Dead With Grandpa 

© Albert Marsolais

“Grandpa?” was the first word I spoke. He was standing before me, the two of us surrounded by undifferentiated luminescence.  

“Yes, Jake, it’s me,” said the last person I ever wanted to see again, my grandpa, the one who’d abused me those years ago in my youth. Was this hell, or a dream? I wasn’t sure. But my mind was once again clear and sharp, after what seemed an eternity of drugged confusion. I looked down and saw my body, naked, young, yet fully-grown.  

“I’ve been tasked to greet you, and…,” said he, the same fearsome man as he was when I ran away from the farm. 

Looking around I could see nothing but he and me. “Where are we?” 

The old man shook his head in the same way I remembered before he would beat me with that switch while insisting it had to be done. I cringed reflexively, waiting for the blow. Instead, he said, “Your body died.” 

 It came back in a rush, the memories of the hospice and my last days and breaths. I had longed for a fade to black, an end to the torment—and now this. Was I yet alive? If so, how? 

“Come. Take my hand. I’ll guide you. I know it’s confusing at first.” 

I almost didn’t. Why should I trust him? I spun around and looked again, but there was nothing else but us. Did I once again have no choice? I balked. “No! I won’t!” I turned away from him and tried to run. Feet and arms flailed, but I went nowhere. I turned and turned and ran and ran but to no avail. I was stuck in situ.  

“You can’t go back. It has been decided.” said he with more compassion in his voice than expected. “You’ll have choices later when you understand more. Now you’re like a babe newly born. Take my hand, Jake. Trust me. Take it.” 

I faced him squarely, tentatively extending my left hand while making a fist with my right. He reached out too; an uncharacteristic warm smile having replaced his familiar scowl. This must be another of his tricks, I thought. But my arm remained between us, as though having a will of its own. I readied for the attack, my jaw clenched, fist tightened. Then our fingers touched and at once it appeared. Replacing nothingness was his farm in the full glory of mid-summer, the wheat fields golden, stiffly waving and ready for harvest. And down the lane, the white and black farmhouse flanked by silos, and behind it the red bank barn. And I had become clothed, in the worn dungarees and frayed t-shirt of my youth.  

He gripped my hand firmly and pulled me into his world.  

“The same as always,” said he. “Love this farm.” 

He undoubtedly did love it. It was his domain, his kingdom, and after Mom and Dad died, I was his thrall to do with as he pleased. I shuddered, as memories surfaced, the ones I had been suppressing. “This is hell, isn’t it?” I muttered as he dragged me toward the house. 

“Eh?  No, no, forget all that nonsense. No such thing as heaven and hell. It’s just memories of your experiences.” 

“What do you mean?” 

 “Do you not remember this? Look around. Is it non perfect in every detail?” 

I tried to tug my hand away, and he let go, but the memories remained. “I don’t want to be here.” 

“It’s the beginning of your new life,” Grandpa said, a warm smile on his face. “But first, there are your unresolved issues.” 

I cocked my head, not quite understanding. “What if I don’t want to deal with any issues, especially with you?” 

“Jake, that is your choice. No one will force you. You can wait here till you’re ready, if you wish.” 

I stood a moment, motionless, then said, “Why am I here…and with you?” 

“Because they were important years for you…and you need to know the truth. I volunteered to guide you though it…because I failed you.” 

I watched as the clouds shifted and the cows grazed. I touched the clump of grass at my side, feeling the raspy underside of the leaves. This was real or seemed so. It was no mere illusion. I was back at that dreadful farm once more that was certain, but what did he mean by “truth”? Then a gentle touch filled me with calming love, and I was no longer afraid. My eyes were drawn to the red barn, then Grandpa said, “We will start there.” 

It was built on two levels, the upper for storage of straw, hay, and grain; the lower for animals. We entered through the side door into the lower level. Grandpa whispered, “Watch.” 

Low beams, grey black with age, held the dark ceiling in place. There were two small windows clouded with dust and cobwebs along one wall, and a wide double door to the corral at the far end. The air was acrid from manure and silage. Several black and white dairy cattle were loafing, along with a few white chickens searching through spilled grain. Near the double door was a boy, head down, scraping manure into the gutter. “It’s me!” I realized suddenly. He or I was muttering something, then threw the scrapper down and walked to the steel cabinet on the wall where the medicines and poisons were kept. “Oh no,” I sighed, knowing full well what was to come. It was the day I poisoned the cattle. 

I tried to stop watching but couldn’t. The boy took the rat poison out of the cabinet and emptied it into the corral water trough. “Damned cattle,” he said, “shit all over me.”  

The scene shifted to the next day and seeing the dead and dying cattle. At the time I felt nothing but Grandpa’s anger…and the beating I endured. Then the rage and sadness which followed. It was a horrible memory to relive. But why? Had I not suffered enough over this?  

“There’s more,” whispered Grandpa, as the scene changed once more. We were in a bank and watched as Grandpa was speaking to the manager. I could feel his humiliation as he was forced to borrow money to buy new cattle and pay the vet fees. And I knew this was not the first time I had cost him plenty. I watched as several of these instances flashed by before us. I was an angry, hateful child. But then… 

“I’m sorry I was so harsh with you Jake. I know I made it worse,” said Grandpa, his head bowed. 

I wasn’t expecting this apology. I simply nodded. It was the truth. We had not been good for each other. But I couldn’t return the apology, if that is what he wanted. Wasn’t my fault, was it? I didn’t agree to be his slave. But then there were the cows. At the time, I tried not to think of them. But now…there were memories of Bonnie, my favourite and how she would nuzzle me and lick my hands. Most were affectionate like that. And I had made them suffer. “How does that make you feel?” someone asked in my mind. 

“Lousy. They were slaves like me,” I replied, softly. “Didn’t deserve to be treated like that…like me. 

“Let’s continue,” Grandpa said, ending my internal conversation. 

We were in the farmhouse now and there were the sounds of laughing coming from the living room. I watched as the scene unfolded. I remembered it well. The woman on the sofa, her blouse off. Grandpa holding her, one hand on her breast. Elvis was singing on the record player. Whisky was open on the coffee table. I usually didn’t much care what Grandpa did. But not with her. I hated her because she stole my toys for her son. I had so few, and they would disappear when she visited. And Grandpa would hear none of it. And I despised him the more for taking her side. 

I glanced at Grandpa beside me, his countenance serene.  

“You didn’t protect me,” I said. 

“But I did. Observe.” 

Grandpa had sent me to my room, and while I was crying, he returned to the woman. “That kid is horrible. I won’t have him,” she said with conviction. “Your choice…him or me.” 

She never returned after that night, and I assumed she’d dumped him. But now I knew that wasn’t what had happened.  

“Yes, I chose you, Jake.” 

I could feel his sadness, reliving this shared memory. He never had a woman visit again, at least not while I lived there.  

“How does that make you feel, Jake?” that someone once more asked in my mind. 

“Glad that woman didn’t come live with us. Too bad for Grandpa though,” I answered. 

“Last one,” Grandpa said, nodding toward the stairs. 

I was older now, early teens. We were in my bedroom. It was small, with space for a single bed, dresser, and hooks on one wall for clothing. The cow stalls were bigger, I noted once more. It felt like a prison, gloomy and oppressive. But then I hadn’t experienced a real prison cell yet. The key difference was no lock on my bedroom door. 

We were having yet another argument. This time about me skipping school and being disrespectful to the teachers. Grandpa yelled. I cursed. He slapped me. We grappled. He threw me to the floor. I lay there promising myself he would never again treat me like that. It was the day I ran away from home for the first time. 

It was quite laughable, really. I had no money, no transport, nowhere to go, and no plan to speak of. Ended up in the town jail after being caught stealing. But this time there was no punishment when I got home. Just silence. 

“For the first time I wanted you gone,” said Grandpa as we watched. “Should’ve got help, but I was too proud,” he added. 

“Wouldn’t have mattered. A year later I was better prepared.” 

“I didn’t try to stop you either. Was worried you’d turn out like your father, and why I pestered you about school. Turns out I may have harmed you both. I deeply regret that.” 

“Whatever…” I replied, knowing how this would end — with our final acrimonious fight and me leaving for good. “We never spoke again after I left.” 

Grandpa nodded, obviously saddened. 

“Never had a chance, did I? Mother died of tuberculosis when I was a baby and Dad died in prison a few years later. Then you took me―” 

“When no one else would,” Grandpa insisted. “It was that or the orphanage, and that didn’t seem right…at the time. Would have been different if your grandmother had been alive.” 

“Or my mother.”  

“That was tragic. She was a lovely person.” 

“Then why?” 

“Just one of those things beyond our control.” 

“No one cared about me…not even you at the end. But I made it on my own…for a time, until…” 

“I did care, more than you know. I hoped you’d come back or at least ask for help. Kept track of you for years and tried to provide some aid—.” 

“That was you?” I said, astonished, remembering those rare instances of good luck. 

He nodded, said, “Some were. But it wasn’t enough.”  

And then there was that voice in my mind, the someone asking me how I felt. And I told it I was beginning to feel something change in my heart. Was it a moment of empathy replacing a lifetime of hate? Not sure. I understood Grandpa had it rough too, and I hadn’t made it easier.  

“I made many bad decisions, Grandpa, especially the drugs. I’m sorry,” I said to him after a moment’s reflection. 

The scene changed abruptly, returning us to the luminescence, and its calming love. 

Grandpa smiled at me. “I see our visit has ended. Hope it has been beneficial. I love you, Jake. Do you wish to see your parents next?”