I hadn't heard the phone ring. It was Mother's wailing that woke me this morning. Groggy, I thought it odd she was crying. Mother does that at night when Dad beats her up. "Nag, nag, nag. That's all you do is nag," Dad yells. The chase starts. The house shakes. If Mother makes it to the bathroom and locks the door, she waits until Dad falls asleep. If Dad catches her, though, that's when I hate him because he hits her. Men shouldn't do that to women. Dad only stops long after the blood flows. Mother still screams, "Drink, drink, drink. That's all you do is drink."
I say to myself, "Stop, please. Stop, or he'll kill you."
This morning, Mother was already in the kitchen, crying. So, too, was Dork. He wasn't crying. He was in the kitchen. I'm usually up first. Because I'm soggy wet. Mother spilled almost an entire bag of Eight O'clock Coffee grounds on the floor. "Damn it," she screamed.
"She's crying because our grandfather died," Dork said
"Which one?" I shouldn't have asked. I should've known better because Mother wouldn't cry if Grampa Hoffman died. They hardly spoke to each other.
Crazy Annie entered the kitchen. "What's wrong?" she asked.
"Grampa Frank died," I said.
“How did you know?” Dork asked me.
I didn’t answer him.
"Grandfather Giovanni?" asked Crazy Annie.
"Yes," I said.
She started to bawl. "I don't want him to be dead."
"Nobody wants him dead, but he's dead anyway," said Doc III who entered the kitchen. He has ears like a cat. He heard everything. Little Pete came in, said nothing, but retrieved a bowl for breakfast cereal. The only Hoffman not in the kitchen was Dad. Dork got a broom and dustpan and started to sweep the coffee grounds into the dustpan. I started bawling like a baby. Dork asked, "Why are you crying, Piss Pants?"
"I don't piss in my pants. I'm crying because Grampa Frank's dead. That's why."
"Well, you can turn off the water works," said Doc III. "Crying won't make him come back to life. Besides, he was an old man."
"James," Mother screamed, "show some respect for the dead."
"I didn't mean any disrespect. It's Piss-in-the- Pants who pisses me off."
"And watch your language," screamed Mother.
"I'm just sad," I explained to Doc III.
"I'm sadder than you because you're my brother."
"You're not the best brother to have, either," I yelled. He slugged me hard on the shoulder.
"Ow, that hurts."
"James," Mother yelled. She had not seen the hit.
I ran by her, skedaddled down the back stairs, and made it to the backyard. I made it to the rear of the garage where my shack is. I opened its padlocked door with my key. Inside, I lay on the sleeping bag I'd copped from the attic. I thought about Frank's arrival here on the Hiawatha. He had traveled on the train from Chicago. Cousin Robert drove Grampa to the Union Station in his Mercury two-door from Fat Aunt Florence's house in Oak Park. Grampa Frank rubbed the top of my head. "Curly Locks," he said.
"I can't help it if I have naturally curly hair."
He laughed. "And it's-ah red."
"Auburn."
"Red."
"Is my hair the same color as a fire engine?"
"Okay, Kid, I won't say-ah your hair is red no more. And I won't call you Curly Locks."
"My name isn't Kid, either. It's Gordon, but everyone calls me Gordy."
"You call-ah me Frank, eh?" That wasn't a question. It was Frank's way of handing out orders. He commanded just about everyone in our house, even Mother, his youngest child. He never ordered Dad to do anything because as Frank saw it, "Your father is-ah the king of this castle."
"But this isn't a castle."
"It's-ah your father's castle, right?"
"Right." I just knew I was going to love this man, my Italian grandfather.
Frank shaved each morning with a straight razor he kept it in a black hinged case. He sharpened the blade with a thick leather strop. The first time I saw it I called it a strap. "Strop, not a strap," he explained. "You-ah use a strap to hold up your pants. You-ah use a strop to sharpen the blade."
"I’d rather wear suspenders like yours."
"You'll have to ask your mama," he said.
Each morning, Frank arrived in the kitchen, smelling like spring lilac flowers. He sat on a kitchen chair, tamped tobacco in his pipe, struck a farmer match to the side of the match box, and puffed until the upper half of the room was filled with smoke. "Your pipe smoke smells better than Dad's cigarette smoke," I told him. Frank smiled. He chugged some more on the pipe. Meanwhile, Mother knelt before the cupboard door under the sink, opened it, and brought out Frank's half-pint of brandy. I called it, "The baby bottle because it’s a baby compared to Dad's bottles."
With much ado, Mother measured the bronze-colored liquid in the shot glass. Frank had ordered her on the first morning of his visit, "I want ah-one shot, eh?" That's exactly what Mother poured. A horizontal white line surrounded the outside of the glass. She poured brandy up to the bottom of that line. When she tipped the glass, the brandy streamed into Frank's steaming cup of coffee with plenty of thick, whipping cream. Mixing his drink with a teaspoon, Frank supped the Royale and puffed on his pipe. He didn't drink any more from that bottle until the next morning. It was one shot, one shot only. I could see the bottom of his long johns. Frank wore long johns with a flap in the back—even during the dog days of August.
I rose, opened the shack door, got out, padlocked the door’s hasp, went into the garage and got a shovel. I dug up some angle worms for fishing. At the river, Ray Middlecamp showed up. "You remember my Grampa Frank?"
Ray smiled. He always smiles. Even at the saddest of times. "The Eye-talian?"
"He died."
Ray kept smiling and shaking his head. His lips moved but he didn’t say anything. He didn't know any better. I wiped at tears. Ray kept smiling. "I want to be alone."
"Okay," he said and just like that he was gone. That surprised me. Ray usually does what Ray usually wants to do. And so here I am on top of my bed, writing in you, and it’s dark outside. I'm stopping for now. I'm tired. This is Gordon Hoffman. Good night, Diary.
I say to myself, "Stop, please. Stop, or he'll kill you."
This morning, Mother was already in the kitchen, crying. So, too, was Dork. He wasn't crying. He was in the kitchen. I'm usually up first. Because I'm soggy wet. Mother spilled almost an entire bag of Eight O'clock Coffee grounds on the floor. "Damn it," she screamed.
"She's crying because our grandfather died," Dork said
"Which one?" I shouldn't have asked. I should've known better because Mother wouldn't cry if Grampa Hoffman died. They hardly spoke to each other.
Crazy Annie entered the kitchen. "What's wrong?" she asked.
"Grampa Frank died," I said.
“How did you know?” Dork asked me.
I didn’t answer him.
"Grandfather Giovanni?" asked Crazy Annie.
"Yes," I said.
She started to bawl. "I don't want him to be dead."
"Nobody wants him dead, but he's dead anyway," said Doc III who entered the kitchen. He has ears like a cat. He heard everything. Little Pete came in, said nothing, but retrieved a bowl for breakfast cereal. The only Hoffman not in the kitchen was Dad. Dork got a broom and dustpan and started to sweep the coffee grounds into the dustpan. I started bawling like a baby. Dork asked, "Why are you crying, Piss Pants?"
"I don't piss in my pants. I'm crying because Grampa Frank's dead. That's why."
"Well, you can turn off the water works," said Doc III. "Crying won't make him come back to life. Besides, he was an old man."
"James," Mother screamed, "show some respect for the dead."
"I didn't mean any disrespect. It's Piss-in-the- Pants who pisses me off."
"And watch your language," screamed Mother.
"I'm just sad," I explained to Doc III.
"I'm sadder than you because you're my brother."
"You're not the best brother to have, either," I yelled. He slugged me hard on the shoulder.
"Ow, that hurts."
"James," Mother yelled. She had not seen the hit.
I ran by her, skedaddled down the back stairs, and made it to the backyard. I made it to the rear of the garage where my shack is. I opened its padlocked door with my key. Inside, I lay on the sleeping bag I'd copped from the attic. I thought about Frank's arrival here on the Hiawatha. He had traveled on the train from Chicago. Cousin Robert drove Grampa to the Union Station in his Mercury two-door from Fat Aunt Florence's house in Oak Park. Grampa Frank rubbed the top of my head. "Curly Locks," he said.
"I can't help it if I have naturally curly hair."
He laughed. "And it's-ah red."
"Auburn."
"Red."
"Is my hair the same color as a fire engine?"
"Okay, Kid, I won't say-ah your hair is red no more. And I won't call you Curly Locks."
"My name isn't Kid, either. It's Gordon, but everyone calls me Gordy."
"You call-ah me Frank, eh?" That wasn't a question. It was Frank's way of handing out orders. He commanded just about everyone in our house, even Mother, his youngest child. He never ordered Dad to do anything because as Frank saw it, "Your father is-ah the king of this castle."
"But this isn't a castle."
"It's-ah your father's castle, right?"
"Right." I just knew I was going to love this man, my Italian grandfather.
Frank shaved each morning with a straight razor he kept it in a black hinged case. He sharpened the blade with a thick leather strop. The first time I saw it I called it a strap. "Strop, not a strap," he explained. "You-ah use a strap to hold up your pants. You-ah use a strop to sharpen the blade."
"I’d rather wear suspenders like yours."
"You'll have to ask your mama," he said.
Each morning, Frank arrived in the kitchen, smelling like spring lilac flowers. He sat on a kitchen chair, tamped tobacco in his pipe, struck a farmer match to the side of the match box, and puffed until the upper half of the room was filled with smoke. "Your pipe smoke smells better than Dad's cigarette smoke," I told him. Frank smiled. He chugged some more on the pipe. Meanwhile, Mother knelt before the cupboard door under the sink, opened it, and brought out Frank's half-pint of brandy. I called it, "The baby bottle because it’s a baby compared to Dad's bottles."
With much ado, Mother measured the bronze-colored liquid in the shot glass. Frank had ordered her on the first morning of his visit, "I want ah-one shot, eh?" That's exactly what Mother poured. A horizontal white line surrounded the outside of the glass. She poured brandy up to the bottom of that line. When she tipped the glass, the brandy streamed into Frank's steaming cup of coffee with plenty of thick, whipping cream. Mixing his drink with a teaspoon, Frank supped the Royale and puffed on his pipe. He didn't drink any more from that bottle until the next morning. It was one shot, one shot only. I could see the bottom of his long johns. Frank wore long johns with a flap in the back—even during the dog days of August.
I rose, opened the shack door, got out, padlocked the door’s hasp, went into the garage and got a shovel. I dug up some angle worms for fishing. At the river, Ray Middlecamp showed up. "You remember my Grampa Frank?"
Ray smiled. He always smiles. Even at the saddest of times. "The Eye-talian?"
"He died."
Ray kept smiling and shaking his head. His lips moved but he didn’t say anything. He didn't know any better. I wiped at tears. Ray kept smiling. "I want to be alone."
"Okay," he said and just like that he was gone. That surprised me. Ray usually does what Ray usually wants to do. And so here I am on top of my bed, writing in you, and it’s dark outside. I'm stopping for now. I'm tired. This is Gordon Hoffman. Good night, Diary.
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