Grandpa Van

Grandpa Van

        Grandpa Van scratched his beard as he looked up from the crimson stains on the floor of the loafing shed.
         “Coyotes?” I asked, knowing all too well that no coyote takes off with a full-grown ram.
         “Doubt it,” he said, fishing his pipe out of his red and green flannel shirt pocket. “Nope, got ter be a cougar.”
         He stood up and grimaced rubbing his left knee. He reached into his blue over-alls and pulled out a box of matches.
         “Don’t you worry ‘bout it there Timmy,” he said striking the match against the box, “We’ll get her if’n she comes back.”
         “She will,” I said grimly. “I know she will.”
         He nodded puffing from his pipe, blowing small smoke rings out. I laughed as they danced around drifting up towards the ceiling. He smiled patting me on the back.
         “And when she does, we’ll shoot her up an’ gut her,” he nodded more to himself. “Yes sir, then we’ll have us some cougar steaks. Maybe your grandma can make something edible for once.” He snickered.
         I followed him as he limped out the door. I remembered the tale of his gimp leg:            I was on the floor by the fireplace in the den. He had out his pipe and was talking about the heat from the previous day. “Its like that time in Nam, I tell you.” He      said, pointing his pipe at me. He shook his head, his gray beard waggling, and closed his eyes. “There we was the six of us. Only six I tell you. We had our rifles clean. Clean as whistles. You could see yourself in ‘em. My old buddy Kenny was looking ‘round all anxious like. He says, ‘Theys here Van, theys here.’ Right then I heard a noise. Sort of a rustle. And, POW! I tell you he was right next to that damned Gook was. So close I couldn’t use my gun. I had to stick ‘im with my knife I did. Then POP! I got hit in my knee I did. Hurt like something else I tell you. We barely made it out alive we did. Kenny was lost. Shot in the head he was. Damn shame. He was a good soldier.”
        He’d never spoken of it before and hasn’t since even when I try to pry him. He closed the door to the barn and turned towards the old house. He had built that house with his own two hands, grandma had told me. It was in a sad state now, with its roof leaking in many places, paint peeling, half the doors couldn’t even close.
        Leaving grandpa outside to finish smoking his pipe, I opened the door to the kitchen, kicking one of the dogs out of my way. The sweet aroma of cherry pie emanated from the counter by the window. A faint creaking came from the den. I smiled picturing Grandma on her rocking chair, knitting needles in hand. “Timmy,” she would say, “get over here let gramma see if this fits you yet. My God you’ve grown! I better double the pattern.” 
        I crept over to the pie, hoping to steal a piece. Licking my lips, I reached the pie and picked up a knife from the counter.
        “Timmy!” I froze. The rocking had stopped. “Don’t you dare touch my pie! I swear boy if you touch one piece of…” Her voice trailed out as I zipped out the door, cherry filling dripping down my chin. Shouts started coming and I took away from the house and the barn into the small wooded area outside our ranch.
        The scent of pine hung thick in the air like a kind of invisible fog. After running for several minutes I slowed down to a walk. Where to go, I thought as I licked my fingers. Aha! I’ll go down to the pond and see if I can’t catch some fish for dinner. That’ll make up for the pie for sure!
        I whistled to myself as I made my way past the large boulder indicating the pond was near. The birds chirped overhead and occasionally whizzed past in some sort of intricate dance. I stopped briefly to watch them in this dance. A bluebird perched up on a tree looked at me. I picked up a stone and threw it, hitting the branch the bird was sitting on. After it flew off, I started up again.
        The pond came into view bringing with it many sight: Several small animals were on the far side of the bank, drinking, birds were swooping down to catch fish that were, in turn, jumping up out of the water—it almost appeared as if they wanted to get caught.
        I pulled out my fishing line, took off my shirt, and rolled up my pants. Wading into the shallows I threw out my line. I wonder what grandma is saying about me, I thought, I bet she’s pissed. She’s always saying how I shouldn’t take her pie and eat it. Why shouldn’t I though? She makes it to be eaten anyways. I threw out my line again. That doesn’t matter. What does matter is that damned cougar. Why that thing could cause tons of trouble! Must be big to have taken a…wait. I looked up in alarm. Why is everything suddenly quiet?
        I looked out across the pond. There were no animals. The birds had stopped chirping and swooping down. Even the fish seemed to have stopped jumping. Shrugging I turned around and found myself face-to-face with a large mountain lion, its head as huge as a watermelon, its body bigger nearly as large as our pony.

        I screamed as it moved closer to me, its eyes narrowed. A deep rumble shot out from its throat. I fumbled for the buck knife in its sheath. Its teeth bared, the beast inched closer. I panicked. Dropping to my knees I closed my eyes and prayed, Please God, don’t let me die, I am sorry for taking grandma’s pie. Honest I am!
CRACK!
I opened my eyes tears streaming down my cheeks. The monster lie dead at my feet and grandpa stood favoring right leg behind it, shotgun in hand.