C: Grandma Jones

Chapter: Grandma Jones

My aunt is taking me to Grandma Jones in Beaumont. Grandma Jones is my
mother's mother; Beaumont is where my mother grew up. I have an actual
suitcase packed with clean clothes in the back seat of the car. I
myself have been scrubbed from head to toe. This trip has something to
do with my mother's stomach growing bigger, but so far no one has told
me the details. I know the details anyway, just the same.

The excitement of the trip, without my sister or my father or my
mother, has kept my crying to a minimum. My aunt has explained that
Grandma Jones raised her and my mother, as well as some other aunts and
an uncle I've never met. "She's mean as a snake," my aunt explained,
"So just remember to be seen and not heard."

"How long will I be there?" I asked.

"Only a few days, maybe a week," my aunt said. "When you get back
there'll be a big surprise waiting for you."

"What's she like?" I ask again. My aunt sighs. She doesn't drive her
car like my mother or father. Instead, she keeps both hands on the
wheel and stares straight ahead the entire time. She can continue
staring ahead even as she changes the radio channel, or rolls down a
window. She also makes everyone wear a seatbelt when they drive with
her.

"I told you. She's mean, but if you stay out of her way, you'll do
fine. She's really my grandmother. Your mama's grandmother, too. So
that makes her your great grandmother."

This means nothing to me. In my experience, old people are generally
best when avoided. If I am going to see a great grandmother, she must
be truly old. I hold Charlie, my red teddy bear, close to my
chest.

"Why isn't Pam coming?" I ask.

"She's in school, remember?" My aunt's hair whips around her face, and
true to form her eyes don't leave the road as she reaches up and tucks
it behind her ear. "Don't be such a worry wart," she says, "It'll be
fun."

I'm not so sure. I am being driven to an old lady's house, where I'll
be left to my own devices. My aunt's description of Grandma Jones
doesn't help. She may not help me go to the bathroom.

"What should I call her?" I ask.

"Grandma Jones, of course," my aunt answers. I practice saying 'Grandma
Jones' for a couple of minutes until my aunt tells me I'm giving her a
headache. I can handle the last name, but the grandma part makes me
nervous. I decide I can call her 'Mrs. Jones' if necessary, pretending
she's a neighbor or someone in the supermarket.

Houston falls behind us, and for the most part we drive on in silence.
My aunt promises we'll go through the Dairy Queen once we get to
Beaumont, but when we get there, she gets nervous. I can tell there's
no ice cream in my future. She chews her lower lip, and I imitate her,
but I bite through the soft, fleshy part below my lower lip. The taste
of blood fills my mouth.

"We're here!" my aunt yells, and I take my eyes off the dashboard. The
car pulls in front of an apartment building with doors that open onto
the outside. The building has two stories, with metal stairs.
Everything on the building is painted blue.

My aunt takes my suitcase, and I follow, my teddy bear in one hand
while the other struggles to hold onto some coloring books. The weather
is cooler than in Houston, and it's quiet. I don't see any other
kids.

One of the doors on the top floor opens, and Grandma Jones
appears.

At least, I think it's her. She is very old, taller than my aunt, I
see, even before she comes down the stairs.

"Grandma, how are you?" my aunt says, and hugs her. Grandama Jones has
white hair, pulled into a bun on the back of her head. She has glasses
on a chain around her neck, and wears dress that almost matches the
color of her building. The dress goes straight down from her shoulders
to just above her knees. She looks like a stuffed, blue sausage.

"Hello," she says, her mouth a smile. Unlike my father's mother, she's
not wearing any lipstick. She has perfectly even teeth, almost too
white, and she stares at me. "Doesn't the boy speak?" she asks my aunt,
who's carrying my suitcase up the stairs.

"Say hello," my aunt tells me over her shoulder. I don't say anything,
either because I'm too shy or because I don't trust Grandma Jones'
stare, which has settled on Charlie, my teddy bear.

Grandma Jones motions me into her apartment. My aunt leaves. And in the
end, I'm right. Charlie ends up in a wooden trunk, the key kept in box
out of my reach.

"Gotcha," says Grandma Jones, when she catches me trying to pick the
trunk with a fork.