Grandpa

Grandpa



         My grandpa had been dead for almost a month before anyone got up the nerve to ask him when he planned to stop writing. 

         I could hear him clacking away at his ancient Underwood manual typewriter.  The same one that won him his Pulitzer and Hugo awards.  He was rightly proud of that old heavy beast.

         My mother looked at my father who turned to my uncle.  All three of them had the same stricken look on their face.  Did they really have the right to deny him his simple pleasures?  And what did it matter if he kept writing?

         The words had put food on the table for years.  And even now two of his stories were sitting on a publisher’s desk somewhere.

         “But he smells so bad.”  My mother said to my father.

         “I know dear.  But he’s happy.”

         My uncle didn’t say anything.  He sat and sipped at his beer with a look on his face that made it clear that he wasn’t moving anytime soon.

         I looked back and forth between them.  The adults in my life, my valiant protectors.  They were scared.

         I sighed, finished my cereal and made a decision.

         The school bus wouldn’t come for another 10 minutes.  I grabbed my book bag and went to the gabled stairway that lead to my grandfathers room.  Years before he’d built himself a turret out the side of the house.  He said that it reminded him of when he was a struggling writer trying to make a name for himself in France.  In the days before his fiction won awards and paid the bills.

         I sneezed several times going up the spiral stairs.  No one had cleaned for a while and dust was building up.  I guess it made sense, why clean for a dead guy?

         Ahead of me the typing was non-stop.  Grandpa was on a roll, as he called it.  Writing without pausing because he didn’t want to let go of the idea in his head.

         The turret smelled bad.  Not like a really nasty shit, but close. 

         His bedroom door was opened slightly and I could feel the heat coming from the room.  He’d sealed the windows years ago.  To keep out the bugs, he said. 

         I pushed the door open slightly and saw him for the first time in a month.  His back was turned to me and he was hunched over the typewriter.

         “Grandpa?”  I said, surprised that my voice cracked slightly.  I guessed that I was scared too.

         For a moment he ignored me.  The clacking went on and on.  There was a rhythm to it that I hadn’t noticed before.  More like he was playing music than writing.

         “Grandpa!”  I said a little louder this time.

         The typewriter stopped but he didn’t say anything.

         “I just wanted…” I stopped.  What did I want?  Why had I come upstairs instead of my father or my uncle?  They were his kids.  He knew them better than me.

         The hunched over figure did not move.  I could see that his hands were poised over the keyboard. 

         “I’m sorry grandpa.”  I said, the words coming out of me even though I really didn’t know what to say to him.

         His hands lowered and he turned to me. 

         My fear ratcheted up and I felt my ass tense. 

         His face was mostly gone.  Strings of flesh and muscle attached to the bone.  His clothes hung on him and I could see his skeleton in several places. 

         His glasses were pushed up into the top of his skull, not that he would have needed them.  One eye was gone and the other was a leaky mess.  His skull was set in a permanent grin.

         “Hey big Bill.”  His voice was gravelly and sounded as though it was coming more from his chest than his mouth.

         I almost turned and ran.  It was more than I could take, but then I thought of my mother and father and realized that they would never be able to come this far.

         “Hey grandpa.”  I said in a tiny voice.

         “What can I do for you?”  He said again and did not seem to notice or care that a huge wad of maggots had eaten their way though his left cheek.  Each time he breathed out several of them went flying.

         “I just wanted to talk to you for a minute.”

         He shook his head and what remained of his eye slid out and plopped to the floor with a wet smacking sound.  “I’m kind of busy Billy boy.  Can this wait?”

         He was falling apart right in front of me.  Love and revulsion flared up and did battle inside my head.  Love won, barely.

         “I understand.”  I said, even though I didn’t.  “Grandpa, there’s something I need to tell you but I don’t know how.”

         “Spit it out boy.”  So saying he sprayed the room with a half dozen teeth.  One of them hit me on the chin and hung for a moment before falling to the floor. 

         Love was beginning to loose the battle.

         “Dad and Uncle Phil are a little worried about you.”

         “Oh?”  His head bobbed like a demented marionette and for a moment I thought I saw something moving around up there.  Just a quick flash of fur or something.

         How could I say this to him?  Normally when people died they lay down and didn’t move again.  My grandfather was obviously too stubborn for that.

         “They think you are working too much.”  That was lame, but I couldn’t come up with anything better.

         “I’ve always put food on the table with my work.  You’d think that they would be happy and appreciate my effort.”  This time when he shook his head I was sure that something was moving in there.  Something that didn’t belong.

         “I know grandpa.  But…”

         “No buts boy.  You tell your pappy that if he has a problem with me to bring his little narrow ass up here.”

         Something was looking at me through his empty socket.  Something with two small black eyes and a little twittering snout.

         I felt my cereal rise to the back of my throat.

         “Was there anything else?”  He said, spraying more teeth.

         “No grandpa.”

         He turned back around and began to type again.  The thing in his head moved once more and then settled down.  I guess talking irritated it.

         “Grandpa?”

         “What now boy?”  He said without turning.

         “I love you.”

         The typewriter began to clack again and I started down the stairs. 

         My dad was in the living room as I started for the door.  “Grandpa wants you.”  I said.

         He dropped his cigarette and gulped several times.

         “Why?”

         I shrugged as I headed out the door.  Heck I already did the hard part, let him handle the rest.