Grandpa's Wolf
by Jeannine M. Pitas

     It wasn’t until Sally O’Hara, my best friend in the first grade, invited me over to her house that I first discovered cleanliness. It was a Friday- the last Friday of the month- which meant that the teachers had a conference and we had a half day of school, and Sally’s mother, a ballet teacher who always wore her thick red curls up in a bun, came to pick us up. We got into her big black Volvo, and she drove down a beautiful, tree-lined street in a neighborhood I’d never seen before. And then we pulled into the driveway of a house that made me gasp. All of the other houses were just like mine- small and brick, with two windows in the front and a walkway and a door. This house, however, was enormous, supported by two white pillars and bay windows jutting out. Inside, the house looked like a museum: magenta, floral-patterned Persian rugs with their fringe perfectly combed; family photos aligned like soldiers on the dustless mahogany tables; a fluffy angora kitten sitting atop a baby grand piano.

      And as I sat down at the huge dining room table to feast on the dish that Mrs. O’Hara had prepared- polenta with mushroom sauce- I wondered what this long, lithe ballet mother would think if she ever were to meet my own mother, who was- well, many things. During my  six-year-old life she’d worked as a waitress, a visiting nurse for sick people (even though she had no nursing degree), a housepainter, a worker in a factory that made windshield wipers, and, for a while, a singer with a blues band. Outside of work she was always busy with the classes she took at the Adult Education Center- pottery one month, sign language the next, CPR the next. And our house- our tiny, one-floor ranch house- was strewn with books and papers, bags of old clothes and shoes, art supplies from when she’d taken up landscape painting, masks from when she’d done a theatre workshop, yarn and unfinished mittens from her brief attempt at knitting. There was no pattern, no order to our haphazard home- piles of matchless socks blanketed old rotary telephones; Christmas decorations were tossed among spare cooking utensils. Stuff covered the floor like weeds spreading from her bedroom to the kitchen to the hallway, from the bathroom to the outside porch. My bedroom was not spared; stacks of old magazines and plastic bags filled with pictures- we did not have a single photo album- were shoved up against my wall; old sweaters and shoes of hers filled my closet. From the moment I entered Sally O’Hara’s house, I knew I’d never be able to show her mine.  

    And yet, as much as I stood in awe of that castle, something about it seemed odd to me, cold somehow, not like a place where anyone actually lived. One time when we were drinking hot chocolate, Sally accidentally spilled some onto the tooth-white kitchen table. “Sally!” her mother cried, rushing to grab a sponge. “Please, watch what you’re doing! This isn’t a barn!” In my house drinks often were spilled, and stains could stay for days or weeks before my mother took any notice of them. And in that moment I realized that I infinitely preferred my own crazy home with all its mazes and secret hiding places. I often liked to pretend that I was a hunter exploring the jungle- around every corner lurked some beast, some jaguar or rattlesnake come to bite me. There were plenty of times when I accidentally stepped on one of the cat’s tails (we had seven cats- my mother originally had thought that she had two females but in the end turned out to be wrong) and then she’d hiss, fangs and claws protruded; I nearly always tripped on some book or shoe as I darted off to the kitchen and filled a bowl with milk as an offering of peace.      

     And so, even after Sally and I drifted apart, even after her father got a job in another city and their beautiful house was sold, I never lacked for means of amusement. My mother taught me things. Whenever she started a new project, whether knitting or birdhouse building or clay work, she always included me in it. One night we sat for hours working on a watercolor- a sunset over a lake- that actually turned out quite nicely; I took it with me when I went away to college, and it’s still hanging on my wall. More often we stayed up playing Pictionary or Scrabble, or watching Unsolved Mysteries on TV- Both of us loved scary stories. But the moments I relished most came when she pulled out her guitar and started to sing- Guns ‘n Roses, Rolling Stones. Sometimes we had contests, seeing who could hold a note longer, who could sing higher. Of all her passing interests, music was the one that stayed, and while we may have lacked order- we may have lacked food that didn’t come from cans- we never did without songs. 

    One day, when I was about eleven, my grandfather came to live with us, completely without warning. My mother was at work- in that moment she was a secretary in a doctor’s office- and I was sitting at the kitchen table, attempting to do my math homework, when suddenly the door opened and he stepped in, his eyes staring at a spot just above my head as he staggered over the mess. “Sheila?” he asked, looking at me. I jumped up from my seat, cleared a spot at the table, and guided him toward it. I stared at him, confused; Sheila was the name of my grandmother, who’d passed away long before I was born. He then sat down, placed his head on the table and refused to move. I sat beside him, struggling to solve my first algebra equations, 2x + 2=6, watching his chest rise and fall as he slept. Everything seemed fine- Grandpa often slept sporadically; I had nothing to worry about. But then, when at last my mother came home, when she approached him and took his hand and shook him slightly, when he opened his eyes and stared at her and whispered, “Sheila?” I saw something in my mother’s eyes that I’d never seen before. For the first time ever, she was afraid.

     She told me that she needed to take Grandpa to the hospital and that hopefully she’d be back soon; she informed me that I could make macaroni and cheese for dinner when I got hungry. I stirred the milk into the noodles slowly, wondering what could have gone wrong, why Grandpa was behaving so strangely. Did this mean he was going to die? Around ten I climbed into my bed, but I could not sleep; a few hours later I heard the door opening, my mother speaking to Grandpa in her soft voice, guiding him over the piles of books to a spot in the living room chair. In the morning she explained to me that he had Alzheimer’s Disease and would need to stay with us. A few months later she sold his house, which caused ours to become even more filled up with stuff- his model airplanes lined our shelves; our closets were filled with his old hunting guns. Now, our house was not merely a jungle, but a battle zone.

     One night, as I was about to get into my bed, I noticed something protruding from underneath the blankets- some strange, undefined bulge. When I lifted the quilt I immediately jumped back, gasping at the sight of the huge, gaping set of teeth, the frozen blue eyes, the perched white ears. “Grandpa, Grandpa, there’s a wolf in my bed,” I shrieked, darting to the living room, where he stared blankly at the television. He looked confused for a moment, but then he started to laugh. “Beware the Big Bad Wolf,” he said. I backed away in terror, and that night I slept on the floor in my mother’s room. The next day, when she asked me why I had not slept in my own bed, and I gave my reason, she merely laughed and explained to me that there was nothing to worry about; Grandpa had caught that wolf when he was young, on a hunting trip to Alaska, and that when she was small he’d always tried to scare her with it. “Don’t fall for it,” she laughed. But, for the next week I found it hard to fall asleep, and from that point on my jungle expeditions in the piles of rubble took on a more urgent quality. I was no longer hunting, but fleeing, trying to escape from something that seemed quietly savage, something that would wait until I’d forgotten about it, until I’d reached my weakest point, and then make its attack.

     As the months went by we got used to having Grandpa in the house; we accepted his forgetting and mixing up of our names, his constant demands for tea. I often liked to sit next to him on the couch and watch the PBS specials about tropical forest that looked like heaven, where huge green trees draped over rivers, where butterflies and birds floated through the air like shimmering confetti. Sometimes I would fall asleep by  his side, and in my dreams I’d see the television, and the African violets which sat atop it would begin to expand, their blue flames growing as large as my head, the velvet leaves enveloping the room, covering the ceiling and floor, transforming all to paradise. But then I remembered that behind one of those leaves lurked the wolf, its eyes permanently frozen open in anger and fear, its teeth forever bared.

     When I turned twelve, my mother began to spend less time at home. She was working two jobs- one in the doctor’s office, the other as a bartender. Some nights she didn’t come home at all, and by then I was old enough to understand why. She was young- She’d had me when she was eighteen, and so now she was only thirty- and quite beautiful. When she’d worked as a singer I’d loved to watch her put on her makeup and fix her long blonde hair, which was as soft and smooth as wild grass. I’d seen enough movies to know what beautiful women like my mother did when they went out at night, and to understand why she didn’t always come home.

     So, now that I was twelve – “Not a little girl anymore, not at all”- my mother expected me to take care of myself.  I was the one who fixed Grandpa his tea and TV dinners; I was the one who helped him into bed at night. I was big now, a seventh grader, ready to become an adult; I could handle him even on the days when he refused to eat the food I gave him, when he started to swear and curse, to yell at me and say that I was a failure, a disgrace on him and our entire family. The words hurt, but then, I knew that I was not the one he was talking to, and I’d rather he say them to me than to my mother, whom I sometimes could hear softly sobbing in the night.  But, one Sunday morning, when she came in around noon with disheveled hair and two bags of groceries, he turned toward her unexpectedly and yelled, “Look at this house! Look at the way you live! You know if your mother were still alive, if your mother saw this, she’d curse the day you were ever born!”

     I looked from him to my mother, who was staring at him as if he’d hit her. Without a word to either of us she turned away, retreated to her room, and closed the door behind her. Meanwhile, Grandpa went back to his chair, flipped the television on to The Price is Right, and stared at the screen in silence. I pressed my ear to my mother’s door; I could hear her crying. I thought of going in, hugging her, comforting her, but something told me not to, and so I went back to my own room.

     She didn’t go to work at the bar that night- I heard her call her boss and say that she was sick. But, she got in her car and went somewhere- maybe to visit her latest boyfriend, how was I to know. After I’d put my grandfather to bed, I heard her car pull in. I was in my room reading The Hobbit and I waited until I finished the chapter before stepping into the kitchen where she sat, sipping her Budweiser and staring blankly at the pile of unwashed dishes. Her face was flushed; the wells under her eyes were dark gray, and her hair was a mess. In the dim light, she looked seventeen.

     “He didn’t mean it,” I said softly, stepping closer to her. “He always says things like that when you’re not home. He says them to me.”

     My mother peered at me, saying nothing. Unsure of what to do, I leaned over and put my hands on her shoulders. “He doesn’t mean it,” I repeated.

     She closed her eyes for a moment, then looked at me. “Yes he does,” she whispered.

     Soon after this, my mother started taking trips to Mexico. I don’t know how she managed it with her job – she’d quit the doctor’s office and was only working in the bar now- but I suppose they let her take time off. Someone at the bar had started talking about selling time shares down there, and my mother actually had a decent command of Spanish, maybe because her bar was in the Latin part of town. And so, she started driving down there for three or four days at a time. “I’m investigating the possibilities,” was all she said. “There’s potato salad and macaroni in the refrigerator- Take care of your grandfather.” And then- Poof- she’d be gone. She said she was looking for work down there. Somehow, I knew she was looking for men. It was always that way with her, and it still is.

     Not too long ago we went out together to celebrate two occasions- my 18th birthday and my scholarship to study at the state university. She was taking me to a bar she’d worked at- a bar that didn’t observe the drinking laws. My school friends, on hearing this, laughed with envy. They couldn’t believe I had a mother who would take me to a bar. I, however, was not quite as thrilled.

     When we got ready to go, my mother looked as she always did, her hair perfect, her lips red and eyelids blue, her hair perfectly combed; a cornflower sundress left her cleavage delicately exposed. I was dressed as I always dressed in the summer: khaki shorts, a yellow tank top, no makeup, my hair in a ponytail. She looked at me, her eyes tinged with disapproval. “Honestly, Annie, couldn’t you at least do your hair?” I didn’t understand what she meant- I had done it, hadn’t I? I shook my head and off we went. I’d imagined that the bar would be dark and smoky, filled with gritty, tattoo-covered men. To my surprise it was clean, with plush leather seats and red walls. And the men- some with girlfriends, some alone- looked just a few years older than me. The bartender immediately greeted my mother with a kiss on the cheek and they chatted for a few minutes, even though I could hardly hear their conversation over the techno clanging. But then, he turned to me, grinning. “Hello, birthday girl.” He was no longer looking at my mother. “What’ll it be?”

     “Just a Coke,” I said.

     “Really? That all?”

     “Yeah,” I said. I knew I was sheltered for my age; I had friends at school but didn’t go to parties; I’d tasted alcohol maybe five times and didn’t understand what the fuss was all about. And seeing the effect that it had on my mother- the crying, the fights with Grandpa, the long mornings sleeping in- didn’t make me eager to start. So, he brought me the Coke, and within minutes I could feel that others were looking at me…and not just in a what-is-such-a-young-girl-doing-here way. Within minutes three tall, dark-haired guys were standing around me, asking me questions, wanting to know where I went to school, what were my plans for next year, wow, so I was going to college, a full ride, was that great or what. In the corner of my eye I could see my mother, sipping her beer and trying to make conversation with the bartender. I could sense that she was annoyed…It didn’t matter that she was fifteen years older than most of the men in the room; she wanted them to be looking at her rather than me. And in some ways, so did I. But, they didn’t, and after the evening was over we drove home in the first of our silences, which now have become ever more frequent. Most often neither one of us knows quite what to say.

      Not too long ago my grandfather was put into an assisted living facility, and in all honesty my mother and I both feel more at ease because of it. Now I’ve been in college for two years. As for my mother- She’s living in Mexico at the moment, where she found a job selling time shares to wealthy Mexicans. She called me here and left a message saying she’d be home in three months. I hate to think of what she left in the refrigerator, green and blooming; I hate to imagine the state the plants must be in. Really, I’d rather not give it too much thought. Instead, I study; I go for coffee with my friends; I attend parties held in spotless, well-ordered houses that remind me of those first visits to Sally O’Hara. Nowadays I don’t mind houses that resemble museums; I don’t feel ill at ease in a room that’s tidy and clean. My own dorm room is immaculate; even the slightest layer of dust, a little spilled water is enough to end me scrambling for the mop.

     And yet, I know that my own house – my mother’s house- is still waiting, and that in the end I am going to be the one who will have to clean it. Grandpa’s wolf still lurks there, perhaps in the basement in a box, perhaps behind the couch, still baring its teeth, still striking terror into the hunter to the end. And even now, years after that first appearance under my blankets, I dread the renewed shock that will come when, while organizing books and sorting out dirty clothes, I encounter that beast once again.

     And God only knows what else I am going to find.

May 21, 2007