Press: The downward press of the springboard before its upward recoil.
GP WAS in a stupor when I came in from Chip’s so I spent the rest of the night finishing a ridiculous mound of homework, while intermittently staring into space, trying to make sense of the memory from the cliff. Especially what Mom said about being like her and not blurting everything I see. But Uncle Phil isn’t just anyone. He’s the only person I can talk to about any of this stuff. My grandfather is the one who wouldn’t understand.
I hear GP coming toward the kitchen and I fumble a bag of much-needed coffee, knocking over the glass of water I poured to take my morning Adderall. The dark roasted grounds and water swirl together and cascade over the oak cabinets like mud, drizzling onto the dingy, yellowing tiles at my feet. I stare at the mess through eyes that sting from lack of sleep, semi-frozen, because for a split-second I thought I felt the memory crawling forward again from the deepest part of my brain.
I crouch to mop up the grainy mess and stuff the sopping wad of paper towels into the trash bin under the sink. As I stand my eyes land on the kitchen window and I jump a freaking mile. GP is standing right behind me. Not super close. But offset like a pair of playing cards, our side-by-side reflections a study in genetic anomalies. Different heights, different builds, different hair colors, though his is mostly gray now. I look more like my mom than the Mackeys who all have brown hair and eyes.
“Caught you off guard, did I?”
Yeah. You could say that. But I don’t. “I was just making some coffee.”
“Looks like it got away from you.”
Not as much as the bottle got away from him last night. “You want a cup?”
“I suppose I should.”
And I suppose he’s right, as long as he doesn’t substitute Jack Daniel’s for half-and-half. If I’m going to get any help from him, I need him relatively sober.
Adapt or perish.
That’s what Mr. Malone said about survival of the fittest during sociology before he assigned us our partners. He was talking about it in context to our family histories. Ancestors immigrating to the United States, taking control of their futures, when they had no reason to trust the process. Truth is, unless I’m on the springboard, taking control was never my strong suit. But that has to change.
I take two mugs from an upper cabinet and restart the coffee making process under the weight of GP’s presence. He won’t apologize for being drunk last night. I doubt he even remembers half of what he said. From the corner of my eye, I see him staring at my sociology notebook. I try not to stiffen.
“How are your classes going?”
“My classes?” Now I know he’s sober. This is the first time he’s shown interest in my academic status in ages. “Okay, I guess. For the most part.” I flip the knob on the coffeemaker and face him, keeping my back against the sink.
“For the most part,” he says. “You guess.”
“Not as good as they should be,” I clarify. Even though I hate when he responds in question-statements. My dad used to do the same thing. Nature versus nurture in full effect.
GP scratches the gray scruff on his chin. “I hear there’s something you want to talk to me about?”
Curtis must have mentioned the family history project to him last night. I root through the cabinets for sugar, avoiding his stare. Then I take a deep breath, the way I do before every big dive, and let it rip.
“I know you don’t like talking about the night of the fire,” I say to the inside of a cabinet, “and that the subject is sort of off-limits, but my sociology class is doing a semester-long project that explores the family as a social institution. We’re supposed to start with our nuclear families, conducting interviews and gathering information, then work our way out to mini-biographies of other relatives.”
“Social institutions, huh?”
“I can show you the synopsis.” I start pulling up School Loop on my phone, but have to wait for a stupid app to update. The little progress bar, running red, is an accurate measure of my patience. It turns over to green and I hold my phone out for GP.
“I don’t need to see that damned thing. Just tell me what you need already, before I’m dead from old age. Or worse.”
Right.
I shove my phone into my pocket. “The first part of the assignment is due in a couple of weeks, which wouldn’t be a big deal if I had the names of any of Mom’s relatives. If there’s anyone in her family you know of that I can contact. Maybe they can … I don’t know … fill in some blanks.” I shrug to keep it casual.
GP has one eyebrow cocked discouragingly, but I’m in too deep not to finish testing the water.
“I know you won’t like this idea either, but if you don’t have anything that might help me I could always ask he-ain’t-your-goddamn-Uncle-Phil if he has anything I can use.”
“You know I don’t want you doing that.”
GP lets out a barking cough.
“Are you sick? You’ve been coughing a bunch.”
“I ain’t sick,” he snaps.
Okay fine. His gross cough says otherwise.
The coffeemaker sputters behind me and GP stands without saying another word. In three strides he’s beside me again casually, but not so casually, reaching for the glass carafe behind my back. I jiggle my leg to work off my mounting anxiety until his eyes flick to my leg and I stop cold.
“You nervous about something?”
Sweat prickles my spine. “I’d like a decent grade on this project and don’t have much to go on. Other than that I’m just waiting for coffee so I can go on my Saturday run.”
“You oughta know that the fire isn’t sort of off-limits. There’s just not much left to say.”
Sure there is. Loads.
I bite my lip as he hands me a mug of black coffee. I stare into the cup’s dark abyss and imagine myself two inches tall, standing on the rim, ready to dive back into familiar avoidance.
“The only thing I ever said was off-limits was Phil Maddox,” GP says. “I told you he ain’t family. He was a kid I felt sorry for, which turned into a big mistake on my part.”
“But you’ve never say why.” I’m not keeping my distance from anyone just because GP says. Not without an explanation.
“You ever hear the saying the devil you know ain’t always better than one you don’t?”
“I have. But he was never a devil to me. And if he has pictures and stuff that would make up for what we lost in the fire…”
“Nothing that man could give you is ever gonna make up for what you lost in that fire,” GP snaps. “I know the two of you got history. Hell, I got history with him, too, in spades. But I’m asking you to keep your distance because I’m done worrying about the people in this family.”
Coffee splashes from his cup onto the local newspaper because his hands are shaking. But I’m too annoyed to help him clean it up this time. He takes a seat at the kitchen table, lowering himself slowly like he’s in pain. Maybe he’s getting the flu.
“Fine,” I say, to avoid an argument.
I’m going to Uncle Phil’s house today anyway, just like always, whether GP approves of it or not.
He stares at me and sighs, then reaches for the bourbon bottle that sits squarely on the table where most people keep a vase. He unscrews the black cap and replaces the coffee that sloshed from his mug with something stronger. Not like I didn’t see that coming.
“How ’bout you just concentrate on the Mackey side for now,” he says.
Great.
Everything I know about Dad’s side of the family would fit on a square of toilet paper and is just as shitty. Dad was an only child, like me, one parent deceased, the other a drunk. Pretty grim family history if you ask me. But okay. I’ll just put up a one-sided family tree, then field questions from my classmates. I can see it now.
Wait. Both your parents died? At the same time?
Nope. I accidently set our house on fire and my mom got trapped inside. My dad had a heart attack three years later while driving and crashed, which was probably just a domino effect from my mom’s death. I’m still working on her side of the tree, but thanks for asking.
“You got your mother’s distant look in your eye, kid,” he says, shaking his head. “Make sure you’re in control of whatever thoughts are haunting you right now and not the other way around, and I’ll see what I can do to help you with the Rogan side.”
He picks up the bottle of bourbon and walks away, conversation over. He pauses to examine me as he pulls his office keys from his pocket, his face soured by the thought that I’d go against his wishes.
GP hasn’t stayed in that room for any length of time in months. But when he used to go in there and shut me out, he’d be gone for hours, sometimes days. That was sometimes better, sometimes worse, than when he started drinking openly around the house.