Struts & Frets (23 page)

“No kidding,” I said. “What do you play?”

“Keyboard, mainly. More like electronic stuff.” He held up the CD he had just bought. “The new VFSix.”

“I've never heard of them,” I admitted. “I honestly don't follow the electronica scene much.”

“They have sort of a trip-hop, downbeat sound,” said Zeke.

“Oh, like Portishead?”

“Yeah, kinda.” He nodded. “But a lot jazzier, almost like Booker T.”

“That sounds awesome,” I said.

“They're based out of Moscow,” he said. “There's a huge downbeat scene coming out of there right now.”

“I totally have to check into that,” I said. “I mean, it's not really my thing, but you never know. Maybe we could—”

“Okay!” said Rick, a little too loud. “Sammy, the guy at the register is waiting. Don't hold up the line.”

There was one guy in line behind us, reading a magazine, not looking like he was in any kind of hurry.

“Sure . . . ,” I said. “Well, nice meeting you, Zeke.”

“You too,” said Zeke. “Tell Jen5 I said hi.” Then he looked at Rick and there was something kind of wistful in his voice when he said, “See you later, Rick.”

“Right, cool,” said Rick, practically shoving me at the register.

Once we were safely back in the car, I turned to Rick. “We totally have to start hanging out with that guy,” I said. “I can't remember the last time I could geek out about music with someone so quickly.”

“
You
can hang out with him,” said Rick. He was slouched extra-low in his seat, his arms crossed.

“What is up with you?” I asked. “Is it because he likes you?”

“What? You're crazy,” he said, not sounding at all convincing.

“Dude, he's totally into you. I don't know much about gay dating, but my friggin' grandfather could see it.”

“Yeah, okay, Francine and Fiver were trying to hook me up with him on Saturday.”

“Of course they were,” I said. “Because he's awesome!”

“Will you just . . . start the car, okay?”

“Are you blushing?” I asked.

“Please. Start. The goddamn. Car.”

We drove for a little while in silence.

“Seriously,” I said. “Is he not good-looking or something?”

“Can we please not talk about this?”

“Come on, Rick. I'm not teasing anymore,” I said. “I'm just trying to understand.”

Rick stared out of the window for a full minute before he said, “Yes, he is good-looking.”

“I only talked to him for a minute, but he seems like a nice guy.”

“He's very nice,” agreed Rick.

“He's a painter and a musician. That's cool.”

“He's very cool,” said Rick.

“Do you think he's . . . hot?” It felt kind of weird to say it, but that was just because I wasn't used to referring to guys as “hot.”

“Jesus, Sammy!” Rick threw his hands into the air. “Yes, I think he's hot, okay? Are we done now?”

“Then why were you such a total dick to him tonight?” I asked.

“Because I'm just not interested in doing anything with anyone right now.”

“Okay, sure,” I said. “That's fine. I just—”

“I know,” said Rick. “Thanks for your concern. I'm cool.”

We drove the rest of the way without saying another word. Finally, when I stopped in front of his house and he started to climb out, I said, “Rick.”

He stopped, one leg still in the car.

“I just . . . It doesn't seem fair. To you. I dump all my crap on you all the time, but you keep yours all bottled up. You should be able to dump stuff back on me.”

He looked at me for a moment, and I thought I'd seen every expression he had. But I didn't recognize this one at all.
“I know, Sammy,” he said quietly. “I'm sorry. I just . . . can't. Not yet. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said.

“Good night, Sammy.”

“Good night, Rick.”

I got home later than usual, so I expected Mom to be home already. But she wasn't. In fact, I was halfway through my homework by the time I heard her come through the door. And I was finished with it by the time she'd made her way from the wine bottle to my room.

“Hey, Sammy,” she said. She looked tired, and her makeup was a little smudged. The only time that ever happened was when she'd been crying.

“Everything okay, Mom?” I asked. I was at my usual place, sitting cross-legged on the floor with my guitar on my lap.

“I've just been over at your grandfather's house most of the night.”

“How is he?” I asked.

“Well . . .” She sat down heavily on my bed. “He refused to come out of the bathroom the entire time I was there. He kept muttering something about a secret code hidden in album covers.”

“What?”

She shrugged. “I have no idea. And I took a look in the freezer and my guess is that he hasn't eaten anything since you were there.”

I shook my head. “He didn't eat when I was there. He just threw it away.”

“So it's been even longer, then,” she said. Then she sighed and massaged her temples with her fingertips. “I think that's it, then. We can't put it off any longer. I'll go down and talk to someone at the assisted-living facility tomorrow.”

“A nursing home,” I said. “He's not going to like it.”

“Sammy, we can't take care of him anymore. He's like a child, really. He needs professional, around-the-clock care. I'm concerned that if we don't do something soon, he could hurt himself.”

Part of me agreed with her, of course. I knew that Gramps shouldn't be on his own anymore. And maybe Jen5 was right and he'd be much happier hanging with other crazy old people. But I felt like I understood him better than anybody else. And I wondered if he really would want that life. I knew I didn't. In fact, I think I probably would have chosen to die living my own life than live in some kind of institution.

Of course, that was easy for me to say, because it wasn't
happening to me. What would he say if he were still the real Gramps?

Mom got up off my bed and sat down next to me on the floor.

“I'm sorry, sweetie. But it's for the best.”

I nodded. Speaking seemed a little too hard right then, since my throat felt like it was filled with a lead weight.

“So, while I'm looking at places tomorrow, I need to you check in on him after school. Maybe you can get him to eat. Or at least come out of the bathroom.”

“We were going to have practice tomorrow,” I said. “The contest is only in three days.”

“Sammy, your grandfather needs you,” she said.

“I know,” I said.

“You'll still have Wednesday night to rehearse.”

“Yeah,” I said. “That's better than nothing.”

I knew she was really worried about Gramps, because she didn't even think to hassle me about still being in a band with Joe.

next day. He didn't answer the door when I knocked. That was usual. But then I tried to open the door and it was locked. Weird. He never locked his front door. Mom and I had been trying to get him to do it for years and he'd refused. But now, suddenly, he locked it?

I knocked again, louder, and still nothing. I started to get worried. That he'd accidentally hurt himself. That he'd purposely hurt himself. That he'd had a heart attack or an aneurysm or one of those other old-people things that came up suddenly. I banged on the door one last time. Should I
call Mom? The cops? The medics? Just as I was about to turn around and go back to the Boat, I heard the deadbolt slide. The door opened a crack and Gramps peered out. The look in his eyes was something I'd never seen before. It was pure, 100 percent insanity.

“Thank God you're here,” he said, then grabbed my arm. His grip was surprisingly strong. He jerked me inside and slammed the door shut and locked it. The place was weirdly silent. Not even one album playing. Scraps of paper and broken records were scattered everywhere. The whole place stank like old garbage and new piss.

“I was worried she'd gotten you,” he mumbled. He was wearing a yellow rubber raincoat and boots and nothing else, and there was something really creepy about that. “I knew she'd already gotten Viv, damn her. But at least she didn't get you. You made it. Just barely, but you did.”

“Gramps, what's going on?” I asked. “Who were you worried had gotten me?”

“Oh, you know,” he frowned and gestured vaguely. “Her. The one who keeps me here.”

“Have you eaten anything today, Gramps?”

“Ha! Are you kidding? Everything's poisoned!”

“Gramps, it's not poisoned. Look, how about I make you something?”

He shook his head vehemently. “For all I know, she's already gotten to you.”

“Gramps, what are you talking about?”

“Listen,” he said, leaning in like some kind of cartoon spy. “It's time you know the truth about me. I'm not really a socialist sympathizer.”

“No?”

“No, I'm a double agent planted by the CIA to draw out potential threats and mark them for nullification.”

The strangest part was that he was so sure of himself, for a split second I actually believed him. In fact, my first thought was,
Oh my God, is he about to arrest me?
But then I realized that he had fully gone off the deep end. His eyes were wide and they rolled around in their wrinkled sockets. His mouth was pulled back in something that was probably supposed to look like a smile, but it made him look more like a grinning skull. Then I saw something flash in his hand. It was the end of a pair of scissors. He was hiding the rest up his sleeve. When I saw that, it suddenly didn't matter if he was my grandfather or not. He was just a scary crazy old guy with a concealed sharp object.

“So . . . ,” I struggled. “You don't need any food?”

“No, no, no! Don't you see? It's all poisoned!”

“And there's nothing else you need?”

“What do you think I am?” It came out like a snarl. “
Helpless
?”

I didn't even recognize him anymore. His face was twisted up into a sneer and he moved restlessly around the living room, knocking things over and tripping on piles of paper and books.

I backed slowly toward the door.

“What are you doing?” he demanded. “You can't leave! She's out there!”

“I have to go, Gramps.” My voice was high and shaking. “Sorry . . .” I didn't know what to say, couldn't tell if he even understood, and didn't care. I just ran.

I drove home as fast as the Boat would let me. I practically ran inside the house. Mom was sitting at the dinner table, going through big stacks of paper.

“Mom, something is really wrong with Gramps.”

She looked up immediately. “Did you call 911?”

“No.” My hands hadn't stopped shaking the whole drive home. The adrenaline just wouldn't leave me. “He's not . . . he's not sick or anything like that. He just . . . he's really lost it.”

“Calm down, Sammy,” she said. “Tell me what happened.”

So as best I could, I told her everything. It seemed to help a little. By the end, my hands weren't shaking anymore and I was breathing regularly. The whole time, Mom listened
quietly. The only time she interrupted me was when I told her about the scissors he had hidden up his sleeve.

“You're sure?” she asked. “It couldn't have been something else? Like his watch?”

“I—I don't think so . . .” It had been dark. He had been so wild, so crazy. All I'd been able to concentrate on was getting out of there.

“Okay, Sammy,” said Mom, she walked over to me and put her hands firmly on my shoulders. “You did fine. Just slow down a little. I'm finishing up the paperwork for the assisted living right now. They told me that as luck would have it, they have a space opening up this weekend.”

“This weekend? But what are we going to do
now
?”