Mac, p.6
MAC, page 6
After I gave Grandpa a kiss on his forehead and told him I loved him, I left to find Dad. He was seated at the dining room table drinking coffee, still dressed in his pajamas and robe. Wisps of uncombed hair clung to his forehead. He appeared to be staring out the window, into the early morning darkness.
I wondered if Mrs. Dearny somehow knew what had happened at our house and was on her porch watching us.
It startled Dad when I yanked on the chair next to him and plopped down onto it.
“What did you do to Grandpa?” I said. Fury fueled my words.
It was the first time I’d seen my father look afraid of me.
“Noth… noth… nothing,” he stammered.
“Did you poison him?” I asked.
“What?! N… n… no.” He shook his head. “Why would you say that about me?”
I had no skills for determining a person’s truthfulness. Something in his voice made me sense he was lying and scared. Of being caught? I wondered. Unless he was already halfway to drunk, which I thought not, something was off.
“I know you did something to him and I promise you I will figure it out.” Our eyes were locked, like two male wolves, from rival packs waiting for the first one to move.
Dad straightened his posture, squared his shoulders, and said forcefully, “If you want to know what happened to your Grandpa, then you should speak to your mother,” he blurted out, “I’m tired of you accusing me. I might be a drunk, but I’m not a killer.”
Had it not been for the two vehicles parking in front of our home—a sheriff’s deputy and an ambulance—it’s hard to say what I would have done to my father. Tossing out an accusation Mom might have had something to do with Grandpa’s death, was frankly ludicrous. He was trying to deflect suspicion. Wasn’t he?
I opened the front door for the deputy, and the paramedic then showed them to Grandpa’s bedroom.
I returned to the dining room and came within an inch from my dad’s face, “Mom—Did—Not—Hurt—Grandpa.”
“Son, I know you’re upset, but…” he started to deny it.
My hand instinctively went up. “STOP!” I said, way too loud. Lowering my voice to continue, I added, “Stop trying to shift the conversation.” I sounded more like him than I knew I could.
“I don’t care what you think about me,” he said, “But I didn’t hurt your grandfather.”
“Did Grandpa have a life insurance policy?” I asked.
“Enough, already.” He stood, straightened his robe, adjusted his belt and left the dining room in a huff.
Now it was my turn to stare out the window, into the early morning darkness.
Bobby arrived, his disheveled hair and unshaved face testament to how much he cared for Maggie. He must have left his house as soon as his Mom woke him.
He wrapped his long arms around me, “I’m real sorry about your Grandpa.”
“Thanks, bro.” I knew his heart needed to be with Maggie. “She’s in her bedroom,” I pointed down the hall.
Chapter 13
The ambulance drove away, with Grandpa, sometime around three this morning. I felt like I hadn’t slept at all. The house was quiet when I opened my bedroom door and listened. It was after eight and Mom wasn’t in the kitchen.
Stepping into the hallway, I tiptoed to the kitchen and wrote Mom a note on the little chalkboard she had, to let her know I was at Bobby’s.
My stomach growled loudly, reminding me I hadn’t eaten dinner last night. The restaurant had been super busy, and there was no time to eat anything. When I got home, all I wanted was sleep.
Eight o’clock on a Sunday felt a little too early to arrive at Bobby’s house, so I stopped to purchase a fast-food breakfast sandwich and then parked at the ball field, where I once played little league baseball.
As I sat on a picnic table, eating, I watched coaches and kids showing up to prepare for a game. I remembered Grandpa and Grandma sitting on the sidelines watching me play. I don’t recall, at the time, thinking it was weird that Dad wasn’t at the games. With Grandpa there, I had all the support a kid could want. Grandpa always yelled praise and encouragement every time I was at bat or a ball was headed in my direction.
When a game was over, they were always waiting, with open arms, to hug me and tell me what a great boy I was. Grandpa loved to tell us about when he played baseball on a farm-league and his dreams to play in the big leagues. I hung out at the ball field until close to nine.
On my way out of town, I decided to stop at Handley’s, the small coffee shop that had the best cinnamon rolls in Brookfield.
The Donaldson’s live a mile east of town. They had a small ranch, fruit trees, cows, goats, chickens, the new donkey, Rhubarb, and a gigantic barn filled with tools and machinery.
Bobby and I have spent many hours in his dad’s barn. Life seemed normal at their house. Everyone smiled and laughed; there wasn’t a dark cloud overhead and the need to watch what you said.
The Chevelle rumbled down the Donaldson’s dirt road, creating a dust cloud behind. Before I parked the car, Bobby sauntered out the front door waving at me. It seemed strange to me that it felt more like home, at Bobby’s, than it did at my own home. Bobby’s family would provide the comfort I desperately needed.
“How’re you doing?” He hugged me.
“It hasn’t sunk in still. Plus, I’m beyond angry at my dad and exhausted. It was a long night,” I said.
Bobby nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I understand. I told Dad what you wanted to talk to him about,” he said, “What’s in the Handley’s box?”
“You know what it is,” I teased.
He grabbed the box from my hand and ran ahead into the house. Their blind, black Labrador, Pepper, greeted me with her usual sniff around my legs and feet to determine who I was. Once she recognized my scent, her tail wagged vigorously, and she did her usual dance— wanting to jump up but knowing she wasn’t allowed. Pepper had been part of the Donaldson family for as long as I’d known Bobby. I noticed her muzzle had turned quite gray.
Bobby’s parents were seated at their kitchen table drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. When his Dad saw the Handley’s box, his eyes lit up.
“You’re welcome to stop by every Sunday morning Mac,” Mr. Donaldson said.
I smiled.
“We’re so sorry about your Grandpa. Sit down,” he added.
Before I sat, Mrs. Donaldson stood up and hugged me. “I’m sorry, Mac.”
“Thank you,” I managed to say. Emotion choked the words in my throat.
They pushed the newspaper to the side, clearing a space on the table for plates.
“Now, tell me what it is you think your Dad did,” Mr. Donaldson said.
While we ate cinnamon rolls, I told Bobby’s parents about Dad’s recent peculiar behavior, searching for something in the garage and Grandpa’s sudden turn for the worst. There were Grandpa’s stomach aches, the time Dad tried to steer Grandpa toward the marbles to cause him to slip, him suddenly vomiting, and his mumbling gibberish. Because it was without merit, I withheld the implication Dad had made against Mom.
Bobby’s dad wrote some notes in a notebook. He wanted to know how old Grandpa was, what he’d been diagnosed with and when, as well as how long he’d lived with us. And then, he looked at me with sad eyes. “I know you’re hurting something fierce about your Grandpa’s passing. I’ll talk with my boss about your concerns. But from what you’ve said, there doesn’t seem to be anything solid to indicate a crime. Sometimes it’s hard to look beyond the grief, to see a clear picture and emotions can cloud judgment. Keep your eyes and ears open and try to remain objective.”
My voice didn’t want to function, “Thank you,” I forced, from my raw throat, while holding back my tears.
Bobby patted my back. “Don’t give up. Dad will talk to his boss,” he said, “Let’s go to your place and pick up some stuff and then you can stay here tonight.”
His Mom nodded approvingly.
On the way home, I asked Bobby to promise not to tell Maggie my suspicions about Dad hurting Grandpa. He agreed. It was around eleven when we parked at the curb in front of the house.
Grandpa’s bed was in the living room, and his belongings cluttered the hallway. Noises were coming from his bedroom. Bobby made a beeline to Maggie’s bedroom, as I walked into Grandpa’s. Dad was grunting and groaning, moving a tall dresser.
“Oh good, you’re home,” he said when he saw me, “Help me move this.”
“Why are you moving his stuff out?” I asked.
“Because he’s gone and I want my bedroom back,” he said a little too snotty-like.
“Grab hold of the end.” He nodded his head toward the opposite side from him.
“Why are you in such a damn rush to move his stuff out?” I questioned.
“What’s the point in waiting? He’s not coming back, is he?”
“Respect! How about showing him some respect. He’s barely been dead for twelve hours,” I shouted, “Where’s Mom?”
“How the hell should I know? I’ve been in here busting my ass, with no assistance. Now grab the other end,” he ordered me.
My emotions moved me into the room and to within inches of his face. He leaned back, a little fearfully.
My voice was low and controlled, “You killed Grandpa. I know you did and I’m determined to prove it.”
He stared at me and then a smug look washed over his face. “If you’re not going to help me, then get out,” and then he plowed his shoulder into the dresser, like a linebacker on a football team.
“Go fuck yourself!” I spat out, as I left.
Maggie’s eyes were bugged out looking at me as I opened her door. She waved me inside. “You didn’t just tell Dad to go fuck himself, did you?” she asked.
Then I noticed she had an empty water glass in her hand and had been listening at the wall. Bobby stuck his hand out for a high-five.
“Where’s Mom?” I asked.
She’s been in her bedroom all morning. When I checked on her, she said she needed time alone.
“How long has he been at it?” I jabbed my thumb toward Grandpa’s bedroom.
“All morning. When he found out you weren’t here, he tried to con me into helping him. I said I had menstrual cramps,” she said, with a sly smile.
“I’m staying at Bobby’s tonight,” I said.
Maggie turned her pouty face toward Bobby.
As I left Maggie and Bobby, to get some stuff, I heard him say, “What? You can’t stay at my house.”
I knocked lightly on Mom’s bedroom door before I opened it. She lay on the bed, facing away from the door, with the drapes drawn.
“Mom,” I whispered.
She looked at me with the saddest, tear-stained face I’d ever seen.
“Are you going to be alright?” I asked.
“Yes,” her raspy voice squeaked out.
I couldn’t bring myself to tell her what I thought about Grandpa’s death. “I’m going to stay at Bobby’s. I’ll be home tomorrow, after school.”
She nodded and rolled away from me.
Chapter 14
Bobby and I talked most of the evening last night. I was struggling to accept Grandpa was gone. We had made a date to do some research at the library.
As Bobby walked up to the walkway, Maggie bolted from her bedroom and straight out the front door. She apparently could hear his truck approach the house even when she was in her room listening to music.
“Mom, Bobby and I are going to the library to do research for an assignment,” I said.
“Can I go with you?” Maggie said. Her eyes twinkled.
Bobby jumped in before I said something which might hurt her feelings. He knew me well. “Not tonight baby, we need some ‘guy’ time.”
Maggie gave Bobby an inquisitive look.
Bobby wanted a few minutes outside with Maggie.
I said to Mom, “See you later. I won’t be too late.” She nodded but didn’t say anything. In fact, she hadn’t said much since she woke me yesterday to tell me Grandpa had died. For everyone, except Dad, the air in the house was heavy with grief.
When I went outside, Maggie was sitting in the front passenger seat. The truck door was wide open.
“Out, Sis,” I ordered, thrusting my thumb to my right.
Bobby leaned over to kiss her cheek.
Maggie’s body language indicated she wasn’t pleased we were leaving her out. She can be overly dramatic at times.
Bobby pulled the truck away from the curb.
“What did your dad say? Did he have any ideas?” I quickly asked him.
He said he knows of two household products that have been used to poison someone, salt, and antifreeze. He’s not worked any cases with either one, though.”
“Salt? Hmmm. Antifreeze might make sense. He’s been rooting around in the garage looking for something. When I asked him what he was doing, he became agitated and argumentative,” I offered.
The library was on Washington Street, near the government buildings. Bobby parked his truck at the far end of the parking lot. “The library closes at nine o’clock,” he said as we walked toward the entrance.
“How do you know what time they close?” I asked.
“Maggie told me,” he replied.
“How would she… never mind.” I shook my head and smiled to myself. Book smart Maggie.
Surprisingly, there were quite a few people in the library. Some were reading. Some appeared to be studying. We went to the card catalog files. “Did your dad suggest what we should specifically research?” I asked.
He pulled a crumpled paper from his pocket and smoothed it out.
“You look up ‘salt poisoning.’ I’ll look up ‘ethylene glycol poisoning,’” he read from his piece of paper.
I looked around and then immediately felt frustrated. “I should have brought pencils and paper to make notes.” I didn’t see any scraps of paper for idiots like me to use.
“Go ask the girl at the counter if we can buy something. She’s cute, maybe she’s single,” Bobby said, with a wink.
I returned with paper scraps and two stubby pencils. “She didn’t have anything for sale. I must have looked pathetic, so she gave me this stuff.”
We jotted down book titles which might be helpful, and then we went on the hunt. With our arms filled with books, we met back at a large rectangular table. An older man sat at the other end. His head hung low. He looked up, over his glasses, at us and then returned his attention to his book. We fell into a focused, quiet, reading time, for about thirty minutes.
“What symptoms did your Grandpa have?” Bobby whispered to me.
“He slept a lot, he was confused, he didn’t eat much, and when he did eat his stomach got upset,” I whispered back, “He also vomited, with no prior warning, in the living room two weeks ago. It surprised him, as much as it did the rest of us.”
“Those are all symptoms of antifreeze poisoning,” he replied.
“They’re also symptoms of salt poisoning, as well,” I noted.
The man at our table glared at us over his glasses.
“We have thirty more minutes before they close. Let’s mark the pages we want to make copies of,” Bobby suggested.
“Great plan,” I answered and patted him on the back.
We tore the scraps of paper into tiny strips to use as bookmarks.
Suddenly the man at our table abruptly closed his book, gave us one more, stern look over his glasses and walked away.
“How old was your Grandpa?” Bobby asked.
“Seventy-four. Why?”
“Have you considered his symptoms might be just a combination of his age and his Alzheimer’s?” Bobby offered.
“I get that his age could explain a lot on its own and, yes, the Alzheimer’s could contribute. He forgot stuff, and he was confused a lot, but the excessive sleeping and stomach issues were new.”
A librarian walked through the library announcing they would be closing in fifteen minutes.
I grabbed the books we’d marked and made the copies which seemed applicable, while Bobby took the remaining books back to the shelves where we’d found them.
When I’d finished making copies, the cute library girl walked toward me and asked if she could re-shelve the books for me. I accepted her offer and thanked her before we left.
As Bobby and I were crossing the parking lot to his truck, he asked, “Did you get her phone number?”
“Who’s phone number?” I replied.
“The cute library girl. I saw her talking with you at the copy machine,” he chuckled.
“No. She asked if I was done with the books so she could put them away,” I said.
“Sometimes you can be so dumb,” he laughed, as he shook his head.
“I can’t think about stuff like dating right now,” I answered, with a little irritation in my voice. “There was another weird thing with Grandpa, remember when you picked up Maggie for your movie date, and Grandpa and Dad were looking at Dad’s marbles?”
“Yeah. And, hey, I’m sorry about the cute girl thing, it was insensitive.”
“It’s okay. You and Maggie went outside, while Mom and Dad helped Grandpa to his bedroom. Grandpa had a glass of lemonade at the table he hadn’t drunk. So I was going to drink it, but as I reached for the glass, Dad snatched it from my hand and told me to get my own. He took it to Grandpa’s room.”
“Doesn’t sound so weird. Your dad’s a dick, after all,” Bobby noted.
I thought about the scene for a second or two while watching people cross at the intersection crosswalk. “It was the way he grabbed it from my hands like he didn’t want me to drink it. I could have poured Grandpa another glass when he wanted one,” I added.
“Do you want me to say something more to my dad?” Bobby asked.
“No, not yet. Can you believe we’re graduating on Thursday?”
Bobby stuck out his hand for a high five. “And my first day at the Sheriff’s Academy is two weeks from today.” He shook his head. “I don’t know, it’s weird. Shouldn’t we feel like adults now?”
“You better feel like an adult, you’ll be a sheriff’s deputy soon, wielding a gun and arresting people. Promise me you’ll be on the watch for Dad’s Impala.”
