people who were old and getting ready to die were supposed to look. She didn’t look peaceful, like a sunset. She looked crazy, and ...
(and dangerous)
... yes, okay, and dangerous—like an ancient she-bear that might have one more good swipe left in her claws.
George remembered well enough how they had come to Castle Rock to take care of Gramma when Granpa died. Until then Mom had been working in the Stratford Laundry in Stratford, Connecticut. Granpa was three or four years younger than Gramma, a carpenter by trade, and he had worked right up until the day of his death. It had been a heart attack.
Even then Gramma had been getting senile, having her “bad spells.” She had always been a trial to her family, Gramma had. She was a volcanic woman who had taught school for fifteen years, between having babies and getting in fights with the Congregational Church she and Granpa and their nine children went to. Mom said that Granpa and Gramma quit the Congregational Church in Scarborough at the same time Gramma decided to quit teaching, but once, about a year ago, when Aunt Flo was up for a visit from her home in Salt Lake City, George and Buddy, listening at the register as Mom and her sister sat up late, talking, heard quite a different story. Granpa and Gramma had been kicked out of the church and Gramma had been fired off her job because she did something wrong. It was something about books. Why or how someone could get fired from their job and kicked out of the church just because of books, George didn’t understand, and when he and Buddy crawled back into their twin beds under the eave, George asked.
There’s all kinds of books, Señor El-Stupido, Buddy whispered.
Yeah, but what kind?
How should I know? Go to sleep!
Silence. George thought it through.
Buddy?
What! An irritated hiss.
Why did Mom tell us Gramma quit the church and her job?
Because it’s a skeleton in the closet, that’s why! Now go to sleep!
But he hadn’t gone to sleep, not for a long time. His eyes kept straying to the closet door, dimly outlined in moonlight, and he kept wondering what he would do if the door swung open, revealing a skeleton inside, all grinning tombstone teeth and cistern eye sockets and parrot-cage ribs; white moonlight skating delirious and almost blue on whiter bone. Would he scream? What had Buddy meant, a skeleton in the closet? What did skeletons have to do with books? At last he had slipped into sleep without even knowing it and had dreamed he was six again, and Gramma was holding out her arms, her blind eyes searching for him; Gramma’s reedy, querulous voice was saying, Where’s the little one, Ruth? Why’s he crying? I only want to put him in the closet . . . with the skeleton.
George had puzzled over these matters long and long, and finally, about a month after Aunt Flo had departed, he went to his mother and told her he had heard her and Aunt Flo talking. He knew what a skeleton in the closet meant by then, because he had asked Mrs. Redenbacher at school. She said it meant having a scandal in the family, and a scandal was something that made people talk a lot. Like Cora Simard talks a lot? George had asked Mrs. Redenbacher, and Mrs. Redenbacher’s face had worked strangely and her lips had quivered and she had said, That’s not nice, George, but ... yes, something like that.
When he asked Mom, her face had gotten very still, and her hands had paused over the solitaire clockface of cards she had been laying out.
Do you think that’s a good thing for you to be doing, Georgie? Do you and your brother make a habit of eavesdropping over the register?
George, then only nine, had hung his head.
We like Aunt Flo, Mom. We wanted to listen to her a little longer.
This was the truth.
Was it Buddy’s idea?
It had been, but George wasn’t going to tell her that. He didn’t want to go walking around with his head on backwards, which might happen if Buddy found out he had tattled.
No, mine.
Mom had sat silent for a long time, and then she slowly began laying her cards out again. Maybe it’s time you did know, she had said. Lying’s worse than eavesdropping, I guess, and we all lie to our children about Gramma. And we lie to ourselves too, I guess. Most of the time, we