My Great-grandfather Turns 12 Today (2 page)

I wondered if he would even be awake for any of it.

“Grandpa told me Great-grandpa wants to talk to you,” Dad said to me.

“Gee, that’ll be fun,” Robert said and then wrapped his lips around his teeth and pretended he was trying to talk but he didn’t have any teeth.

“Robert!” Mom said and he shut up. Then she went to the kitchen to get my birthday cake, some bags of chips, and some potato salad; and Dad, David, and Sarah headed for the car.

Robert gave me his “gummy” face again and whispered, “Probably wants to give you a great, big birthday kiss.”

Chapter 2

Feet on the Hump, Chump

I got the hump. Boy, what a surprise. Here I was, twelve years old, and I still got stuck sitting in the middle of the back seat. That’s always been my spot, just because I’m the third child in the family.

Even with David driving, I kept my same spot. He moved up front, Dad moved over to Mom’s place in the front and Mom moved back to David’s.

David always got a window.

Robert always got a window.

Sarah always sat up front in the middle and messed around with the radio.

I always got the hump.

“Move,” Robert hissed at me when we were all in the car. He was to my left and he gave my foot a shove with his foot.

“You move,” I said.

“What’s the problem?” Dad turned around and asked us.

This was not good. With David driving, Dad was free to turn all the way around and get involved in anything that was going on in the back seat. Dad was free to get
very
involved.

“Boys,” Mom said softly.

“Tell him to keep his feet out in front of him,” Robert said. “He had his foot way over here.” He kicked the door.

“I did not. I . . . ”

“Keep your feet in front of you,” Dad said.

“Keep your feet on the hump, chump,” Robert said.

“Robert, stop that,” Mom said. I was glad to see at least she was on my side. “Michael, keep your feet in front of you.”

“The freeway?” David asked, not paying any attention to the rest of us.

“What?” Dad turned back around.

“I should take the freeway?”

How many times had we been to Fair Brook? Had we ever not taken the freeway?

“Sure, it’ll be fine,” Dad said and patted him on the shoulder.

What did he mean “it’ll be fine”? Why wouldn’t it be fine? What was wrong with driving on the freeway?

Nothing.

So what was wrong with David driving on . . . ?

David
driving on . . . !

“Are you sure, John?” my mom asked my dad. “He hasn’t had a lot of experience.”

“You learn by doing,” Dad answered.

This was great. And in the meantime, my big brother would get us all killed.

We live in a suburb with a bunch of houses that all pretty much look the same because they were all built at the same time by the same construction company. They’re nice, but not fancy or anything.

Fair Brook is in a neighboring suburb that’s a little older and little more run down. To get there you go out to the freeway, hop on, drive for half an hour or so, and then hop off. It’s no sweat.

It was no sweat until today. Today it was still raining pretty hard, there was an occasional flash of lightning and roll of thunder, and my big brother—who had had his driver’s license exactly two weeks—was going to get us all killed.

“You think we could go any slower?” Robert asked David.

“Shut up,” David said.

“I mean, we’re supposed to be there for lunch not dinner, right?”

“Robert,” Dad said but he didn’t take his eyes off David. Why didn’t he take his eyes off David?

“He’s driving like an old lady,” Robert whined. “He’s driving like Mom.”

I almost laughed out loud. Not because what he said was funny but because what he said was sure to get him in trouble. I didn’t think calling Mom an old lady was a good idea.

She is, of course. All moms are. But she isn’t a
really
old lady like Grandma or Great-aunt Helen or Great-great-aunt Lauretta.

“Robert,” Dad said and my brother mumbled “Sorry” and turned and looked out the window. That was a smart move on his part.

It had taken me a while to figure out all this “great” relations stuff but I thought I had it down now. It works like this:

When it comes to grandparents, your grandparents’ parents are your great-grandparents. My great-grandfather—the other birthday boy—is my grandfather’s father.

When it comes to aunts and uncles, your grandparents’ brothers and sisters are your great-uncles and great-aunts. And your great-grandparents’ brothers and sisters are your great-great-uncles and great-great-aunts.

Don’t ask me why. I didn’t invent this stuff.

So Great-grandpa’s sister Lauretta was my great-great-aunt.

At least, I was pretty sure that was how it worked. I decided to test myself. “Aunt Carol is your sister, huh, Dad?” I asked.

“Uh huh.”

“And Great-aunt Helen is Grandpa’s sister.”

“Uh huh. You got your lights on?”

What?

“Yeah,” David said.

“And Great-great-aunt Lauretta is Great-grandpa’s sister,” I said.

No one said anything.

“Dad?” I asked.

“What?”

“Great-great-aunt Lauretta is Great-grandpa’s sister.”

“What?”

“She is, huh?”

“Right. His baby sister.”

“Baby”? She was this little, old, old lady who was all wrinkles and was so bent over she looked like a question mark.

“How much younger is Lauretta than Charles?” Mom asked Dad.

“What?” he said. “I don’t know. Five years. Eight? I forget.”

Gee, so she’s only ninety-two?

“And they used to live on a farm right over there,” Robert said, tapping the window. “You tell us this same stuff every time we go out to that place. We already know it. And it’s boring.”

“The Farrell farm!” Sarah said. “I’m a Farrell.”

“We’re all Farrells,” Robert said.

“So why don’t we live on our farm?” she asked.

“The farm got sold a long time ago,” Dad said.

“How come?” Sarah asked.

“I forget. Something happened. Did you bring that pocket knife?”

That last question was to me.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Great-grandpa said he wants to see it,” Dad said.

“He what?” Robert asked.

“Who told him I was getting a knife?” I asked but nobody answered me. They were all distracted by a huge truck that was speeding right by us and spraying us with even more water. David reached down and switched the windshield wipers to “high” and nobody said anything. I was pretty sure Mom was praying.

Chapter 3

A LOUD Welcome

We weren’t all killed. In fact, by the time we finally got to Fair Brook Nursing Home and Convalescent Center the rain had let up some. It was a good thing because we had an awful lot of junk to bring in from the car. The trunk was loaded with paper plates and napkins and cups, bags of chips, a big bowl of potato salad and—most important—my cake and presents.

The bad part about having my birthday the same day as Great-grandpa’s was that I never got it to myself. The good part was a lot of relatives were usually around on that day and they felt like they had to give me at least a little something.

For the past couple of years it had been money. Nobody gave me a lot of money but a lot of people gave me a little money so it was okay.

That’s more than I can say for Fair Brook. It was a one-story brick building that had hallways spreading out every which way. Walking around inside it felt a lot like being swallowed by a spider.

“Hold your breath,” Robert whispered to me and he took a couple of deep breaths and headed for the main door. It was supposed to be a joke. Fair Brook didn’t smell really great inside.

We all had stuff to carry and we all knew where to go, inside the main reception area and down the hall and to the right. That was where the sitting room was. It was like a big recreation room. We knew that much because we had been coming here every Christmas and birthday for as far back as I could remember.

I mean every Christmas and
my
birthdays.

Probably about one hundred fifty people live at Fair Brook. Most of them live in a room with one other person and all of them are either so sick or so old they can’t take care of themselves too well.

“WHO’S THIS PRETTY GIRL?”

We were just in the front door when an old lady started yelling. We knew she was talking to Mom.

“HELLO, MISS CRENSHAW,” Mom yelled back and went over to her. The lady was slumped in a wheelchair over by one wall. She liked to sit by the front door and keep track of who came and who went. I don’t think she was as old as Great-grandpa but she was pretty old. She had been there a long time.

“WHO’S THIS PRETTY GIRL?” she asked again.

“MARY FARRELL,” Mom answered. “I’M CHARLES FARRELL’S GRANDDAUGHTER-IN-LAW.”

I used to think Miss Crenshaw was mad at us. I mean, she was always yelling. Mom explained to me that she just didn’t hear well and so she thought she was talking normally.

She wasn’t.

“MR. FARRELL’S DAUGHTER-IN-LAW?” Miss Crenshaw asked and Dad laughed softly.

“
GRAND
DAUGHTER-IN-LAW,” he said and knelt down on one knee in front of her so they were eye-to-eye. “IT’S MR. FARRELL’S BIRTHDAY,” he said. “HE TURNS ONE HUNDRED TODAY.”

“HE’S OLD,” she said and laughed at her own joke. Dad laughed, too.

“YOU COME DOWN A LITTLE LATER TO THE SITTING ROOM FOR HIS PARTY,” Dad said. “WE WOULD LOVE TO HAVE YOU.”

“HE’S OLDER THAN I AM,” she shouted, “AND I’M OLDER THAN DIRT.”

“No!” Robert muttered, pretending to sound shocked. “You don’t look a day over a thousand.”

“Yes, she does,” I muttered back and she looked up right at me. I was sure she couldn’t hear me but she looked right up at me and I felt as if I had to say something.

“Hello,” I said.

“WHAT?”

“HELLO.”

“HELLO.” She gave me a little wave and her bathrobe fell open. I could see she was wearing a hospital gown underneath. She was all skin and bones. All wrinkles and bones. Her hair was so thin she was almost bald. She had on pink knee-high socks.

“WE HAVE TO GO, MISS CRENSHAW,” Mom said. “I’LL SEND ONE OF THE BOYS DOWN A LITTLE LATER TO GET YOU WHEN THE PARTY STARTS.”

Gee, I wondered who was going to get stuck with
that
job.

Then we started out again and I tried not to look in people’s rooms as we walked by. A lot of people were in bed. They were in hospital beds, the kind that have a motor underneath and can have the head or the foot raised. Some of them were hooked up to medical equipment that gave them oxygen to help them breathe. Others had intravenous needles and lines in their arms to give them medicine. And some had other stuff attached up through their private parts so if they had pee they just peed and it came out a tube and collected in a plastic bag hanging on the side of the bed.