This is the Part Where You Laugh

This is the Part Where You Laugh by Peter Brown Hoffmeister

Book: This is the Part Where You Laugh by Peter Brown Hoffmeister Read Free Book Online
Authors: Peter Brown Hoffmeister
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saying that. So maybe we should go out and look for it tomorrow evening when the light’s good. I could paddle for us and you could try to spotlight whatever it is. Wanna just hold the flashlight?”
    She adjusts her head on her pillows. “I don’t know, sweetie, I’m pretty tired these days.”
    I say, “I could carry you to the canoe. I could put you in there with pillows and blankets. Then I’d do all of the paddling. It’ll be like last time when you were sick.”
    Grandma smiles. “Those were fun nights.”
    “Yeah, I’ll paddle and you’ll tell stories,” I say. “I always loved your stories. They always made me happy.”
    She turns her face away from me. Says, “I don’t know if I’m strong enough to do anything like that right now. I don’t feel good if I’m moving.”
    I lean over and kiss her forehead, and when I do, I realize that she’s crying.
    “It’s okay, Grandma.”
    “I’m just so tired,” she says. “I probably need my sleep now.”
    “Okay.” I stand up.
    She still has her head turned away. “Good night, sweetie.”
    I feel bad about pushing her. I want to say I’m sorry, but I don’t. Instead, I just say, “Good night, Grandma.”
    After I close her door, I go out on the back porch and stare at the lake. I try not to cry myself, but I do anyway.
    On the other side of the glass, Grandpa jumps up off the couch and slides the glass door open. He says, “The Giants have two men on base. Only one out.”
    “Good, Grandpa.”
    “No, it’s not good. It’s excellent. You have to come in and watch this.”
    “No thanks. I’m going down to my tent now.”
    “With two men on base?”
    “Yeah,” I say. “But let me know what happens in the morning, okay?”
    Grandpa doesn’t understand how I could walk out on a game situation like that. He looks at me like I’m trying to eat soup with a fork.
    I say, “Goodnight, Grandpa.” Turn and walk down to my tent.
    I keep my tent flap open. Try to read but can’t. None of the books I have seem interesting. After a while, I hear Grandpa come out on the porch. I click my headlamp off and watch him pack a bowl. He smokes it down, then packs another and smokes that one down too. I lie on my bag and watch him puff. With the porch light in his face, he can’t see me down the hill.
    He goes back inside.
    I have to piss, so I get up and slip on my shoes, walk up the hill and down the street to Mr. Tyler’s house. No one’s out at this time of night. I look both ways but don’t see anything moving—no cats, no people, no cars, no dogs.
    As I’m pissing on Mr. Tyler’s porch, I think about the time he called Creature “a dirty little coon.”

WHAT HAPPENS THEN?
    “Hey, Creat. Why do you write about those Russian princesses?”
    “I don’t know, baby.”
    I say, “You have to know something. Some reason.”
    “I do,” he says. “I do.”
    “And that is…”
    Creature spins his basketball in his hands. He says, “I guess it’s like this: they didn’t have any power.”
    “Who?” I say. “The princesses?”
    “None. Everything I read about them, they were powerless. Being a Russian princess is like being some no-name skinny-ass clothes model in New York City. You just put on whatever clothes they give you, walk out on that runway, and look as good as you can. Then you walk back to wherever you stay all day and do jack-shit nothing for the rest of your time. Maybe you smoke some cigarettes. Maybe you don’t eat too much. That’s it.”
    “Is that right?”
    “I think so.”
    I say, “If that’s how it was for the princesses, then why do you write about them?”
    “I guess I like to put me there too. With them. What if we had love affairs? What if we had powerful love affairs? What’s the difference in our lives?”
    “The difference between you and a Russian princess?”
    “Exactly.” Creature taps his chest with his index finger. “What do I have?”
    “You’ve got basketball.”
    “Right,” he says.

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