A Man Named Dave

Grandmother on the phone, I knew I was just her captive audience. “No one knows what it’s like,” she began, “to lose your children, to be all alone. No one knows.”
    “What?” I exclaimed. “Did you say she’s dead? Mom’s dead?”
    “Well,” Grandmother sniffled, “she sure as hell might as well be. You’d think the least she could do is visit her own mother.”
    “So she’s alive? I’m sorry, I misunderstood, I thought you just said …” My words trailed off.
    “You know damn well, young man, that when your mother sold the house to some foreigner – and let me tell you, I heard she got a pretty penny for it, too. That house sold so fast it would have made your head spin. And does she offer me anything? Hell no! Not one red cent, let alone grant a kind word to her own mother… .”
    I steadied myself, trying to clear my head. I had no idea Mother had moved. And I truly did not care. All I could think about was my brothers – if they were still with her, if they were safe. Maybe they even had a new chance of happiness. Slowly I came out of my trance, wondering how the conversation had turned. I knew the unspoken rules of speaking with Grandmother: Let her rant as long as she wanted, never question her opinion, never interrupt, and, above all, never ask a question. Any questions could mean dire consequences. “Grandma, I am sorry, but… could I please have the number to Aunt Jane’s? I just would like to pay my respects. I’ve been away for a while, and I don’t want her to think …”
    “Well,” Grandmother said, “I just don’t know if I can find it. I just don’t know what I’m going to do.” After a lengthy pause, she let out a labored sigh. “And if that weren’t enough, can you believe she settled here?” I could hear Grandmother stab her finger into the phone. “Here of all places? She doesn’t even have the decency to come see me. Not once. Well, if she’s waiting for me to traipse over to her place and bow down before her holiness, well, she can wait till hell freezes over! I don’t need this, you know.”
    Standing in the cramped phone booth, I automatically nodded in agreement. “Yes, Grandma,” I replied, “I understand.” Yet, as I thought about it, Mother moving near Salt Lake City made absolutely no sense. I recalled as a small child that Mother had told stories to Ron, Stan, and me about how she despised Utah, the extreme winters, and what she dubbed, “the inner society of ‘The Church.’” I would have never guessed that Mother would, of all places, move near her own mother – a person that she treated with absolute malice.
    Clutching the telephone, I recalled Mother’s instantaneous change of attitude whenever Grandmother dropped by. Even when I had sat at the bottom of the stairs in the basement, I could distinctively hear Mother’s unique way of being both slightly submissive and coldly dispassionate. Mother seemed to attempt to appease Grandmother but only to a limit. The more Grandmother tried to reach out, the more Mother refused Grandmother and whatever offers she made. Whenever Grandmother left Mother’s home, there was always hell to pay, and I was usually Mother’s outlet. Now, leaning against the metal ledge of the phone booth, I could not remember a single gesture of love or compassion between the two women. Straining to pick up what Grandmother was saying, I could not help but make the connection between mother and daughter – both consumed by their mutual hatred and yet they were a mirror image of each other.
    From the books I was studying on psychology and human development, I could only assume that Mother’s drinking, vindictive behavior, and her treatment of me were somehow linked to her past.
    Grandmother’s labored breathing caught my attention. “And …” she huffed, “I just don’t know what to do about Stan. I give him odd jobs and I pay him, of course, but I’m not going to be around forever, you know. I’ve told him time and time again, he needs to finish school and get a high school diploma. I’ve told him over and over that I’d pay for a tutor. You’d think he’d listen to me. You’ll see, when he’s on his own without a pot to piss in, he’ll come running to me. You’d think with all I’ve done …”
    I had to jump in to keep her from belittling my younger brother, Stan, who had been mildly retarded since suffering a severe fever as a small child. “Grandma,” I interjected, “I’m sorry about Stan, but could I please, please get the phone number for Aunt Jane?” By the