Cemetery Street

"I'm sorry." She paused. I held my breath. "How are you holding up?"

"As well as can be expected. But I'm a little perturbed with my grandson. I told him not to go into the bathroom. He's with you?"

"Yup."

"James, get out here," he said.

I crept out of the bathroom and stood next to Shannie. My grandfather looked like he aged ten years. He looked tired and frail. His ponytail seemed out of place.

"It was my idea. James didn't want to do it, really. I talked him into it. You all had a bad day, I figured cleaning the bathroom was the least I could do."

That's my bug, I thought, never at a loss.

"Never-the-less," he continued.

"Really Stan, I'm not covering for him. It was my idea."

"Is that so?" he stared at me, daring me to let a girl take the fall.

"Yes," I told him. She deflected my grandfather's anger.

My grandfather fell in love with Shannie that Thanksgiving night. After diffusing the situation, she invited him for dinner. "I'm too tired dear," he said. I thought he would jump at meeting Diane. When I told Shannie this, she said. "Geezus Pete James, where's your sense of priorities. Diane can wait."

"You weren't there," I wanted to tell Shannie of his second night in town - his reaction when caught me looking out my bedroom window. "What's so interesting Punk?" he asked standing next to me. Diane gazed at her reflection in her dresser mirror as she brushed her hair. Her eyes focused on the brush cleaving through her locks. I barely noticed him. Without a word I turned my head towards him and nodded towards Diane. "Holy Shit," he whispered - the sweet smell of alcohol enveloped us. We watched in silence until Diane finished and turned off her lights. Without another word he patted my back and let himself out of my bedroom. We never spoke of it.

***

"You're going to have to be more sensitive to moms needs," my father said. We were on the way to the hospital the morning my mother was to be released.

Like I'm not, I didn't say. My father's words further cast the pall I felt that holiday season. Like you are, I thought gazing out the window. You lumbered around the last few months half alive, lost in your own world while fate dealt mother cards from the bottom of the deck. Maybe if you were around she wouldn't have taken her frustrations out on me. You could have saved me my own trip to the hospital. Sensitive, what about you, you prick? Don't tell me you didn't breath a sigh of relief in the hospital, I saw it with my eyes, your head may have hung low, but your feet were floating.