Chapter Eleven #3
As I stand up, I notice the wineglass he knocked over isn’t as empty as I thought. Some kind of sediment remains at the bottom. I lean over and drag my finger through the sludge of sugar-like granules, trying to remember who was seated where.
Over Maura’s protests and Barron’s annoyed insistence, I half-carry Grandad out to the car.
My heart beats like I’m in a fight as I turn down the offers to sleep in the study or on the sofa.
I say I’m not tired. I invent an appointment Grandad has with a bingo playing widow in the morning.
Grandad is heavy and so drugged and drunk that he barely responds.
Philip drugged him. The reason eludes me, but I think of the sludge and I know Philip must have done it.
“You should just stay,” Barron says for the millionth time.
“You’re going to drop him,” Philip says. “Careful.”
“Then help me,” I say, grunting.
Philip puts out his cigarette on the aluminum siding and slips his shoulder under Grandad’s arm to lift him up.
“Just bring him back into the house,” Barron says, and a look passes between them. Barron’s frown deepens. “Cassel, how are you going to get him into the house on the other end if you need Philip’s help getting him into the car?”
“He’ll have sobered up some by then,” I say.
“What if he doesn’t?” Barron calls, but Philip walks toward the car door.
For a moment I think he’s going to block my way, and I have no idea what I’ll do if he does. He opens the door, though, and holds it while I heave Grandad inside and belt him in.
As I pull out of the driveway, I look back at Philip, Barron, and Maura. Relief floods me. I’m free. I’m nearly gone.
My phone rings, startling me. Grandad doesn’t stir, even though it’s loud; the sound is turned all the way up. I watch for the rise and fall of his chest to make sure he’s still breathing.
“Hello?” I say, not even bothering to check who’s calling. I wonder how far the hospital is and whether I should go.
Philip and Barron wouldn’t kill Grandad. And if they were planning on killing him, Philip wouldn’t poison him in his own kitchen. And if he did, he sure as hell wouldn’t try and get me to put the body to bed in his guest room.
I repeat that thought to myself over and over.
“Can you hear me? It’s Daneca,” she says, whispering. “And Sam.”
I don’t know how long she’s been speaking.
I look at the clock on the dashboard. “What’s wrong? It’s, like, three in the morning.”
She tells me but I’m barely listening to her answer. My mind is going through all the possible things you can give someone to knock them out. Sleeping pills are the most obvious. They go great with booze too.
I realize the other end of the line is expectantly silent. “What?” I ask. “Can you say that again?”
“I said your cat’s disgusting,” she says slowly, clearly annoyed.
“Is she okay? Is the cat okay?”
Sam starts laughing. “The cat’s fine, but there’s a little brown mouse on Daneca’s floor with its head ripped off. Your cat killed our mouse.”
“Its tail looks like a piece of string,” Daneca says.
“The mouse?” I ask. “The mouse of legend? The one everyone’s been betting on for six months?”
“What happens if everybody loses a bet?” Sam asks. “Nobody got it right. Who the hell do we pay?”
“Who cares about that? What do I do?” Daneca says.
“The cat is just staring at me, and I think there’s blood on her mouth.
I look at her and see the deaths of hundreds of mice and birds.
I see them just lining up to march into her mouth along an unfurling carpet of tongue like in an old cartoon. I think she wants to eat me next.”
“Pet the cat, dude,” says Sam. “She brought you a present. She wants you to tell her how badass she is.”
“You are a tiny, tiny killing machine,” Daneca coos.
“What’s she doing?” I ask.
“Purring!” says Daneca. She sounds delighted. “Good kitty. Who’s an amazing killing machine? That’s right! You are! You are a brutal, brutal tiny lion! Yes, you are.”
Sam laughs so hard he chokes. “What is wrong with you? Seriously.”
“She likes it,” Daneca says.
“I hate to be the one to have to point this out to you,” he says, “but she doesn’t understand what you’re saying.”
“Maybe she does,” I say. “Who can tell, right? She’s purring.”
“Whatever, dude. So, do we keep the money?”
“It’s either that or release another mouse into the walls.”
“Right, then,” Sam says. “We keep the money.”
I drive the rest of the way home, unbuckle Grandad, and shake him. When that doesn’t work, I slap him in the face hard enough that he grunts and opens his eyes a little.
“Mary?” he says, which freaks me out because that’s my grandmother’s name and she’s been gone a long time.
“Hold on to me,” I say, but his legs are rubbery and he’s not much help. We go slowly. I bring him right into the bathroom and let him slouch on the tiles while I mix up a cocktail of hydrogen peroxide and water.
When he starts puking, I figure that my Wallingford’s AP chemistry class was good for something. I wonder if this would be a good argument to give Dean Wharton in favor of letting me back in.