When Grampa Pulls Out His Bible

           It always seems to be a Saturday night when we lower our guards and slip up.

The polite, formality that exists throughout our dinner has been persevered and the kitchen cleanup is behind us, when we gather as a family around the television.

           We channel surf between old movies and the Saturday night hockey game. MY father is always in control of the remote control.

           As the channel stalls for several minutes on the hockey game, my father curses loud and long, spewing lude comments at his beloved but floundering hockey team. His swear words have just escaped from his lips when my head spins towards him in disbelief. He’s done it again.

I watch as my father’s hands quickly clamp against his mouth trying desperately to capture the words that are already on their way towards the wax filters of Grampa’s new hearing aids.

           I hear Grampa’s knees creak as he gets up from his rocking chair and limps towards the bookshelf. He doesn’t look at Dad, not yet. He reaches up and pulls his Bible from the shelf.

           We all know what is coming next.

           Grampa goes back to his chair and starts flipping through the pages of his Bible. He coughs to clear his throat.

           “Deuteronomy 5,” he says. “Verse 11.” He turns his head and glares at my father. “The Lord says, ‘do not take my name in vain.’” He doesn’t need to read the lines. He knows them by heart.

           My father, guilty as charged, points the controller at the television and switches to the movie channel. He is unable to meet Grampa’s stare down. He should have known better.

           Grampa has lived with us since my Grandma, my Mother’s mother, passed away several years ago. We have all struggled to adapt to his presence as he tries to force his strict rules of conduct upon everyone in our home.

My parents are so embarrassed about his eccentric rants that they have tried to keep his presence a secret throughout the neighbourhood. He’s not a captive, not really. It’s just that our neighbours are not the clean-living kind that he would expect of people, so for everyone’s benefit and, as we say, even to help control Grampa’s stress, we keep him contained within our home. Mom has us all sworn to secrecy to never ever say a word about this even right down through our childrens' children generation.

           I imagine Grampa’s face is now red with rage as he closes his Bible. Mom, Dad and I sit in silence and watch the television. I’m certain his pulse is pounding in his neck, but I’m not going to look his way to check.

           On our television, a very young and studly Robert Redford, The Sundance Kid, with his blonde hair all tussled, is in the process of wrestling Katherine Ross out of her bodice armour. Mother interrupts the clicking of her knitting needles and closely watches the moves of The Sundance Kid. Her cheeks are flushed red, she sighs. I hear her moan. Oops.

           My mouth drops open again as this time I spin my head to look over at my mother. Out of the corner of my eye I see Grampa quickly flipping through his Bible pages. He gets to the New Testament, the gospel according to Matthew.

           “Ah hem,” he clears his throat. He taps his finger on the opened page and then looks at his daughter.

           “Oh sinful daughter,” he says. “Matthew 5, verse 27. The Lord tells us that if you so much as look at a man and want to possess him physically, then you are committing adultery in your heart.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Shame on you, Child. Your mother would be appalled.”

           Mom’s chin tucks towards her clavicle as though she is a scolded young child. Her eyes stare down at a single ceramic tile on the floor.

           My father clicks off the television and reaches for the Saturday newspaper. It’s the only option left for him tonight.

           My fifteen-year-old brother, meanwhile, sits on the floor. His legs are folded one beneath the other. He is a wannabe musician. He is neither a sports fan nor a movie buff. Tonight his earbuds are planted snuggly inside his ear cavities. His head is bobbing. His fingers are drumming maniacally against his thighs. He is in a world of his own.

He listening to rap music and is unaware how loudly he is singing. He spews out lyrics that are so crude and so obscene that even my father blushes. My mother and I cringe.

           We all hold our breath.

Grampa opens his Bible once more. He flips through the pages quickly and anxiously as my brother continues to sing on. The rapid fluttering of the Bible pages looks like humming bird wings.

I hear Grampa’s voice clearly over the noise of my brother’s voice. ‘Rap…rap…rap’ he repeats. He knows all about rapture but can’t find anything in his Bible that might denounce rap music. He keeps searching as the beat goes on.

           There is a distinct solid thud as he suddenly closes his Bible. He struggles to get out of his chair and he limps towards the bookshelf. He reaches up grimacing as his arthritis kicks in and he slides his Bible back into its slot. He stares down at my brother and turns towards the door. He pulls his hearing aids from both his ears and wobbles out of the room. I can’t be sure but I think he might have cussed as he left.

#         #         #

           Grampa passed away a year and a half ago. He went peacefully on a Saturday night as the family sat around the quiet family room, all on our best behaviour, doing nothing, being bored and counting the hours until bedtime.. Grampa’s Bible slipped from his lap onto the floor and that was it.

           My brother now works a synthesizer for a local punk rock band and is never home on weekends. My father has given up watching his losing hockey team and spends his Saturday nights doing the weekend crossword puzzle. My mother keeps her thoughts cleansed and restricts her attention solely to her knitting patterns.

           I have come of age. I now spend my Saturday nights sitting in our family room with my folks but I am totally engrossed in my sexually explicit teenage romance novels. I disguise the book covers. Periodically, when my guilt takes over, I raise my head to make sure my parents are not checking in on me and when I do, I always see Grampa’s Bible staring right at me from its spot on the bookshelf. It is like he is spying on me. I get so flustered and embarrassed that I am unable to read on.