The Old House (8 page)

“Yes.” Again, Addie was tight-lipped. Why? Buddy wondered. Why did she get that way at the mention of her father?

“Dan. I remember,” Grandpa said. He had carried the remote control with him and placed it on the table. “He worked for me in the store, didn't he? Best salesman I ever had. Except for myself. He was almost as good as I was.”

That was true enough. If he'd wanted a sales job, he could have found one that didn't take him on the road, Buddy thought, and the prickle of tears made her blink. But in spite of his ability to sell anything to anybody, he'd didn't really like that line of work. Buddy remembered exactly what he'd said. “I hate selling people things they don't need and can't afford. I'd rather have a straightforward job like working in the mill or driving a truck, where I'm not taking advantage of anybody.”

She wished with all her heart that he'd
wanted to take a nice, safe job in a store or a lumberyard.

“Is he here?” Grandpa asked. “Dan? Won't he come and say hello?”

“No. He's . . . not here,” Addie told him. “Who on earth is that at this time of night?” The doorbell had rung, echoing through the house. “I'll go see.”

It couldn't be Bart, or Dad, but Buddy's heart leaped, anyway. Maybe there was word of them. . . . She waited, holding her breath, hearing Addie's voice, and a male voice answering, from off in the distance.

Buddy couldn't understand anything that was being said at the front door, but Max must have caught some of it, because he suddenly started to move in that direction. “Something's happened to Pa,” he said.

Cassie turned off the burner under the milk. “Gus?” she said, and quickly followed Max.

Grandpa seemed not to have understood anything that had been said. Maybe he hadn't even heard any of it. He looked toward Buddy—seeing only a black spot where her face would
be, she remembered—and asked, “Where's my cocoa? Didn't somebody say we were having cocoa?”

Curious, yet unwilling to join the others, Buddy offered, “I'll pour the milk for you. I think the cocoa's already in the cups.”

She mixed only Grandpa's, however, and carried it to the table. “It's hot,” she warned.

“Only way to drink cocoa is hot,” the old man told her. “I remember your mama and daddy, Sister. They ran away and got married. I thought it was just what they ought to have done, but some people didn't like it.” He screwed up his face, trying to force a recollection that wouldn't come. “I don't remember why they were so upset, though. Do you know?”

“No, I don't,” Buddy said, her mouth going dry.

Grandpa sighed. “I forget things. Some days I remember just fine, and then other times I can't recall a thing. Sister cried, I think. Late at night, when everybody else was asleep. I heard her crying. My room was right across from hers. And there was another time when Sister cried. I can't remember why, that
time. Now they make me sleep downstairs. So I won't fall, Sister says. I only fell the one time. Broke my arm. Couldn't arm wrestle. Can you arm wrestle?”

“Not very well,” Buddy said. “My brother always beats me.”

“Let's see,” the old man proposed, and reached out across the table toward her.

The movement was unexpected, and he couldn't see what was directly in front of him. The cup overturned, and the brown cocoa splashed out across the table, onto the plate of cookies and the remote control beside it.

“Oh, oh. Sister's going to be annoyed with me again. I spilled something, didn't I?”

Buddy was on her feet, going for a dish towel, mopping up the mess. Some of the cookies were beyond help, but she rescued the ones she could.

Suddenly she could hear the voices from the front of the house more clearly. “Maybe we ought to take him to the hospital,” Cassie was saying anxiously. “That's a nasty-looking cut. It needs stitches.”

“I think we can butterfly it together,” Addie said. “Run
and get the tape and some gauze, Max. Can you walk, Gus, as far as the kitchen, where there's a better light? Cassie, a basin and a washcloth. The tape won't stick until we get the bleeding stopped and dry up the blood beside the cut.”

“But what if he has a concussion?” Cassie persisted.

“Cassie, our car is in no shape to drive him to the hospital. Not with those tires. I haven't had a chance to get the new ones yet. Come on, Gus, make an effort to help us, will you? Walk right over there and sit down.”

Buddy, still with the cocoa-soaked towel in her hands, leaped out of the way, shocked at the bloody spectacle.

“Head cuts always bleed profusely,” Addie said. She spared a glance for Buddy's reaction. “He isn't going to die of it.” Her tone suggested that this might be a pity.

Gus sagged into the chair and slumped forward on his elbows, but Addie jerked him upright. “I can't do this unless you cooperate. Tilt your head backward and hold it that way.”

“Sick to my stomach,” Gus muttered.

“Well, don't
throw up until Cassie gets a basin. Hurry, Cass, it's coming up!”

Buddy turned away, not wanting to watch. It was bad enough to listen to the man retching. She took the towel to the sink and dropped it there.

In the middle of all the confusion, Grandpa checked the time. “10:06 p.m.,” said the tinny voice.

Max returned with his supplies. “There's not much tape, except the little strips.”

“Those'll do. Here, now that his stomach's empty, hold his head up for me. He's too drunk to do it on his own. Gus, make an effort, will you?”

Buddy thought the most helpful thing she could do might be to get Grandpa out of the area. “I'll give you another cup of cocoa and you can drink it in your room, all right, Grandpa?” she asked.

“Is it still hot?” the old man asked, but he didn't resist when she steered him toward his bedroom.

It was more crowded than either the back bedroom upstairs or the sewing room. Buddy settled him into a platform rocker and placed
the steaming cup in his hands after looking in vain for a place to set it down.

Beside his bed, there were tables and chests and shelves full of books he surely could not read any longer, and boxes and bundles of all kinds. There was hardly room to walk between them and the bed.

“This is not my room,” Grandpa said.

Buddy didn't know what to say to that.

“My room was always upstairs,” the old man told her. “Why did they make me move down here, Sister?”

“I don't know,” Buddy said.

“I remember you,” he told her. “I just can't remember your name.”

“They call me Buddy, but my real name's Amy Kate.”

“Amy Kate. That's a pretty name. When you were a little girl you used to come to the store and eat my butterscotch drops, didn't you?”

“Yes,” Buddy admitted, and then wondered if he was thinking of her or her mother. “My mom's name was EllaBelle.”

“Oh, yes. EllaBelle. She ran away with Dan, and Sister cried. That's right.”

Because there was no one else around to hear, and she guessed Grandpa wouldn't have any memory of this conversation, Buddy asked impulsively, “Which sister, Grandpa? Which one cried? And why?”

Grandpa sipped from his cocoa. “Just the way I liked it. Almost
too
hot. You always did make good cocoa, Sister.”

Buddy sighed. It was no use. Sometimes he would be perfectly sensible for a few minutes, and then his mind seemed to drift away to something else—another subject, another time.

“Can I get you anything else before I go, Grandpa?” she asked.

“No, no. It's not time for me to go to bed, is it?”

“I don't know what time you go to bed,” Buddy told him. “It's only a little after ten.”

“I haven't seen the news, have I? The eleven o'clock news. Or does it come on at ten?”

“I don't know,” she said again. “The Seattle stations mostly have news at eleven.”

“I'll drink my cocoa first. While it's hot,” he decided, and rocked a little in his chair.

Back in the kitchen, Buddy decided to reheat
one cup of milk in the microwave and make herself a cup of cocoa. She didn't know if any of the others would come back and want some or not.

She heard Max on the stairs, and turned to see him scooping up the kitten that had been left behind when the others scattered. She was glad Grandpa had forgotten about him.

“Did Blackie die a long time ago?” she asked.

“Before I ever came here to live. Probably twenty years ago. Grandpa gets all mixed up about when it is.” His mouth was tight and unpleasant, but he was stroking the kitten, so that Buddy could hear him purring.

Buddy stirred the cocoa mix into her cup. “I'm . . . sorry about your dad. He's not badly hurt, is he? Or should they call a doctor?”

“No doctor in Haysville.” Max sounded sullen, angry. And then he practically exploded, his face twisting as if in fury. “One of these days I hope he falls down drunk and breaks his neck!”

She didn't know if he meant it or not, and she didn't get a chance to ask. He hugged the
kitten against his chest and went back upstairs, leaving Buddy alone.

She supposed it was late enough to go to bed. She got into her pajamas and crawled into the made-up bed in the sewing room. It was comfortable—certainly more so than the car had been for sleeping—but strange. It even smelled different. And it certainly wasn't home.

She didn't have a home anymore, Buddy reminded herself. Right this minute she didn't even have a family.

She'd forgotten to say her prayers, but she didn't want to get back up to kneel beside the bed, so she said them lying flat on her back, looking up into the darkness.
Please, let Bart find Dad. Let them both be all right.

She didn't think she'd be able to sleep very soon, but she was just drifting off when she heard what sounded like something exploding, and then heard Cassie crying, “Oh, no, Grandpa! What did you do?”

“Good grief,” Addie said, loudly enough to carry to the sewing room also. “This place is a madhouse!”

There was a small crash. Buddy slid out of bed and headed for the kitchen to find out what the latest catastrophe was. Her heart was pounding so hard that her chest hurt.

Grandpa stood staring at the microwave, wobbling a little as he leaned on his cane. Around his feet were the shards of his cup, with a small puddle of remaining cocoa running down his pant leg.

Buddy stumbled to a halt, balancing with one hand on the back of a chair. Max gingerly opened the microwave and said incredulously, “He put the remote control in here.”

Addie, who had arrived simultaneously with Buddy, was equally disbelieving. “Judging by those black marks inside the oven, he's blown it up. Both the remote and the microwave. What on earth were you thinking, Grandpa?”

The old man looked as if he was about to cry. “I did something wrong, didn't I, Sister?”

Cassie was once more cleaning up a mess. She must have been about out of dish towels by now, Buddy thought.

“What did you mean to do, Grandpa?” Cassie asked, looking up at him as she gathered up the broken china bits.

“It didn't work,” he said in a faltering voice. “I tried to listen to the news, but it wouldn't work. I figured it was because it was wet, and I thought I could dry it out. . . .”

Across the room, Buddy sucked in a breath of guilty distress. Should she have taken the remote away from him after the cocoa was spilled on it? Told Addie or Cassie?

Max was examining the remains of the remote. “I think it melted all its innards.”

“And ruined the microwave,” Addie said grimly.

“I thought it would just dry it out. You know, heat it up until it got dry,” Grandpa said.

Buddy had figured out by this time that there was not enough income to take care of emergencies like worn-out tires and replacing remote controls and microwaves. She cleared her throat, and they all looked at her.

“I guess . . .
maybe I should have done some thing about it. When the remote got wet. I never thought about what he'd do with it. . . .”

“We lived before we had a microwave,” Cassie said quietly. “Or a remote control. Come on, Grandpa, I think it's time you went to bed. You kids, too.” She dropped the wet dish towel into the sink and left it there, too tired to rinse it out.

Grandpa didn't resist her urging until he reached his bedroom door. Then he paused and turned around. “Where's Blackie? Blackie always sleeps with me.”

Buddy saw the dismay on Max's face as he made a small sound of protest.

Cassie opened her mouth and said, “Max—”

But Addie spoke firmly before her sister could finish the thought. “Blackie's dead, Grandpa. He got hit by a car, and he's gone.”

“He's gone? Blackie's gone?”

“Years ago. Max has a new kitten, but he's not Blackie. Go on, now, go to bed. You, Buddy, get to bed, too. It wasn't your fault he can't think straight anymore. Max, keep the cat out of his sight if you can. He'll forget about him if he doesn't see him.”

Max muttered, “Thanks, Addie,” and headed toward the stairs before Cassie could countermand that order.

Buddy had reached the door of the sewing room before she realized that she was thirsty. She had nearly reached the kitchen again for a glass of water when she heard her aunts' voices.

“He won't forget Blackie,” Cassie was saying. “He remembers things from a long time ago quite well. It's just what's happening now that he can't get a grasp on.”

“So what are you saying? That we should make Max give up his kitten so Grandpa can pretend he's Blackie? That's hardly fair to Max, is it? Did you get Gus settled down in bed?”

“Yes, he went right to sleep. I still think maybe we ought to get him to the hospital so they can X-ray his head.” Cassie twisted her hands together. “Just in case he
does
have a concussion or a fractured skull.”