech that sounded like a hundred nails on a chalkboard and whipped around to face us. What I could see of his expression, despite the cloak of the 3-D glasses, was fear, as though he were staring at ghosts rather than his lifelong babysitter and a short fourteen-year-old girl with dark braids. His skin was gray, and his body had no muscle tone; his skinny arms in his loose-fitting tank top looked like spaghetti (pasta, for those of you who don’t remember the glory days of spaghetti).

  “Mijo, this is Perry,” Mirella said, gently touching his shoulder. “She’s here to help you with your schoolwork.”

  Timmy didn’t bother taking off his 3-D glasses as he shifted and writhed and gave up trying to get off the couch to greet me. He then struggled to raise his hand to shake mine. When our hands finally met, I was horrified to see that his thumbs were the size of large turnips—they were thick and bulbous. A metallic sound came out of his body—his version of grunting a hello. I was scared that perhaps he was unable to form a sentence. I knew he was close to twelve or thirteen, but it was hard to tell what age he was, he appeared so wan.

  I looked at Timmy and thought of mushrooms. Gray mushrooms. How long had he been in here, in this cave? A shiver went down my spine. I was familiar with that shiver.

  I asked Mirella, in Spanish, “¿Cuántos años tienes?”

  “Catorce.”

  I knew my eyes bugged out as I raised my eyebrows. Fourteen! How was that possible? Mirella nodded, then shook her head, understanding my shock as her big brown eyes blinked back tears.

  “Mijo, take off your glasses,” Mirella told Timmy in a soft voice.

  “Can it wait?” He could speak! Sure, he sounded odd, but my heart skipped. I was cheered by this simple skill. I’d learned to expect the worst.