(you know how to deal with her best Ruth you know how to shut her up) George, on his way to the fridge to check the directions on one of Gramma's special salt-free dinners, stopped. Stopped cold. Where had that come from? That voice speaking inside his head?
Suddenly his belly and chest broke out in gooseflesh. He reached inside his shirt and touched one of his nipples. It was like a little pebble, and he took his finger away in a hurry.
Uncle George. His 'namesake uncle,' who worked for Sperry-Rand in New York. It had been his voice. He had said that when he and his family came up for Christmas two -- no, three -- years ago.
She's more dangerous now that she's senile. George, be quiet. The boys are around somewhere.
George stood by the refrigerator, one hand on the cold chrome handle, thinking, remembering, and looking out into the growing dark. Buddy hadn't been around that day. Buddy was already outside, because Buddy had wanted the good sled, that was why; they were going sliding on Joe Camber's hill and the other sled had a buckled runner. So Buddy was outside and here was George, hunting through the boot-and-sock box in the entryway, looking for a pair of heavy socks that matched, and was it his fault his mother and Uncle George were talking in the kitchen? George didn't think so. Was it George's fault that God hadn't struck him deaf, or, lacking the extremity of that measure, at least located the conversation elsewhere in the house? George didn't believe that, either. As his mother had pointed out on more than one occasion (usually after a glass of wine or two), God sometimes played dirty.
You know what I mean, Uncle George said.
His wife and his three girls had gone over to Gates Falls to do some last-minute Christmas shopping, and Uncle George was pretty much in the bag, just like the Drunk Man Who Had to Go to Jail. George could tell by the way his uncle slurred his words.
You remember what happened to Franklin when he crossed her.
George, be quiet, or I'll pour the rest of your beer right down the sink!
Well, she didn't really mean to do it. Her tongue just got away from her. Peritonitis --
George, shut up!
Maybe, George remembered thinking vaguely, God isn't the only one who plays dirty.
Now he broke the hold of these old memories and looked in the freezer and took out one of Gramma's dinners. Veal. With peas on the side. You had to preheat the oven and then bake it for forty minutes at 300 degrees. Easy. He was all set. The tea was ready on the stove if Gramma wanted that. He could make tea, or he could make dinner in short order if Gramma woke up and yelled for it. Tea or dinner, he was a regular two-gun Sam. Dr. Arlinder's number was on the board, in case of an emergency. Everything was cool. So what was he worried about?
He had never been left alone with Gramma, that was what he was worried about.
Send the boy to me, Ruth. Send him over here.
No. He's crying.
She's more dangerous now... you know what I mean.
We all lie to our children about Gramma.
