What We Take To The Grave

TW: This story contains themes of sexual abuse and substance abuse

Grandaddy was a 70 year-old rail-thin, one-legged chain-smoker born and raised in Red Bay, Alabama and one of the meanest people I’d ever met. He’d wake up each morning around 7am and hobble into the kitchen on his crutches. Then, he’d take a swig from his flask and chase it down with a pork rind or a Little Debbie cake, whatever was closest in reach. He never wore a prosthetic - just dirty blue jeans with the end tied off on the left leg. 

I knew his routines like this because I was stuck with him for the entire summer of 2004. This was 'cause I was too untalented for summer sports camp and still too young to stay home alone. Grandaddy wasn’t related to me by blood ‘cause his son was only my brother, John Luke’s, dad. John Luke’s dad was dead, and mine was somewhere in Florida, according to Mama. The point is, that summer was the first time I was seeing Grandaddy since 1998, when I was 5. I couldn't remember how he had lost his left leg, and I was way too scared to ask.

 Mama dropped me off each weekday at 6am sharp. I idled outside his old stone house by his half-collapsed tool shed, dodging bumblebees and trying to pass the time by making a game out of getting the stray cat to pay attention to me. Mama had lied to me, describing a summer full of adventures in the woods and as much sweet, juicy, ripe watermelon as my heart desired. I had envisioned a storybook country summer. I saw myself creating an elaborate collection of dried insects in a notebook, jumping in a cool lake after riding bareback on a wild horse, and eating watermelon directly from the rind as the sun’s paintbrush added to my freckle collection.

Instead, Grandaddy used me for free labor, and the closest thing to a wild horse was the stuffed dead deer in his living room. So, while my brother, John Luke, was at high school football camp, I was helping Grandaddy sell his stupid watermelons. 

I would lug the dusty watermelons out, one by one, to the back of his rusty maroon pickup truck. It sputtered, creaked, and moaned each time I unloaded one onto it. To pass the time, I made up a game in my head where I tried to guess how long the noise would last. If I got it right, I snuck into the kitchen and stole a Cosmic Brownie or a Zebra Cake. 

Grandaddy’s neighbor had a watermelon farm, and he helped sell some of them each day for a small profit. When the melons were finally all stacked in the truck bed, he instructed me to get in and hold them all down while he drove down our long driveway. I clung on to the melons for dear life and yelped each time a bump nearly sent me flying, praying until he finally reached the end. We were right by a busy highway, and I could feel the truck shake from the sheer speed of some of the cars passing by. 

“Faye, grab me a beer.” Grandaddy demanded of me, pointing toward the house. 

“I thought you wanted me to help you sell the melons,” I pointed out.

“Don’t back-talk me.”

His eyes looked so mean that I decided to obey. I trekked up the crooked, steep gravel driveway, sweat dripping down my back. When I reached the house, I mustered up enough bravery to enter the kitchen, which reeked of rotten eggs, old meat, and vodka. I stepped over a pile of an unknown green substance before opening his yellowing fridge. There must have been over 100 Coors Light cans and bottles mixed in with random food items: a tub of sour cream, a bottle of ketchup, open cans of Vienna sausages, and a paper plate full of old, soggy tater tots.

When I returned with a cold can, he snatched it from me and scowled. “When’s that no-good brother of yours gonna come around?” 

John Luke avoided Grandaddy like he was a brown recluse spider. When he picked me up each night at 6pm, he honked from the end of the driveway, even if it meant blocking off part of the narrow road. He was really strict about me not spending the night at Grandaddy’s. Said he got mean when he made his mixed drinks at night. I still remember him raising his voice at Mama when she brought it up at the dinner table that I would be staying with Grandaddy all summer ‘cause of her second job.

“She is not going there. He’s terrible. He’s a piece of shit,” protested John Luke.

“John Luke, that is your Grandaddy. Be sweet.”

I remember being surprised by the fear and anger that seemed to wash over John Luke’s face during that conversation. John Luke was the definition of a teddy bear and, yet, he’d do anything for the people he loved. He picked up the most terrifying bugs with paper towels and dumped them outside instead of smashing them. He cried when dogs died in movies. He held my hand when I was scared of the darkness outside and brought his girlfriend flowers that he picked on the side of the road for no reason. And he never, ever cussed. But Granddaddy turned a different gear inside of him, I guess. 

One Friday morning, Grandaddy didn’t wake up at the normal time. I was too scared to go into his room because I was scared of what I would find. When he finally came out, his belly was bigger than usual, and his eyes were yellow as lemons. He kept talking nonsense, too. Something about pineapples and casinos. Eventually, I called Mama, who told me to call 911. 

The ambulance took 90 minutes to get there, and when they finally did, Grandaddy was lying on the floor and not answering questions anymore. Two men loaded him on a stretcher and took him away, leaving me to sit on the grimy couch and watch TV while I waited for John Luke to get off from practice. I felt myself bubble up with excitement when I realized I could watch anything I wanted to. After 2 episodes of Sex Sent Me To The ER and 3 of Paternity Court, I was ready to go home. 

John Luke finally came to get me. He pulled up to the front door this time, and I ran as fast as my lanky legs could take me. I told him the whole story and described how sick Grandaddy looked. 

“I hope he dies and then rots in hell,” said John Luke. 

We sat in silence for five minutes. I didn’t know what to say to that. I didn’t recognize my big brother. 

“What did Grandaddy do to make you so mad?” I broke the silence.

“He’s a dirty old man with a sick brain. He doesn’t know boundaries. He doesn’t know how to keep his dirty, nasty hands to himself. He’s—“

“He’s what?” I urged him.

“Nothing. I’ve said too much. I’ve already said too much.” John Luke’s eyes were in such a trance. Tears were starting to gather in his eyes, and his jaw was trembling. I waved my hands in front of them, knocking him out of it. “Faye, it’s nothing. Let’s just go home.”

Looking out at the house that I spent that summer at from the comfort of John Luke’s truck, I sighed. Grandaddy had hurt John Luke; I knew that much. He had hurt him in a way that left a mark and made his inner light go dim.

The watermelon rinds in the grass made me nauseous now. Somehow, the green didn't blend in anymore with the tall grass. Instead, it stood out like a hard, cold truth that nobody wanted to acknowledge. The wind chimes of the neighbor that had brought me comfort made my ears ring. Those stupid watermelons. I never wanted to see one ever again.

Perspective is everything. I rolled up my window and turned my face away from his house. John Luke would take whatever happened to his grave; I knew that much. But a traitor of his was a traitor of mine. Dead or alive.