woman with green eyes and a strong jaw. She told me I was her favorite
grandchild and that I was going to grow up to be something special. I
even liked all of her rules. I liked how she woke us up every morning at
dawn, shouting, "Rise and shine, everybody!" and insisted we wash our
hands and comb our hair before eating breakfast. She made us hot Cream
of Wheat with real butter, then oversaw us while we cleared the table and
washed the dishes. Afterward, she took us all to buy new clothes, and
we'd go to a movie like Mary Poppins.
Now, on the way to Phoenix, I stood up in the back of the car and leaned
over the front seat between Mom and Dad. "Are we going to go stay with
Grandma?" I asked.
"No," Mom said. She looked out the window, but not at anything in
particular. Then she said. "Grandma's dead."
"What?" I asked. I'd heard her, but I was so thrown I felt like I hadn't.
Mom repeated herself, still looking out the window. I glanced back at
Lori and Brian, but they were sleeping. Dad was smoking, his eyes on the
road. I couldn't believe I'd been sitting there thinking of Grandma Smith,
looking forward to eating Cream of Wheat and having her comb my hair
and cuss, and all along she'd been dead. I started hitting Mom on the
shoulder, hard, and asking why she hadn't told us. Finally, Dad held
down my fists with his free hand, the other holding both his cigarette and
the steering wheel, and said. "That's enough, Mountain Goat."
Mom seemed surprised that I was so upset.
"Why didn't you tell us?" I asked.
"There didn't seem any point," she said.
"What happened?" Grandma had been only in her sixties, and most