grandma Read online

  “Game of what?” she asked. Then she nodded her head and gently tapped her temple with her palm. “Ah, that show. No! I had Betsy help me set up a Face account, and I think that was one of the only things I ever posted, was some quote about never having watched that show. Besides old pictures and stuff.” She shook her head. “Sounded like bad porno to me.” She snickered. “I’d watch that Momoa guy doing it, though,” she said.

  “Gra’ma!” Caleb admonished.

  “Don’t be such a prude.” Mary retorted.

  Caleb glanced at his watch. He blinked. Going pale, he hated himself for what he had to do. He’d lost track of time. The meal, the intimate, amicable reminiscing, the banter… it had all been so fun. It provided an escape. But he needed to pay his rent and eat, and Portland wasn’t getting any cheaper. He had a deadline for his piece on the untested rape kits, and he still only had two named sources. His boss had drilled into all of them that every single article needed five named sources. That was what was supposed to help make them different.

  “Names make people trust you.” Devin would always say.

  “Gra’ma…” Caleb began. His mouth felt dry. He could feel a treacly mass of sweat sliding down his side. It seemed odd that he could grow so warm so quickly.

  “I know, you need to go. But, did I ever hear you say you promise to write about Sue?” Mary pressed.

  Caleb shook his head. “I’ll look into it,” he said.

  “Nope. Not going to work for me. Promise to write about it.”

  He gulped. He sighed. “It’s that important to you?” he asked quietly.

  Mary laughed cynically. She shook her head. Then she nodded. “Yes, yes, it is that important to me. I literally just told you… how many times? that this is the last thing I want in life,” she said.

  He did the only thing he could. He promised.

  Chapter 5

  Hunter meowed at the door.

  He jingled his keys and struggled to find the right one. “Ah, there it is,” he said. The one with the purple plastic ring on it. He slid it into the gold-colored lock and opened the door. His cat circled around and then plopped down right in the middle of the entryway, exposing its soft white belly fur. “Sheesh.” Caleb said. He swiped a foot at the creature, and she got up, scurrying away. Caleb swung the door shut. It closed with a thud.

  Walking across the hardwood floor, he entered the small, cramped kitchen and began making a Moscow Mule from rote. He poured in a liberal dose of Crater Lake club soda then a splash of ginger beer. Instead of taking the time to cut up a lime, he just threw in some lemon-lime soda from an old 2-liter he’d had in the fridge for far too long. Picking up the copper mug, he looked into it. He wanted the drink so bad. The need gnawed at him.

  Slowly, deliberately, he forced himself to walk across the dust-coated tile floor and pour it into the sink.

  Instead, he settled for flat soda and ice cream. Caleb needed to drown his sorrows. A pint of Tillamook ice cream seemed like the next best thing to alcohol, under the circumstances.

  Collapsing into his recliner, he pulled the lever on the side and propped his legs up. He hadn’t even taken off his shoes. He kicked them off, scrabbling for the remote. He turned on the T.V., grunting as he saw that the Blazers had lost. Spooning out a healthy dollop of the good stuff, he shoved it into his mouth as he navigated his way to Netflix. For some reason, in times like this, he always felt like watching serial killer documentaries.

  Settling on something about Ted Bundy, he tried to relax. The cacophony clamoring in his brain threatened to catapult him over the castle walls into a fetid field of insanity. He wanted to help his grandma. He had to. But he didn’t know how. Caleb’s job had become his life. In a way, he’d been overworking himself to distract himself from his frequent urges to drink himself to death.

  But he also felt like he needed to prove something.

  What that something was… Caleb wasn’t always sure. Sometimes he experienced a certain guilt, and not just for the horrible crime he’d committed. At one point, he’d almost contemplated suicide. He realized he was lucky. Many people never got the opportunity he had been given. They didn’t have a great old granny who cursed and forgave, helping fund an insane business venture and just laughing when the inevitable crash came ‘round the bend.

  He felt guilty because he’d been given a second chance. A lot of good people weren’t afforded that opportunity.

  Scooping a massive spoonful of thick ice cream, he shoved it in his mouth. Caleb found himself transfixed by what the images traipsing across the screen. “Huh,” he said. He hadn’t realized Ted Bundy had escaped from prison.

  “Hey, Hunter,” Caleb said, patting his rotund feline friend on the head as she circled on his lap. The cat knocked the oddly shaped ice cream container off its precarious perch on the edge of the chair. Reaching forward, Caleb just barely caught it in one hand. Sighing, his heart racing, he shot his pet a look and sat the dessert on the nearby table. He ate another spoonful of the sugary treat.

  Standing up, Hunter stretched. The cat swished its fuzzy tail around, lifting it so that Caleb got a nice glimpse of her butthole. “God, cat!” Caleb exclaimed. He swatted at her. In response, Hunter laid down and began kneading his leg. She started to purr.

  “The hell do I have you as a pet for?” Caleb asked.

  Hunter meowed.

  Unable to immerse himself in the macabre story of Ted Bundy, Caleb gave an exasperated sigh and surrendered. He turned off the tv.

  Staring at the creature on his lap, Caleb struggled to find the motivation to write. He glanced at the red clock hanging on the wall. It was getting late. Staring outside, he saw the violet night expanding its domain. The discussion with his grandma still haunted him. It lingered in the cellar of his mind, meandering up and down the creaky, rickety wooden stairs, the cold drafts and faint cries hinting at its trapped and tortured presence in the subterranean shadows.

  Sighing, he shook his head. He had to forget about it for now. Caleb wasn’t sure how he could, though. His grandma was… dying.

  It just didn’t seem real.

  Ignoring the feeble protests of Hunter as he stood, Caleb went over to his desk and sat down. Opening his slim red laptop, he decided to turn on some music. He needed something to lift his spirts and boost his energy. Swiveling in the faux leather chair, he rummaged under a stack of papers for his digital recorder. Then he told Alexa to play The Mamas and the Papas.

  Leaning back, he allowed the sound of the music to roll over him. He turned off the worries and anxiety. Caleb cast aside his concerns for his grandma. After a few long moments of resting there, eyes closed, lost in the lyrics of “California Dreamin’,” he felt ready to go. He cracked his knuckles and sat up. Smiling, he turned on the recorder and listened to the interview he’d conducted yesterday. He wanted to see if he could retrieve anything useful.

  Sometimes it just took a few go-throughs.

  The Zombies played next, the first track having ended. Looking up briefly, Caleb grunted. “Alexa, turn off the music.” he said. He grumbled about the device not being able to get him a yerba matte. Standing, he bopped the head of the George Gervin bobblehead on his desk and retreated into the kitchen, where he extracted a can of his favorite beverage from the fridge. He carried the tape recorder with him, listening to it as he went.

  Sipping, he navigated through his open tabs and found Facebook. He scanned his messages, finding one from a professor in New Mexico. Opening it up, he looked over their dialogue. Seeing that the woman was online, he decided to try to see if he could get a nugget from her at this late hour.

  Monty began bumping against his cage and screeching. “Knock it off.” Caleb called, staring at the screen. He bit his lower lip. He sat forward and tensed when he saw the distinctive dots indicating someone on the other end was typing. Smiling, he made a fist. He punched the air with a decisive and victorious motion when he saw that she’d actually responde
d again.

  “Thank you, gods!” Caleb exclaimed. He rolled around in a circle. Bending down, he gave Hunter a little pet on the forehead, sharing the love. “Yeah,” he said.

  He spent around an hour interviewing the professor. Once done, he’d learned so much more about the disturbing intricacies of law enforcement. Caleb got up, stretching, his eyes tired and his legs numb. Bending at the hips, he touched his toes and took a few moments to massage his calves. It felt good to get the blood flowing. Going into the kitchen, he took his dirty dishes, dropping them into the sink. He poured himself a glass of water and then returned to the chair.

  Caleb had work to do.

  Taking a moment to collect his thoughts, he bit his lower lip and squinted at the screen. Then he smiled. He was ready. Caleb could feel the energy pulsing in his brain. He began to type.

  Words danced across the monitor as his nimble fingers raced across the keyboard. He told the story of young women, devastated by tragic circumstances, only to be victimized a second time by the state that had sworn to protect them. After being reduced to a statistic and forced to go through a humiliating battery of invasive tests under the austere gaze of an overworked nurse, these ladies were told to go about their lives, fully aware that the predators who’d stolen their innocence and defiled their sanity were still lurking in the shadows. Hundreds of thousands of untested rape kits, sitting on cheap, rusty metal shelves in cluttered evidence rooms. And it seemed that no one cared.

  Except… Caleb did. And he wanted every single person who read his article to not only care, but be overwhelmed with outrage.

  It was a cause worth being outraged about.

  In some ways, when he immersed himself in the raw emotion of telling a tale, Caleb became a merchant of fear and outrage. He activated the base instincts of humans. He reached deep into the amygdala and took the reader on an adrenaline-fueled joyride into the winding roads of the countryside.

  He tuned out everything around him when he wrote. In many ways, it was a cathartic act. A way to expiate the guilt that always threatened to consume him.

  Only on a rare occasion would Caleb stop before he was done. This proved no exception. When he finally finished, his back and neck hurt. Glancing at the clock, he saw that he’d been working for over three hours. “Can’t order food at this hour,” he remarked. Standing, he arched his back and raised his arms. Groaning, he enjoyed the satisfied feeling that accompanied finishing an article.

  Hunter, seeing her owner up, trotted forward and rubbed against Caleb’s leg. Reaching down, he patted the animal and scratched her back. “Hey, bud,” he said. Yawning, the fatigue of the day suddenly hit him. He decided it was time to get some sleep. He’d edit the article after a nap.

  ……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

  Caleb woke up screaming.

  His mouth feeling as if he’d been munching on dry sand and gravel, he licked his cracked lips. Looking around, he felt disoriented. Blinking, he felt the harsh, incisive light filtering through the blinds of his bedroom window as it attacked his eyes. Kicking the light blue cotton blanket off of his legs, Caleb got out of bed. He ignored the tortured cries of Hunter as he hobbled to the bathroom.

  “What the hell was I dreaming about?” he asked himself, looking at his reflection in the mirror. He splashed some water on his face.

  Slowly, it came back to him. He’d been in a nursing home, paralyzed by pain and fear. A faceless nurse was rummaging through his drawers, rifling through his belongings, taking whatever they wanted. Then, before the nurse left, they came over and slapped him. Their open-handed blows sharply striking his face, leaving a sting not just on his flesh but on his heart.

  “Jesus,” Caleb said.

  Until that point, he hadn’t realized how hard it must be, for the person suffering in silence from their nursing home bed. Already isolated, these were people that were among the most vulnerable in society. They lacked the physical capacity to defend themselves. They didn’t have much in the way of voice with which to protest.

  He heard something.

  Heart racing, sweat beginning to form under his arms, Caleb chewed on the inside of his cheek. He looked out the open door and down the hallway. He sighed. Shaking his head and smiling, he realized it was just his phone. Trotting to the bedroom, he ignored the sudden squawking of Monty. “I’ll get to you,” Caleb muttered. Out of breath, he got to his phone. He struggled to swipe the angry red icon.

  “Hello,” Caleb answered. He tried not to let his emotions and anxiety show.

  “Hey, Caleb. Is now a good time to talk?” Devin asked.

  Caleb glanced around. He sat down on the bed, shooing Hunter away. He drummed his fingers on one leg while he bounced the other up and down. He was nervous. He couldn’t remember his boss ever calling him this early.

  “Sure, Devin. Yeah. I can talk. What’s up?” Caleb asked, trying not to give away his anxiety with nervous laughter.

  “Is that your parrot I hear in the background?” Devin asked. The smile was evident in his voice. Devin wore his rotund frame well, with a tall frame and relaxed posture that made him seem smaller than he really was. He possessed a kind, almost effeminate voice, soft, with just the slightest hint of a southern accent. It was hard to picture the man on the other end of the phone as an authority figure just by hearing him talk or seeing him. It was only after you got the privilege of seeing him at work, in his element, that one got a true picture of what it was that made him special.

  “It is. I just… I just woke up. He gets a little excited when I’ve not paid attention to him for a while.” Caleb said.

  “Well, I guess we all need attention every once in a while.” Devin said.

  That seemed like an odd comment. Caleb nodded, trying to think of why his boss was calling him at home at this hour. He refrained from saying anything, electing to wait, however. Devin was a busy man, and usually wasn’t the fondest of small talk. He’d get to his point eventually.

  “Do you want the good news or the good news?” Devin asked. His tone seemed almost at odds with the words he spoke.

  Their import was of great interest, however, to Caleb. “Let’s start with the good news.” Caleb said, this time unable to repress his nervous laughter.

  “Well, okay, then. I, uh… well, for once, I’m a little jealous, and also at a bit of a loss for words. But… uh, you won a Pulitzer,” Devin said.

  “You’re shitting me,” Caleb responded. The words tumbled out, almost of their own volition. That certainly was good news.

  “You’re also promoted, effective today, to senior writer,” Devin said.

  “I get my own coffee cup,” Caleb said. They both shared a laugh.

  Blinking, his mouth open wide, Caleb tried to think. He felt… flabbergasted. How on Earth had he been selected? Who even nominated him? He knew Devin was too cheap to pay any entry fees.

  “Say something. Or else I’m hanging up,” Devin said.

  Caleb laughed. “Uh, cool,” he said. He chuckled again. He was bereft of words. He didn’t know what to say. It all felt surreal. He idly rubbed Hunter’s belly as she flopped over on her side, licking his arm.

  “Yes, it’s cool. And you’ll be getting a check for 15 grand,” Devin said. “And… an invite to the celebration dinner,” he said. The last bit came out in a low voice. It was eerily similar to a whiny plea.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t say supper.” Caleb said, laughing. He was already thinking of what he’d say to his grandma when he called her to tell her the big news. “Hey, what did I win for, anyway? And who the hell nominated me?” he asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

  “I don’t know. I’m too cheap to pay the seventy-five bucks.” Devin cleared his throat. “Investigative reporting,” he said. “Which is kind of odd, because the small guys, like us, who win are usually in bre
aking news, public service, local, the like. Plus, I don’t remember off the top of my head any recent surprises. Not like this one. Usually, everyone in the industry has a handle on who’s getting the award.” Devin sounded confused. “Really, they,”

  “They?” Caleb asked. He reached for his phone. He didn’t even know who gave out Pulitzers. He just knew they were considered prestigious.

  “The board. Anyway, they really resisted online news sites like ours. And, to be honest, it’s kind of an open secret that they still don’t like us. But…” But here we are. Devin let the obvious words trail off into the void between them, unspoken.

  “Do they pay for the trip to the supper? How am I going to afford a trip to New York?” Caleb asked.

  Devin laughed. Then he cleared his throat again. “You’re being serious,” he stated.

  “Yeah! I mean, I guess I’m due for a raise, now that I’m… a senior writer. But I can barely afford rent. How am I supposed to go gallivanting across the country? 15 grand? After taxes, that’s what? Maybe 10 k? That’ll cover my yerbas and takeout habit,” Caleb said. With all those references to food, he realized that he was hungry. Scowling at his cat, he pushed her away after she started nibbling on his arm. “Ow,” he said. Hunter swatted his arm hairs in protest.

  “How did I ever hire you?” Devin asked.

  “Well, I’m betting you’re glad you did now. Makes you look pretty smart. You can have my invite to the supper. Hell, you can have the award. I just want the check.” Caleb said. To be fair, he did feel a little proud, though overwhelmed, by being chosen for such an honor. “Oh, yeah. Investigative reporting? What piece?” Caleb asked. He always tried to take the tough stuff that no one else wanted. Within reason, anyway. There’d been a time when they thought about doing some clickbait-type stuff just to generate revenue. Caleb didn’t really want to be the National Enquirer type. He wasn’t necessarily opposed to the idea of extraterrestrial life or the notion that reptilians ruled congress, but… let someone else do that stuff.