Y: Visiting Father's Grandparents

Chapter: Kid, Visiting Father's Grandparents

We are in the car on our way to my father's grandparent's house in
Beaumont. We have been told Beaumont is exactly one hour from Houston.
Allowed to sleep in for this trip, I can't complain that the sun is up
by the time we leave. Already the car is hot and sticky and full of
blowing wind. It's a school day, tomorrow being Saturday, so my sister
and I are happy about going.

We have learned a lot about Beaumont and my mother and father in the
past couple of days. Both my mother and father grew up there. Both
lived with some sort of grandparent, at one time or another, before
they met. My father calls my mother's grandmother a mean old bitch.
Beaumont is full of pretty houses but it's as boring as watching an ant
pile on a cold winter day. That is from my mother. My mother also told
us that Beaumont means beautiful hill or mountain, but when we get off
the highway and drive into Beaumont itself, I don't see any hills or
mountains. The streets are as flat as they are in Houston, with wood
houses along the road. The houses are mostly white, with black
shutters, and some of them look like they're leaning to one side. They
all have porches and chairs - or swings - in front.

Clothes hang on lines in the front and back yards. This is what
surprises me the most. None of the houses has a fence around it, and I
can see people's sheets and blue jeans and even underwear weighing down
the lines. We have a dryer at our house, in the garage, and I'm glad.
My father usually does the laundry. I know I would never be left alone
if my father hung my underwear out to dry.

We drive. My father doesn't act mad like he does on trips to his
mother's house. Instead he yells into the backseat and points out
places we pass. My sister and I are awake, our necks extended to view
parks, a bench, a boarded-up storefront, a barbershop. We pass
sidewalks where nobody walks, and I can tell it's hot outside the car.
The heat makes those sidewalks look hazy. The trees droop like the
laundry we've already passed.

My mother isn't on this trip. I wonder what she's doing at home, in our
brick house and our neighborhood that looks nothing like Beaumont. She
may still be at work. I can't picture her walking along these streets,
or living in one of these white houses. I can picture her sitting in
our house, with the air conditioner on, reading one of the books that
looks like all the other books she reads. The covers have a woman on
front, her hair blowing back onto a man standing behind her, his hands
on her shoulders. A house or castle sits in the background, the sun
rising or setting. "Romances," my mother calls them. Sometimes she
laughs when she's reading them.

The houses in Beaumont get uglier the further we go. I see peeling
paint, and sometimes a shutter that's hanging loose. The clothes and
sheets hanging out to dry look gray. My father stops pointing things
out, so we are free to look at the dirt yards and dogs that are tied to
stakes coming out of the ground. The dogs sit and stare at nothing,
their tongues wet-looking and hanging out. They don't watch us, but I
know that if we walked up to one of them, it would jump and bark and
pull on its chain. I believe this is what dogs do, that it's their only
job.

Finally the car pulls into the dirt driveway of a one story house, as
run down as all of the other houses we've passed. The car bounces and
shakes, making me feel sick. I lean forward and grab hold of the front
seat to steady myself. That's when I see them. I poke my sister in the
leg so she can see them, too.

They're sitting on the porch on a swing that hangs from the roof. The
porch doesn't have a railing. They're both barefoot, their feet bright
white against the wood on the porch. They are smiling. The lady raises
her hand and waves.

We get out of the car and walk behind my father, who is already at the
bottom of the porch. The old man stands up, his knees making popping
noises while one hand holds the swing. He is so tall that his head
almost touches the porch roof. The old woman is still trying to get out
of the swing. She laughs as she scoots forward, putting her feet down
and losing her balance when the swing hits the back of her legs. For a
second it looks like she might go shooting off the porch, but somehow
she stands up straight. I can see she has no teeth.

The old woman tells us to go on inside. There is no hugging or kissing,
like with father's mother, although I am patted on the head as I walk
into the house. "I have to pee," I say to my father, who is sitting
down in a chair that looks just like the one he has at home. This one
is brown, though, and has little covers on the arms that look like
lace. The other furniture in the room doesn't have these covers and it
looks itchy.

My father says something under his breath and then takes me to the
bathroom, closing the door so that I'm left in the tiny room by myself.
The bathroom has no window, and it's lit by a light bulb that hangs
from the ceiling. The bulb is attached to a rusty chain I can't reach,
which is fine with me because I wouldn't want to turn the light off
anyway.

I start to pee, and see a set of teeth floating in a jar on the back of
the toilet. I bend forward to get a closer look, and pee splashes on
the toilet rim and onto my leg. The toilet is already covered in big
yellow splotches, so I wipe it off like I would at home. I think nobody
will know the difference.

Back in the living room, my sister is still standing by the front door.
She looks a little like my mother, who is always the first one at the
door when it's time to go. My father has told us to call his
grandparents Mr. and Mrs. Smith. They sit on the couch, smiling. Mrs.
Smith's gums show as her head bobs up and down. The teeth in the
bathroom must be hers.

"Go on in the kitchen," Mr. Smith says, "There's some candy in that jar
on the table." My sister and I look at my father, who nods, and we
start towards the back of the house, not sure where the kitchen is but
wanting to get out of the living room. My father yells after us,
telling us to take just one piece.

The kitchen is right where we find it, a straight walk from the living
room. My sister opens the jar on the table and hands me a whole candy
bar, taking one for herself and putting the jar lid back on loosely. I
know this means she will sneak another one later, and I hope she thinks
to take two. We stand in the kitchen eating our candy bars, which are
soft and almost melting. Except for the table and two chairs, the
kitchen it empty.

My sister walks into the space between the living room and kitchen,
asking my father if we can go outside. Neither of us wants to go back
into the living room, though I would like to look at the rest of the
rooms in the house. I want to look through the dark furniture I've seen
and sit on the strange beds that sag in the middle. For now, though,
I'd settle for outside.

"Out the back, out the back," Mrs. Smith says. She's been laughing to
herself since we got here. My sister rolls her eyes at me.

"That's right, out the back," my father yells. This is enough for us.
We open the screen door at the back of the kitchen and run out into the
back yard. The screen door has gnats and lady bugs and bits of old
spider web on it.

The back yard is different from the front of the house. It's big, with
tow rows of tall trees along the sides. There is grass instead of dirt,
and it's cooler.

We walk into the yard and my sister starts screaming, "Roaches!
Roaches!" She turns and half-runs, half-skips back up to the porch, her
arms above her head. I freeze and stay where I am, sure that my shoes
and legs will soon be covered in bugs. But when I look at the grass
nothing moves, even when I reach down and poke the brown shells next to
my feet. They are pecans, which do look like big roaches, especially
since they're hidden by the grass and the shade. I laugh and pick up a
pecan, throwing it at my sister. It lands by her feet, and once she
sees what it is she tears off the porch after me.

But even in the shade, it's still too hot to do much running. We go
back and forth between the trees for a while, finally getting to the
end of the yard. Both of us are sweating, and I can feel my hair
curling around my face. It does this when it gets wet, lifting up and
away from my head like the wind's hitting it. Later, when it dries, it
will look my mother's hair when she takes out her pink curlers.

"Look over there," my sister says, pointing at a shed in the corner of
the yard. The shed is like a tiny house, with windows and a roof and a
regular-size door in front. We check to see if anyone's watching, and
walk to the shed. The bottom of the roof is almost as low as my
sister's head.

My sister turns the door knob, and to our surprise the door opens right
up, creaking loudly. There's light inside, from the windows, and I see
boxes and old furniture. The shed doesn't look anything like a real
house on the inside

"Go in," my sister tells me. I step back.

"You first," I say, because there is now way I'm going in first so my
sister can pull the door shut and lock me inside. I don't see a lock on
the door, but still.

"Okay, you big baby," my sister says, walking into the shed. I follow.
The shelves along the wall keep us in the center of the shed. There's a
light bulb hanging from the ceiling, with a metal chain like the one I
saw before in the bathroom. My sister pulls the chain but nothing
happens. She yanks it again and says, "Doesn't work." I roll my eyes, a
trick I've been practicing and trying to get right. I can't tell if I'm
getting it right because when I look in the mirror and do it, all I see
is the ceiling.

My sister pulls open the top of a box and looks into it while I do the
same with a box sitting on the floor. My sister pulls out a blue vase
that looks like a flower, and I find a whole pile of lace, yellow and
smelling like a wet towel that's been left on the floor too long. We go
through the boxes one at a time, through ashtrays and dishes and
clothes. All of it is packed away neatly, the boxes not too heavy. My
sister finds a case covered in red fabric that's full of
silverware.

"Why don't they use this stuff?" I ask. Instead of answering, my sister
jumps back, almost knocking me over.

"Spider," she says, "Big one. I'm getting out of here." She shoves me
out of the way and leaves, but I stay. I see spiders all the time at
home, but at least she doesn't see roaches again.

"Come on," she says, outside the door. Her arms are crossed.

"I want to look some more," I say. My sister rolls her eyes, and I'm
jealous of how easily she does it. She turns around and starts walking
towards the house. I think about following her, because she's probably
going to get another candy bar from the kitchen, but I decide I can
sneak one for myself later.

I go through the boxes, putting everything back the way I find it even
though I'm hurrying. Nobody said we couldn't be in the shed, but if my
father sees what I'm doing, he might make me get out and go back into
the house. I'm looking for something. I don't know what it is, but it
has something to do with the old people in the house. They don't fit
with any of the stuff in this shed.

I find what I'm looking for in a box stuck under one of the shelves.
The box is covered by a blanket, and when I pull it out cobwebs wave
around in the air. Inside is another box, a real one, made out of white
leather with gold lines painted on the side and top. It has a tiny
metal lock on the front. It looks clean.

There is no key, and the lock pops open when I push it sideways. I lift
the lid, and inside I see diamonds and shiny stones that are red and
blue and green. There's gold, and big necklaces tangled up with one
another. All of it catches the light. So much color. I remember to
breathe, and look out the window to make sure no one is coming. The
yard is empty.

I pull out a pin in the shape of a bird, its eye a shiny red stone and
its feathers line after line of diamonds. It's so heavy it feels like a
rock. There's a pin shaped like a cat, with green eyes and gold
whiskers. The earrings I pick up have funny loops on the back and
little screws attached to them. Everything shines and shines.

I want to keep this white box, take it back home and put it under my
bed or in my closet. I could sell some if the stuff and keep the money.
I wonder if the old people in the house have forgotten about it. Maybe
they keep it here to hide it away from robbers. Or maybe they are
saving it. They might be rich, and just don't act like it.

But I know this box is too big to get past my father, who will wonder
what's in it. He'll want to look inside. He might keep it for himself,
or give it back to his grandparents. There's too much to hide in my
pockets. And I want it all, every earring and pin and necklace.

There is nothing to do but leave the box in the shed. I can come back
for it later, now that I know it's here. I'm pretty sure my father will
bring us back here, because we are always getting into his car and
driving somewhere. Next time I'll have a plan, bring something I can
hide it all in so I can take it home.

I put everything back. I make sure the blanket covering the box is
exactly like it was before. Just in case, I stick a chair in front of
the box, jamming the chair under the shelf.

I walk backwards out of the shed when I'm done, checking to make sure
everything looks the same. I close the shed door and then open it
again, fast, and look inside. Nothing has moved, or changed.