Grandma Sticks
Grandma,
grandma sick in bed.
Called
the doctor and the doctor said,
“Grandma,
grandma you’re not sick,
All
you need is a peppermint stick.”
I don’t
know about peppermint sticks, but Grandma really likes those cancer
sticks. That’s what my sister calls them.
I
don’t like peppermint. It burns and takes forever to dissolve. But
Grandma’s cigarette's gone in a few minutes. It gets short faster
when she puffs on it. That's how the glow gets brighter and makes
the white paper disappear. I watch as she talks and puffs and squints one
eye to let the smoke go by. Her friends do too as they laugh and
cough together.
“Go
get me a pack of Marlboro 100s,” Grandma yells from our front porch,
and I drop my jump rope onto the concrete. The other adults smile at
me from our rusty metal chairs, holding their sticks, when Grandma
hands over the money to me. “Bring me back the change, you hear?”
I hold
it tight. Grandma thinks I’ll loose the money. But I won’t.
She’ll see, just like a big kid. I don’t know why my sister
doesn’t like to go to the store for Grandma anymore.
I run
up the street to the corner store, and listen for the little bell to
jangle again when I close the greasy door. Dust and that old wood
floor smell dance in my nose with the nasty salami that's being
sliced.
On one
side is the refrigerator with butter, milk, eggs, and
orange juice in it. A freezer next to this has ice cream and
Popsicles packed into it. On the other side is the high counter with
the huge slicer on top. I see luncheon meats and cheeses through the
glass. It’s late Sunday morning and Bill’s & Joe’s isn’t
too crowded.
There’s
a lot of stuff on the shelves that reach the ceiling: tea, coffee,
jars of baby food, bread crumbs, flour, sugar, Crisco, mayonnaise;
cans of baked beans, vegetables, fruits, soups, condensed milk,
Spaghetti Os, Beef-a-roni, chili; boxes of cereal, macaroni and
cheese, baking soda and spaghetti noodles. There are even things
hanging from the ceiling, like stuff you’d find on your dad’s
work bench – if you still had a dad. Sometimes Grandma pulls stuff
like this out of her big black pocketbook, like electrical tape, a
screwdriver or pliers.
Next
to the first counter is a smaller counter and behind it on the wall
are the cigarettes. I can peek over this counter to see the smudgy
apron of Joe. Or Bill. I never knew who was who. I always thought
they were brothers, so it didn’t matter if you called them by the
wrong name. Grandma does that to us kids, and we just answer. No
one ever corrects Grandma. You just figure out who she means.
I
guess the sticks are behind the candy counter because there's no room
around the store to put them. The candy is inside a
see-through belly like the meats and cheeses. While I wait to be
served, I peek at Mallo Cups and Pixy Stixs. Wax soda bottles and Smarties.
“Yes?”
Bill or Joe says stepping down from the cold cut area. I swallow and check to see if I still have Grandma’s money.
“A
pack of Marlboro 100s, please,” I say, letting the coins peel
themselves from my palm onto the counter.
“Soft
or hard?”
“Hard
pack, please.” I remember that from before, when Grandma got mad
because I had brought home the wrong one.
I see
Swedish Fish and Wax Lips.
Bill
or Joe turns around and slaps a hand on the counter. “This is for
your grandma, right?” His eyebrows were scary but his eyes aren't.
I nod,
careful not to hit my face on the counter like last time, when the
other Bill or Joe asked me and my sister this.
“Here
you go.” He tosses the box onto the counter. “Matches?”
“Yes
please,” I reply. Grandma always wants the matches.
“Wait
for your change.” But I remembered and would have turned back even
if he didn’t say something. “Here you go,” he adds, handing me
different coins over that worn counter with its scratches and faded
white streaks.
My
hand is sweaty as I sprint home. But I won’t loose Grandma’s
change. I squeeze tight until my nails dig into my palm and make a
row of commas. The sticks I hold in my other hand tight, but not too
tight; they'd be no good if I squished them. I run up the cement
steps that still smell friendly from the rain last night. The black
wrought iron gate complains as I swing it on its whiny hinges. Everybody must be inside getting something to drink.
“That
you Elizabeth?” Grandma yells as I enter the vestibule.
“Yes
Grandma,” I call back. Elizabeth’s my sister, but I know Grandma
means me. Grandma must have been so busy talking that she didn’t
see me come down the street. She usually is looking out one of the
front windows – the one next to her chair. Grandma likes greeting
people before they appear from the vestibule. Her voice booms
greetings to friends and family. I'm proud to be one of them as I
appear and hand over the things to Grandma. Her friends smile and
say what a big help I am.
I sit
on the floor near my grandma’s only leg. The warm breeze from the
fan makes Grandma’s dress wave at me. This and the rubber
smell from her crutches help me daydream so that I don’t eavesdrop on the adult
conversation. I'm happy.
