"You again."
"Me again," I agreed, plonking the six-pack of Budweiser into my grandpa's lap. He let out a yelp and gave me a look like he'd like to burn me alive. I'm sure if he'd had a can of gasoline and a box of matches, he would have tried.
He slipped a can free, popped the top, took a greedy swig, then let out a satisfied belch. "Ahhhh. You're not entirely useless."
"Aw, Grandpa. That gets me right here."
He grunted and almost smiled - almost. "Where's the new guy? The Injun you married?"
"It's Native American, you old jerk."
"Oh, fuck me and spare me that PC crap."
I could see we weren't going to get anywhere unless I worked around to my topic of conversation a lot faster.
"To answer, he's looking after his business and junk like that." Truth was, I had no interest in involving myself in Sinclair's business affairs. One, it would have bored me near to death. Two, he'd been making himself rich for decades. He sure didn't need any help from me.
I settled myself into the chair across from the bed. He was in his wheelchair (the one he didn't need) by the window. It had been full dark for half an hour.
"So what's on your brain, Betsy?"
"I distinctly remember you telling me on several occasions that I didn't have one," I teased gently.
"Yeah, well, you never come over without a purpose. Introducing the new guy. Telling me about that twat and your dad when they died. So what do you want? There's a Sandford and Son marathon starting in twenty minutes."
"How d'you do it?"
"Do what?" he said impatiently, then slurped up more beer.
"Kill people. And then not worry about it." I was speaking with a world war veteran, a man awarded the Bronze Star. Fourth highest award in the armed forces. It was hanging on the wall above my head.
His platoon had run into some bad luck, had been in the wrong place at the wrong time... a not unusual occurrence in wartime, I was sure. Grandpa had grabbed his Lee Enfield sniper rifle, found scant cover, and picked off Germans one by one while his buddies were scrambling to get away. As sergeant, he had ordered them to get away.
He took four bullets: two in his left arm, one just above his right knee, and one had clipped off his left earlobe. Two of his men had dragged him away, as he protested bitterly that he was just fine, fine, Goddammit, let go, you jackasses, I've got work to do!
I had work to do, too.
Meanwhile, my grandpa had finished the beer (barf... words could not describe how much I hated the taste of beer) and was holding an unopened can in his left hand. "Kill people? Izzat what you said? And then not worry about it?"
"Yeah."
"What happened, idiot?"
I shook my head. "It's a really long story, and I come off pretty bad in it."
Grandpa shrugged, instantly losing interest in what brought me here, what had happened to make me ask that question. As Margaret Mitchell wrote about Scarlett O'Hara, he could not long endure any conversation that wasn't about him.
"It was wartime," he said at last. "They were the bad guys. It wasn't like it is now. Things were a little more black and white back then. They were killing every Jew they could find. I think those little black beanie things the men wear are pretty stupid, but it's no reason to pick 'em off like Goddamned mosquitoes."
I had to admit, I was surprised. Among other things, my darling maternal grandfather was a major bigot. I found it distinctly interesting that he'd fought because he saw a minority in trouble.
He was staring out the window now, and I had the very strong impression that if I spoke to him before he'd gotten all of it out, he'd clam up and take it to the grave.
The secret.
"Yup, they were doing terrible things," he mused. "And we were fools to wait until after Pearl Harbor to kick some ass. But once we were there, we were there. We did the work, and we didn't bitch about our feelings the whole time, either. God, I hate that 'tell me how that makes you feel' touchy-feely bullshit."
I nodded. I knew that, too.
"And when my guys got in a tight spot - why, I looked out for 'em just like they'd been looking out for me. I just kept that in my mind. Keeping my guys alive and sending as many of the bad guys to Hell that I could. That's all I thought about."
He looked straight at me, his eyes - my eyes - green and gleaming. "And then I never thought about it again. What for? Dead's dead, honey. You don't know that by now, I wash my hands of you."
"Thanks for the tolerance and acceptance," I said dryly. Thinking, there's a trick or two I could tell you about death, Grandpa. Things you never, ever dreamed of. Things that would turn your hair white, if it wasn't already.
But of course I wouldn't.
"What it comes down to is this, Betsy: you do what you need to, and then you haul ass out of there. Every single time."
"And never think of it again."
He nodded and popped the second Bud. "I didn't say it was an easy road. Shit, I lost plenty of my own fellas over there. I still miss Leary, that Irish fuck. But he died for a reason - a good one. Maybe the best one - kicking ass to keep the bullies out of the sandbox." He was looking at me almost sideways, a sly look. "So whether you killed somebody or someone got killed 'cause a you - oh, I can see it all over your face, girl, aren't you my own flesh and blood? Just... never think of it again. Life's messy, honey."
So's death, I thought, and turned the conversation to other things.
