Grandpa and Frank

Twenty-Seven

Grandpa and Frank

By Janet Majerus

Copyright 2012 by Janet Majerus

Cover Copyright 2012 by Ginny Glass and Untreed Reads Publishing

The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

Previously published in print, 1976.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Also by Janet Majerus and Untreed Reads Publishing

The Best Laid Plans

Thicker Than Water

http://www.untreedreads.com

Grandpa and Frank

Janet Majerus

To Phil

Chapter One

GRANDPA had crapped in the cold-air register. I could hear Frank yelling all the way out in the garden where I was supposed to be picking pole beans for Aunt Martha.

God damn you, old man, Frank shrieked, how could you? Martha, Martha, where are you?

I had been expecting the explosion, because I had discovered Grandpa’s accident earlier. However, relations being what they were between Frank and me, I hadn’t said anything.

Why the cold-air register? Frank yelled. The whole damn house stinks.

Aunt Martha must have come in, because the yelling stopped. I squatted back on my heels, stirred the beans in the basket, waiting. There was going to be trouble now. I had told Grandpa to be careful what he did, but I guess when you are as old as Grandpa, you don’t worry so much about how you behave.

Things had been pretty calm the last week or so, but this was sure to start the fighting again. Actually, Grandpa and Frank had been at each other as long as I could remember. I had come here after my folks died in 1940, when I was five, and since I was twelve going on thirteen this summer, that made seven years of fighting I knew of for sure. Aunt Martha said they’d been at odds from the time Frank was born, killing Grandma on his way out. I guess that was why Grandpa never liked Frank. He might not have liked him anyway. Aunt Martha said Frank took after the Malcolm branch of the family. She said they were all a little contrary. It seemed to me that Grandpa must have had a bit of Malcolm blood in him too, because he could be mighty stubborn at times.

Most of the fights had to do with the farm, Frank insisting on doing one thing and Grandpa another. They usually ended with Grandpa saying it was his farm and it’d be done his way or not at all, and Frank’d stomp out. He’d let Frank win sometimes, but Frank was the sort that had to win all the time or it was no good.

Other times they seemed to fight just for the sake of fighting—the kind of fight where one person yells and then the other person yells and they both keep on yelling until they get tired and go about their business.

Things got complicated when Grandpa had his stroke in April. He’d been slowing down some anyway, but all of a sudden he was real bad. His whole left side quit working and he could only mumble. Doc Kincaid was so worried he had practically moved in with us.

Frank got pretty upset too. He had gone around with a long face, and there was a great deal of headshaking and clucking done over him. Reverend MacLean had offered a prayer for Grandpa at church one Sunday, and I had overheard folks talking about how hard Frank was taking Grandpa’s illness. He was taking it hard all right, but knowing Frank like I did, I was sure the reason Frank was upset was because Grandpa kept hanging on and refusing to pass. That was the thing about Frank, showing one face to the neighbors and another to Aunt Martha and me. And even Aunt Martha wouldn’t speak to his meanness; I guess she was too much like a mother to do that.

No sooner had Doc told us Grandpa was going to make it than Frank was in there yelling again. That was the problem.

Frank was still yelling, but Grandpa’s voice was so weak, all he could do was glare. When you’ve been a yeller, it’s not easy being satisfied with nothing but glaring.

As soon as Grandpa had started getting stronger, Aunt Martha gave me the job of reading the newspaper to him. I’d wait till the flag was down on the mailbox, go collect the letters and newspaper, and take them to Grandpa’s room.

He had the front room on the first floor, with a big window looking out on the porch. There was an old wooden swing there where Grandpa and I had spent many summer evenings. The other window looked toward the barnyards. When the wind was out of the north, that was closed.

The mailman came around ten, and by then Aunt Martha had usually put Grandpa through his exercises and gotten him cleaned up and shaved. She was real particular about people being clean. I’d stay with Grandpa until dinner to give Aunt Martha a chance to do some work.

Things went along pretty normal through early summer. Grandpa was getting his voice back and his wits about him pretty good, but he still liked having me read the newspaper out loud. I’d start at the upper left-hand corner of page one and read everything through the bottom right-hand corner of page eight, even the ads.

When I had first started reading the newspaper to Grandpa, his attention would wander and I could skip the really boring stories. However, I knew he was getting better when one day in the middle of June he caught me trying to skip a stupid story on the remodeling at the manse. I mean, who cares what color the preacher’s kitchen is painted? From then on I couldn’t skip anything, because he always caught me.

Grandpa’s favorite part of the paper was the editorial page, and especially the letters to the editor. The letters he got the biggest kick out of were from a Miss Irene Pilcher of Peoria. It seems Miss Irene Pilcher of Peoria was being tormented by a person or persons unknown. This person or persons kept leaving peculiar things in places in and around her home. She had at least one letter a week, and in very proper language she managed to describe her problems most clearly.

Grandpa thought the whole affair hysterically funny and made me reread the letters until I was sick of Miss Irene Pilcher of Peoria and her problem. He even had me clip the letters, and when the paper saw fit to comment editorially on the situation, I thought he was going to fall out of bed he laughed so hard.

Grandpa, how can you think that is funny? I asked.

But he would just go on giggling and patting the old cigar box where he kept the clippings.

As I look back I guess I should have known trouble was brewing because everything was mixed up, but I had problems of my own, and I have to admit that I wasn’t paying the close attention I should have.

*

Sarah!

I jumped, and as Frank came out the back door, I began to pick beans furiously.

Sarah! he yelled again. I considered hiding, but that didn’t seem too smart at the moment.

I’m out here picking pole beans like Aunt Martha told me, I shouted back.

Forget the damned beans and get in here.

I collected the beans and my courage and headed for the house.

Aunt Martha was sitting at the kitchen table. Her eyes were red and she kept blotting them with the hem of her apron.

Sit down, Sarah, Frank ordered.

I slid onto one of the tall wooden chairs and concentrated on the checks in the oilcloth. I knew from times past it was smart to give Frank his head.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see down the hallway to Grandpa’s room. The door was closed, but I was sure he was listening as hard as he could.

Okay, Sarah. What do you know about this stunt your grandpa has pulled? Frank demanded.

Aunt Martha started to cry again. Her face got pinched and her shoulders shook as she tried to hold the tears in.

Dammit, woman, stop your sniveling, Frank yelled. I don’t know why you’re crying. I’m the one who had to clean up after that crazy old man. He jabbed his finger at me. Now you answer me, Sarah.

My mind raced through possible answers. I even considered a moving plea for compassion. Reverend MacLean had given a beautiful sermon on that last Sunday. But Frank did not appear ready for compassion, so I just shrugged my shoulders.

The sugar bowl leaped as Frank smashed his fist on the table.

I’ve had it! he yelled. Me, it’s always me who has to put up with the crap. Frankie’ll do it. Frankie doesn’t mind. Like hell I don’t mind! I’m sick and tired of being everybody’s doormat.

Frank stood by the doorway glaring at us. His face had turned the funny shade of purplish red it always did when he got really mad. I concentrated even harder on the checks and made careful squares with my thumbnail.

All my life it’s been Frankie do this, Frankie do that. You don’t mind waiting till your brother and sister have sucked the egg dry, do you, Frankie? After all, you’re the baby of the family, so tough shit, Frankie.

Frank was pacing back and forth, his steps keeping time with the huge vein in his forehead.

Look at me. I’ve got nothing, he screamed. "Clara gets to go to college and what does she do with her fine education? Marries that smart-assed Jew doctor from Chicago. And sweet Georgie Junior: he gets sent to law school. He’s supposed to save the world and what’s he do? Gets himself killed and leaves me his brat to raise.

"And how about Frankie? Sorry, Frankie, there’s no money left for you. It’s all been used up by Clara and George Junior and the Depression. Besides, someone’s got to take care of the farm and Dad.

"I’ve been stuck in this hole all my life doing everyone else’s dirty work. I didn’t even get to fight in the war. I had to spend five years wiping asses and having people look down their noses at me because even the government said I had to stay on this goddamned farm.

Well, no more. No more ‘Too bad, Frankie.’ I deserve something and I’m going to get it. That old man’s gone too far now. If I have to stay here, this is damn well going to be my farm, and I don’t have to put up with him anymore. This is going to be my house, and I’m moving him out of it. He’s going to the County Home with the rest of the loonies. I mean it this time. Come Labor Day, I’m moving him out.

He glared at Aunt Martha and me and then lunged down the hall toward Grandpa’s room.

Did you hear that, old man? I’m sending you to the County Home.

Frank’s face was covered with sweat when he crashed back into the kitchen. I slid down in my chair as he started screaming at me.

You’re always helping him, you conniving little brat. Well, you’re going to learn too. From now on, I’m in charge. This is going to be my farm and no one will do anything unless I say so!

The dishes in the pantry clattered as he slammed the back door. Aunt Martha buried her face in her apron, and the checks blurred in front of my eyes.

Chapter Two

A HEAVY silence settled on the house. There was not a sound from Grandpa’s room. He liked to pretend he was hard of hearing sometimes, but I was sure he had heard every word.

Aunt Martha wiped her eyes and smoothed down her apron.

Oh, God, I thought, here comes stage three.

Perhaps I should explain that.

Stage one was what I call The Incident. Incidents came in many shapes, varying from an empty cream pitcher on the table to one of Grandpa’s doings, like two weeks ago when he got the ants in his room.

Stage two was The Frank Reaction. Stage two usually had five parts: the fist smashing, the screaming, the stomping (which was accompanied by the red face and wild threats), Sarah’s involvement, and the exit.

Stage three was The Aunt Martha Excuse. (I guess this was supposed to create sympathy for Frank.) He works so hard, he has too much responsibility, we have to be patient with him, and on and on and on.

Stage three was on its way, and I decided if I listened to that today, I would throw up. Don’t get me wrong, I love Aunt Martha. She’s Grandpa’s sister and she tries hard to keep peace, but I could not sit still any longer.

I jumped out of my chair. Aunt Martha, I’ve got to get those beans finished before it gets too hot.

I didn’t wait for an answer from her. I ran out of the house and in my hurry forgot the crack in the step, the second one from the bottom.

That was when I started to cry. I had fallen, my overalls were torn, my hand was bleeding, and Frank had said he was going to put Grandpa in the County Home. Picking myself up, I went back to the beans, but to make matters worse, I had forgotten to close the gate and the chickens had gotten into the garden.

There were scratching, pecking chickens everywhere. I screamed and waved my arms. I must have really sounded fierce, because most of them headed for the gate. This was most unusual, because chickens are the dumbest animals in the world and never do what they should. They must have realized I would have gladly wrung their stupid necks because they got out fast.

By the time I got the garden cleared, I had stopped crying. I had not cried for a long time, and my cheeks felt stiff where the tears had dried. I headed back toward the pole beans and slowly began to pick the pods off the vines.

I tried not to think about what Frank had said he would do, but it would not go away. Since Grandpa had had his stroke and started acting funny, Frank had threatened to send him away several times. But then he’d calm down and not mention it. Frank had been different today. It had been kind of like watching the pus squirt out of a boil that has been festering for a long time, and I was scared.

Suddenly I knew why I was scared. Frank had gone through his stages all right—screams, threats, the whole thing—but with one big difference. He had never been definite before. It had always been I’ll kill you someday or I’m leaving someday or I’m going to put you away someday. Today he had said, Come Labor Day I’m moving him out. I was convinced he meant it this time. He must have already made the arrangements.

It made me sick even to think about Grandpa in the County Home. We passed it every time we went into Fellsburg. It was an ugly red-brick building set back from the hard road. When the weather was nice you could see some of the old people sitting outside on the wooden benches staring at the road. They never seemed to move, and I often thought one of them could die and no one would notice until suppertime.

I had to do something. It would kill Grandpa to be sent there.

Sarah, come on in the house, Aunt Martha called out the back door. The mail’s here.

As I passed through the kitchen to Grandpa’s room carrying the mail, I could not believe it. Everything looked just like it should. Aunt Martha was sitting at the