keep my voice quieter than the ones coming from the kitchen, and that’s no easy feat. “Grandpa’s last name! It’s the same as ours!”
“Yeah? So?”
I’m almost shaking. Around the same time I learnedthat Scott Hamilton was not my real dad, I asked Mom and Oma what my grandpa’s name was. I asked because a girl my age, Sonya, had moved into apartment #426, and for a short time I entertained being her best friend, like she asked me to. That notion didn’t last long—mainly because her idea of fun was making her Barbie doll hop up and down the front steps, and a girl named Lativa found that game more to her liking than I did, and also because after just five short weeks she announced that she and her mom were going to go live with her grandpa in Minnesota. The mention of her grandfather was the first time that it really dawned on me that just as I had to have a father someplace, so did Mom. So I asked if I had a grandpa and what his name was. Mom didn’t answer me, but Oma did. And all she said was, “Yes,” and, “His name is Sam.” I never thought to ask his last name. I just assumed that it was the same as Oma’s—Larson.
Milo shrugs. I scoot alongside him and hiss into his ear, “You idiot! If Grandpa is a McGowan too, it can only mean one of two things. Either our father was Mom’s first cousin or we’re bastards. I’d bet on the second—even though inbreeding often produces a genius or two among the idiots.”
Milo shrugs again, then fiddles to perfectly align the books stacked on his lap.
“We’re bastards. I can’t believe it.”
“So? Lots of couples cohabitate and have children and never marry.”
“Yeah, well, Oliver Twist was a bastard, and look where that got him.”
I can see I’m not going to get anywhere with Milo—not surprising—so I let the topic rest and I look above him, where an 8×10 photograph hangs in one of those cheap,black metal document frames. In the photo is a man holding a sheet cake that says,
Happy Retirement
, and there are men and women surrounding him, holding up beer glasses.
I kneel on the arm of the sofa so I’m higher and stare at the picture that has to be him, my grandfather. He has broad shoulders and dark hair that sits like chocolate frosting, thick and swirled over the top of his head, exposing a wide forehead like Mom’s. He’s wearing a dark suit. His eyes are indeed shaped like mine, but they look more so like Mom’s. His broad smile looks like no one’s. Well, except maybe for the man on the infomercial.
I leave Milo and go into the kitchen, where Aunt Jeana is busy taking brown bottles down from the cupboard. Chico is trembling at her feet. One by one, she sets the bottles on the counter, reciting their names and times per day Grandpa needs to take them. “And don’t forget his aspirin every day.” There is a plate of oatmeal raisin cookies on the counter and chopped hamburger sizzling in a small fry pan on the stove. As Aunt Jeana lists the medications, she pauses now and then to glance into the pan.
Chico has been yipping at me since I entered the kitchen, and Aunt Jeana scoops him up and kisses the top of his bony head, then whispers, “Hush now,” into his paper-thin ear. He stops barking, his bottom snaggletooth catching on his upper lip.
“Sam’s napping. That’s pretty much all he does anymore. I moved him into that room,” she says, pointing toward the door that’s slightly ajar, just around the wide, arched doorway connecting the kitchen and living room. “He couldn’t go up and down the stairs if he tried at this point. He doesn’t talk much, but he will answer you if you ask him questions. It sure has been lonely around here,though. I’m just glad I had my Chico and my programs.” She nods toward the small TV propped on the counter, where some woman with heavy makeup and dark roots is addressing herself at normal volume, while a mannequin-perfect man stands inches behind her, his head tilted as he
“Yeah? So?”
I’m almost shaking. Around the same time I learnedthat Scott Hamilton was not my real dad, I asked Mom and Oma what my grandpa’s name was. I asked because a girl my age, Sonya, had moved into apartment #426, and for a short time I entertained being her best friend, like she asked me to. That notion didn’t last long—mainly because her idea of fun was making her Barbie doll hop up and down the front steps, and a girl named Lativa found that game more to her liking than I did, and also because after just five short weeks she announced that she and her mom were going to go live with her grandpa in Minnesota. The mention of her grandfather was the first time that it really dawned on me that just as I had to have a father someplace, so did Mom. So I asked if I had a grandpa and what his name was. Mom didn’t answer me, but Oma did. And all she said was, “Yes,” and, “His name is Sam.” I never thought to ask his last name. I just assumed that it was the same as Oma’s—Larson.
Milo shrugs. I scoot alongside him and hiss into his ear, “You idiot! If Grandpa is a McGowan too, it can only mean one of two things. Either our father was Mom’s first cousin or we’re bastards. I’d bet on the second—even though inbreeding often produces a genius or two among the idiots.”
Milo shrugs again, then fiddles to perfectly align the books stacked on his lap.
“We’re bastards. I can’t believe it.”
“So? Lots of couples cohabitate and have children and never marry.”
“Yeah, well, Oliver Twist was a bastard, and look where that got him.”
I can see I’m not going to get anywhere with Milo—not surprising—so I let the topic rest and I look above him, where an 8×10 photograph hangs in one of those cheap,black metal document frames. In the photo is a man holding a sheet cake that says,
Happy Retirement
, and there are men and women surrounding him, holding up beer glasses.
I kneel on the arm of the sofa so I’m higher and stare at the picture that has to be him, my grandfather. He has broad shoulders and dark hair that sits like chocolate frosting, thick and swirled over the top of his head, exposing a wide forehead like Mom’s. He’s wearing a dark suit. His eyes are indeed shaped like mine, but they look more so like Mom’s. His broad smile looks like no one’s. Well, except maybe for the man on the infomercial.
I leave Milo and go into the kitchen, where Aunt Jeana is busy taking brown bottles down from the cupboard. Chico is trembling at her feet. One by one, she sets the bottles on the counter, reciting their names and times per day Grandpa needs to take them. “And don’t forget his aspirin every day.” There is a plate of oatmeal raisin cookies on the counter and chopped hamburger sizzling in a small fry pan on the stove. As Aunt Jeana lists the medications, she pauses now and then to glance into the pan.
Chico has been yipping at me since I entered the kitchen, and Aunt Jeana scoops him up and kisses the top of his bony head, then whispers, “Hush now,” into his paper-thin ear. He stops barking, his bottom snaggletooth catching on his upper lip.
“Sam’s napping. That’s pretty much all he does anymore. I moved him into that room,” she says, pointing toward the door that’s slightly ajar, just around the wide, arched doorway connecting the kitchen and living room. “He couldn’t go up and down the stairs if he tried at this point. He doesn’t talk much, but he will answer you if you ask him questions. It sure has been lonely around here,though. I’m just glad I had my Chico and my programs.” She nods toward the small TV propped on the counter, where some woman with heavy makeup and dark roots is addressing herself at normal volume, while a mannequin-perfect man stands inches behind her, his head tilted as he
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