“It would be nice if you came to our house for Fathers’ Day, Grandpa.”  Gretchen Houten stated.  She pushed her long light brown hair away from her face and petted her grandfather’s brown and white Springer spaniel, Scampy.

“I’m not up to it!  I don’t want to leave the house!  People prey on the elderly, especially ones who live alone!  When I’m out, they’ll plan their attack.  I could come home to my death!”  Grandpa Anthony Di Langi shouted.  He rose from the kitchen chair and hastily waved his arms back to her in contempt.

“Grandpa, we live a block away from you.  This is a good neighborhood.  Nothing will happen to you or your house.”  Gretchen calmly responded, though barely fighting her frustration.

“I can’t be bothered.  I’m sick of all of you!”

“Why? We love you, damn it!  We’re doing everything we can to keep you out of a nursing home.  The least you can do is be cooperative!  Especially to my mother: your daughter!  She is fighting the same cancer Grandma Flora died of, and she still manages to come here three times a week to check on you.  The least you can do is show her some kindness and respect!  She leaves here in tears every time she visits because of the way you treat her.”

“She married a loser!  I can’t stand to be in the same room with that German bast*rd!”  Grandpa screamed.  Scampy, startled by the yelling, began to bark.

“My father is a good man, Grandpa.  He’s never done anything to you.  He mows your lawn once a week, brings you dinner, walks your dog…can’t you ever see the positive side of things?”  Gretchen responded,  her wide brown eyes nearly in tears.  She petted her grandfather’s dog to calm him down.

“He’s a drunk and he gambles!  He pis*es his money away!”

“You’re a gambler, too!  Think of what you put Grandma through, God rest that poor woman’s soul.”

“You will not speak like this to me in my house!  I think you’re plotting to kill me! GET OUT!”

“I didn’t come here to fight.  Tomorrow is Fathers’ Day, for Christ’s sake.  I came here to invite you to dinner with us tomorrow; we just want one day of joy…like the old days.”

“The old days are gone.  I’m tired.  I don’t care to be bothered with you anymore.”

“What did I do?  What did any of us do?  You’re part of our family.  We just want to have a family dinner.  Is that such a chore for you?  Would it kill you to be nice for one day?”

“I don’t want to leave my house!”

“Then how about we come to you?  We’ll bring all the food here, and afterwards, we’ll clean everything up.”

“No! You’re all slobs!  I don’t want a mess!”

Gretchen remained silent for a while.  Looking into her grandfather’s angry gray-blue eyes, she searched for the Grandpa Anthony she missed: the one that wasn’t plagued with mental illness, the one she wanted to remember.  Gretchen thought about how her grandfather taught her to fish, how he bought her the first bike she ever had, and how he taught her how to ride it.  She remembered the Chunky Bars he would sneak her when no one was looking and how good his pancakes and coffee would taste on Sunday mornings.  She thought about how he made her first doll house, and the tree house he built for her, and how safe she once felt in his arms….

“I miss you,” Gretchen thought.

Grandpa Anthony walked into his living room and turned on the television.  Scampy followed obediently behind him.

"Have a happy Fathers’ Day, tomorrow, Grandpa!” Gretchen followed him into the living room.  She loudly spoke so he could hear her voice in spite of the TV that was on close to full volume.

“You, too,” Grandpa Anthony responded. He suddenly shifted his head, as if disoriented.

“I’ll bring you dinner tomorrow. Bye, Scampy,” Gretchen petted his dog, “I’ll bring you a special treat tomorrow.”

“Gretchen, tell Grandma to come in here now. Jeopardy’s on; she loves this program.”

Gretchen’s chest began to hurt.  “I’ll tell her.”  She walked over to her grandfather and kissed him on the crown of his head.

Gretchen exited the living room and wiped her eyes with a tissue from her deep purple quilted purse. She glanced one last time at her grandfather through the hallway.

“See, Rose, you’re not always right—those musical questions get you every time!  It was the Beatles, not the Rolling Stones!”  Grandpa Anthony joked to the empty chocolate brown recliner beside him.  “It’s gonna’ be a close call tonight. I might just win this damn thing, after all.”

This story was written in 1998 by the author.  It had never been previously submitted anywhere, nor published, until today.

------------

About the author:   Christine Bruness is U-K's reigning Essay Contest Champion!


Email: chatnoir@comcast.net

Comment on this article here!

------------

All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com. Please link to this article rather than copying and pasting it onto your site (which would be unauthorized and illegal).

	Web useless-knowledge.com