Loss (3 page)

His gaze locked on his grandfather’s coat, Billy snarled as rage flooded him, tinting his world red.
Didn’t even take off his jacket,
he thought,
wasn’t home long enough to take off his jacket. Mom was in a hurry and forgot to lock the door and she didn’t even help him out of his jacket and this is
her
fault!

Fueled with righteous anger, Billy rocketed forward, shouting, “Martin! Martin Walker, please stop!”

The old man froze, then slowly turned his head until he saw Billy. Even halfway down the block, he sensed the tension crackling along his grandfather’s limbs.

Gramps was going to bolt.

Billy forced himself to stop, stumbling his way to a graceless halt. Hands out, imploring, Billy called out, “Mr. Walker, we’ve been worried about you.”

His grandfather didn’t move. There was a gleam in his eyes, something caged and frantic.

Billy took a step forward, and then another, keeping his arms out, palms up, showing Gramps that he meant him no harm. “Mom—Jane’s been looking for you.”

The name penetrated. The old man cocked his head and asked, “Janey?”

“Yes, Janey.” So hard to project his voice and yet keep it soft, nonthreatening. Another step, and then another. Walking slowly now, he said, “She needs you, Mr. Walker. Janey needs you. Will you please come with me?”

His grandfather frowned, but he didn’t run. Progress.

Billy took another step, and that’s when he saw the car. It barreled forward, nowhere even close to going thirty—it was doing at least fifty, sixty, a hundred miles an hour, a moss green car gunning for his grandfather.

He launched himself at the old man, whose eyes widened in either fear or fury. Gramps didn’t turn around, didn’t see the pale streak of death careening straight toward him.

With a defiant cry, Billy tackled his grandfather. The two of them flew in a tangle of limbs, the old man screeching and Billy howling, wrapping himself around Gramps to cushion him from the impact. They landed hard against a parked car, a dirty white sedan. The pale green car drove past, veering slightly to the left. Billy caught sight of the driver suddenly looking up. The car straightened and continued going past, going, going . . . gone.

Billy let out a shaky, relieved breath. And that’s when his grandfather punched him in the jaw. “Ow! What—”

“Off!” Gramps punched him again.

“Quit it!” Billy held on to his grandfather with one hand and tried to protect his face with the other. “Gramps, stop!”

The old man snarled, “Off me! Off!”

“Janey,” Billy said, trying to be patient even with his heart thundering in his chest. “Janey needs you, Mr. Walker.”

The name worked its magic once more: His grandfather’s face softened. “Janey?”

“She’s waiting for you. At home.”

“Huh.” The old man lowered his fists and stopped pulling away from Billy.

“I’ll take you there, sir. Okay?”

“Hmm.”

Billy nudged Gramps gently, and together they shuffle-walked the path back to Billy’s house. They paused only twice: The first time was so Billy could maneuver his cell phone out of his back pocket and call his mom to tell her they were headed home, and the second was when they passed a particular corner where a street musician had been playing the guitar and singing about a man who’d sold the world.

Where the guitarist had been, two old pennies shone cheerfully in the afternoon sun.

Chapter 3

Dinner Sucked Worse Than Usual . . .

. . . because Gramps kept glaring at Billy like he wanted to kill his only grandchild, and his mom overcompensated by being the perfect mom and daughter; she was all “Here you go, Dad,” and “Want some more mac and cheese, Dad?” and “Are there too many peas, Dad?” along with the usual “Can’t believe how much you’re eating, Billy,” and “You’re getting so tall, Billy,” and “Isn’t it nice having the three of us together for dinner?”—as if that last one didn’t happen every night for the past who-knew-how-many years. She’d already done the Florence Nightingale routine and dabbed antiseptic on Billy’s scrapes. At least saving Gramps had given him an excuse for the afternoon’s bruises. See that? No scrambling to cover up the mementos left by Eddie’s boots. Wasn’t life grand?

“What’s
he
doing here?” Gramps jabbed his spoon at Billy.

Billy’s mother smiled. Through everything, she smiled. The world could be ending, and she’d still manage to smile. “Dad, Billy lives here.” Her tone was soft, patient. It made Billy’s skin itch.

Gramps stared daggers at Billy. “Malarkey!”

“I live here, Gramps. With you and Mom,” Billy said for the thousandth time.

“Malarkey! He’ll hit me! Knock me down!”

“Why do you think he’ll hit you, Dad?”

“Steal my wallet,” cried his grandfather.

“Do you have your wallet, Dad?”

Gramps paused, then felt in his back pocket. “Here,” he said, voice filled with triumph. “See?”

“Do you have any pictures in your wallet?”

“I got pictures!” Arthritic fingers unfolded the wallet. A photo flap winked. “Here: my bride.” A pause, and then Gramps’s voice filled with tenderness. “My Bernice. My beautiful Bernice.”

“And this one?”

“My baby girl. My Janey.” Another pause. “That’s you.”

Billy’s mom practically beamed sunshine. “Yes, that’s me.”

Three cheers for the redirect. Billy took a swig of milk. Conversations with Gramps were always like this: circular paths with no points other than to encourage the old man to cling on to memories of better times. And they had to be old memories; the more recent ones—which could be anywhere from now to twenty-some-odd years ago—had the potential to turn Gramps violent. At least at school, Billy knew where he stood. At home, it was a constant exercise in tiptoeing around landmines. It was exhausting. Billy had no idea how his mom did it.

“Would you like more macaroni and cheese, Dad?”

“Where’s Jack?”

Billy’s mother stiffened. She kept smiling, but it seemed brittle around the edges. Billy felt bad for her, but really, by now she should be taking that particular question in stride. Jack Ballard had walked out the door many years ago and hadn’t looked back.

“Jack doesn’t live here anymore, Dad. More mac and cheese?”

“What happened to Jack?”

“We divorced, Dad.”

Gramps slammed his fist on the table, making all the plates rattle and the plastic cups jump. “I know that! What’s
he
doing here?” He jabbed his spoon in Billy’s direction.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Billy shoveled food into his mouth without tasting it. Yeah, no doubt about it, Gramps was off his meds tonight. Or, to be more accurate, his grandfather’s new meds were “underperforming.” That was the doctor’s favorite word, and Billy’s mother had confiscated it, throwing it around in casual conversation as if a fifty-cent word would suddenly make Alzheimer’s something manageable.

Stupid doctors with their stupid words.
Nothing
made it manageable. Didn’t people understand that the old man ranting at the table wasn’t Billy’s grandfather? The real Gramps had checked out without paying the bill. Call it Alzheimer’s. Call it dementia. Call it anything at all, but the thing sitting next to Billy’s mom was nothing but a doppelganger. Gramps—his Gramps—was gone.

Billy’s eyes stung. No, he wasn’t going to cry. He mimicked his mother and smiled hugely, smiled until his cheeks screamed. His tears froze in his eyes, just like the smile froze on his face. Yes, his grandfather was long gone. All Billy could do was call the old man “Gramps” and pretend that it mattered.

Billy Ballard desperately hoped he’d get better at pretending, because this pantomime of normalcy was sucking him dry.

***

After dinner, Billy’s mother kissed Gramps and told him to behave, kissed Billy and told him that she loved him, and then she escaped to work the late shift at the convenience store. When she had first taken on the second job—the money she made from her freelance projects just wasn’t enough to pay Gramps’s rising medical bills—Billy had suggested that he, too, start working. But his mom had smiled and shook her head. He had to stay home, she insisted, because he had two important jobs: take care of Gramps, and keep up his grades. “Full scholarship,” his mom would say proudly whenever Billy brought home another A on a report or a hundred on a test. That was the plan: Billy was to get into college, any college, with a full four-year scholarship.

And then he could be just like his dad—he’d go away and never look back. Until then, it was bullies and bruises and babysitting Gramps.

Billy parked his grandfather in front of the television and checked all the locks on the doors and windows and made sure the hallways were empty so that the old man could wander without hurting himself. Checkpoints all clear, Billy told Gramps where he’d be and to just call out if he needed anything. His grandfather muttered something that was lost in Bob Barker’s chatter about how the price was right. Once again, Billy blessed whoever had come up with the Game Show Network, and then he retreated to his bedroom to do his homework.

He was just getting into why the Battle of Vicksburg divided the Confederacy when the doorbell rang. Cursing, Billy tore out of his room and raced down the hall. His grandfather was actually having a decent night, but any disruption in the routine could ruin everything. Last week, some religious nut had come by, trying to simultaneously save them and drain their bank account. Gramps had capital-F Freaked. He’d thrown a glass at the visitor and howled like the devil. The nut took off screaming and Gramps crapped his pants. Right now, Billy’s goal was to get to the door and shoo away whoever was hovering on the stoop before Gramps noticed.

He threw open the door, and there stood Marianne Bixby, her backpack hanging by her side. She smiled at him, a tentative thing that flicked at the corners of her mouth. “Hey.”

“Hey.” His own smile was surprised and pleased. Whenever he was with Marianne, the tension bled out of his shoulders and he remembered how to laugh—even when she showed up unannounced. Billy glanced over his shoulder to see if Gramps had noticed they had a visitor. So far, so good: His grandfather was hypnotized by the television. Turning back to Marianne, he grinned. “What’s up?”

“The war zone’s getting loud,” she said, shrugging. “Can I finish my homework here?”

“Sure,” he said, stepping aside to let her in. The Bixby War had been ongoing since Billy and Marianne were in middle school. Once, he’d asked her if her parents were going to get divorced since they fought so much. She’d said no, they were just the type of people who were only happy when they were angry. He thought that was messed up, but then again, he had a mom who smiled instead of shouted, so who was he to judge?

As Billy shut the door behind her, Marianne glanced at the family room. Televised sounds of some lucky winner filled the air with joyous screeches. She asked Billy, “Should I say hi?”

On good days, Gramps smiled at Marianne and called her “Debbie,” whoever that was. Billy shook his head. “Don’t want to push my luck. It was a bad afternoon.”

The two of them slunk down the hallway and into Billy’s room. He kept the door open so that he could hear if Gramps needed him. “Take the desk,” he said, grabbing his laptop.

“Chivalry!” She unpacked her things and got settled. “Shouldn’t be too long. Just have to finish up that history paper.”

“Ditto.” He sat on his bed, using his pillow to cushion his back. “Figure thirty minutes, then I’m done.”

“Shame you weren’t at Dawson’s,” she said as she opened up her report. “You missed all the fun. Amy and Michael hooked up, then Amy and Gary broke up.”

He grinned. “You’d think Gary would’ve seen that coming.”

“Shocker, right? He called Michael some interesting names. I’d tell you what they were, but you’d blush.”

“My virgin ears,” he said piously.

“So Gary stormed out, looking ready to grab a baseball bat and smash things. There’s some colorful language on Michael’s Facebook page tonight.”

Billy took her word for it; he avoided social networking sites as a rule. The last time he’d done a search on his own name, he’d found an upsetting number of pages and comments calling him gay, and retarded, and stupid—and those were the nicer names. He’d been ten years old. Billy had learned his lesson: ego-surfing was bad, and social media sites were worse.

After they finished their homework and had a conversation discussing the merits of superhero comic books (better stories, according to Billy) versus superhero movies (better eye candy, according to Marianne), she asked what had happened that afternoon that had been so bad. So Billy launched into an abbreviated version of events, completely skipping over how he’d been jumped by Eddie and the Bruisers. Instead, he started with his mother telling him that Gramps had wandered off, so he’d had to go searching for him. And oh yeah, the old man had nearly gotten hit by a car.

Marianne shrieked,
“What?”

Billy frantically shhhhhed her, then ducked out to do a quick check on the old man. All was well—his grandfather was snoozing in front of the television—so Billy quietly came back to his room and half closed the door. Then he told Marianne how he’d run for blocks, calling for Gramps. He sounded steady enough as he recalled what had happened, but his heartbeat throbbed in his ears and his throat constricted as he remembered the sheer panic of not knowing where his grandfather was.

“You must’ve been terrified,” Marianne said breathlessly.

Shame flooded him as, for one brief moment, he wished that he hadn’t found Gramps. “Yeah.”

He skipped over his encounter with the street musician—he was having trouble remembering that part properly, sort of like chasing a dream—and instead he explained that he’d spotted his grandfather walking in the middle of the street. And then came the part about the oncoming car. He matter-of-factly described how he’d tackled Gramps to get him out of the way. Marianne oohed and ahhed at all the right points, and Billy felt his cheeks heat up when she commented how brave he’d been.