NINE
GRANDMA WAS WEARING shocking pink lipstick, a shocking pink dress, and white tennis shoes.
“You’re right on time,” she said, opening the front door and motioning us inside. “We’re having beer with the meal, but you could have a snort now if you need it.”
“Sounds good,” Briggs said. “I wouldn’t mind a cocktail. What have you got?”
“We got whiskey,” Grandma said. “I could fancy it up with ice, or you could take it like a man.”
“Whatever,” Briggs said.
Grandma ran off to get the whiskey, and I wandered into the living room with Briggs. My father was in his chair, watching television and doing the Jumble.
“Oh jeez,” he said when he looked up and saw Briggs. “You again.”
“It’s always a delight to see you, sir,” Briggs said.
“Boy, you really want that chocolate cake bad,” I said to Briggs.
“Fuckin’ A,” Briggs said.
Grandma trotted in with a tumbler of whiskey for Briggs. Briggs looked at the glass, looked at my father, and belted back half the whiskey. He gasped, and choked, and his eyes watered.
“Good,” Briggs said. “Smooth.”
Grandma and I helped my mother get the food to the table, and we all took our seats.
“God bless,” my father said, offloading half a cow onto his plate. He added a mound of mashed potatoes and four green beans, then poured gravy over everything. My father never got the memo about red meat, colonoscopies, or heart disease. His philosophy was that if you never went to the doctor, you never found out there was something wrong with you. So far it was working for him.
“This is delicious,” Briggs said to my mother, taking the pot roast for a test drive. “How do you get the gravy to look black like this?”
“She burns the meat,” Grandma said. “That’s the secret to good gravy. It’s got to be full of them carcinogens.”
Briggs gulped down the rest of his whiskey, looked at me, and mouthed “Help.”
“Just keep thinking about the cake,” I told him.
“This is going to be a real good viewing,” Grandma said. “There’s going to be lots of people there. We have to go early to get a good seat up front.”
My father kept his head down, working on his pot roast. And Briggs scraped the gravy off his potatoes.
“I hear they had to scramble to get a good casket for poor Mrs. Poletti,” Grandma said. “Nobody made arrangements ahead of time. Can you imagine? I got my casket all picked out. I’ve got it on the layaway plan. It’s a beauty. It’s got a white silk lining and everything.”
My father kept eating, but his knuckles were turning white holding his fork.
“No, sir,” Grandma said, “I’m not going to be caught short. I’m even working on my bucket list.”
Everyone stopped eating and turned to Grandma.
“What’s on your bucket list?” I asked.
“I got six things so far,” Grandma said. “First off, I want new breasts. These ones I got are a mess. They got all flattened and droopy. Second, I want to see Ranger naked. If I can’t see him naked, I’ll settle for almost naked. Except, I sure would like to see his privates. I bet they’re a sight, and I don’t get to see a lot of privates these days.”
My mother’s face flushed, Briggs squirmed in his seat, and a piece of pot roast fell out of my father’s mouth.
“And then I want to get Joe’s Grandma Bella,” Grandma said. “She don’t scare me with her evil eye baloney. I don’t know how I’m going to get her, but I’m going to get her good. The fourth thing is I want to march in a parade. The fifth thing is I want to take down a bad guy. And the last thing is a secret.” Grandma looked over at Briggs. “How about you? Do you have a bucket list?”
“Nothing formal,” Briggs said. “Mostly I’d like to stay out of prison and not die anytime soon.”
“That’s a good start,” Grandma said.
With the exception of the boob job, my bucket list was about the same as Grandma’s. It might be fun to march in a parade, and I’d already seen Ranger naked but he was worth another look … or two or three or many. And that thought gave me a small anxiety attack. I sent him a text message that said Talk to me, and he texted back Patience.
Briggs washed his pot roast down with two beers, and I thought he looked a little glassy-eyed.
“Are you okay?” I asked him.
“Mmmm,” he said. “Mmmmarvelous.” And his eyes drooped closed.
“Maybe he needs some cake to perk him up,” Grandma said.
“He’s trashed,” my father said.
Grandma looked at him. “Guess he’s not so good with liquor.”
Considering he was only about three feet tall and had just chugged down a water glass of hooch plus two beers, I thought he’d done okay. If I drank all that, I’d be under the table.
I helped Grandma clear the dishes, and my mom brought the cake to the table. Briggs opened his eyes and tried to focus.
“Cake,” he said. “Cake good.”
He plowed through his piece of cake and slumped in his seat. His eyes slid closed, and a little chocolate drool oozed from the side of his mouth.
“Maybe we should get him to the couch and let him sleep it off,” I said.
“There’s no way in hell I’m sharing my living room with him,” my father said. “If you want him to keep breathing, you’ll dump him someplace far away from my television.”
“We could lay him out on the kitchen floor,” Grandma said. “That way he won’t mess anything up with his drooling. And if we put him behind the table, no one will step on him.”
My mother took one foot, Grandma took the other, I got Briggs under the armpits, and we lugged him into the kitchen. We stretched him out behind the table, and Grandma put a kitchen towel under his head.
“He looks real peaceful there,” Grandma said.
I thought about handcuffing him to the stove so he wouldn’t wake up and wander away, but I only had one pair of handcuffs with me, and I might need them if I found Poletti.