Queen of Everything by Deb Caletti

Author:Deb Caletti [Caletti, Deb]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-04-14T03:00:00+00:00

"You can't go accusing lightly" Grandpa Eugene said to me. He pointed his eyebrows down in a V to let me know what his disapproval would look like, in case I needed to be reminded.

"I'm not."

He tapped the end of a pencil on his desk. Marty Abare's desk. The pencil was printed with

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Eugene's gas and garage in dark green. We had some at home, in the pencil cup by the phone.

"Mister Don Juan," he said. "Is that it? Thinks he's Mister Don Juan?"

"I don't know," I said. Grandpa had the air-conditioning blasting. I got little goose bumps up and down my arms. Or maybe it was just a little thrill at his anger. Or the energy-shiver you get when someone sees something the same way you do, finally.

The bells on Grandpa's office door banged against the glass. I stepped away from the door and a man popped his head inside; a sincere guy in glasses, his shirtsleeves rolled up and his tie giving him a struggle in the heat.

"Excuse me," he said.

"You get gas?" Grandpa barked.

"Yeah." The man waved his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the pumps.

"Gotta be careful of those hot dogs." Grandpa chuckled. In spite of his joke, I could see the tightness in his face. The anger. Grandpa didn't like funny business. That's what he called it, too, the bad, serious stuff. Funny business. I knew the subject of my father was closed. Taken care of sure as an overheating radiator.

The man smiled and handed over a credit card. Grandpa found his old imprint machine under a stack of invoices, stuck the card in, and yanked the handle over the top. "Get rid of this

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thing," he said to the man as he handed back his card. "You have a problem with real money?"

"Plastic's a curse all right," the man agreed. He put the card back in his wallet, took a slip of paper from it. "One more thing. I gotta find..." He looked at the paper. "You know the Parrish Medical Building?" He handed Grandpa the paper.

Grandpa read the address, looked at the man from the top half of his glasses. He eased himself up from the chair, opened the office door, and we stepped into a blast of warm air. "This street here?" he said. "Go back the way you came. Out to Front Street. Not more than a mile, mile and a half, you'll see Alder. Turn right, you'll see a big gray building."

"Thanks." The man took the slip back from Grandpa and got into his car. Marty Abare pulled up in his BMW and parked over by the air and water pumps. He got out, wiped a swag of dust from one shoe.

"What, no Bobcat Road?" I said to Grandpa. "You finally listening to Marty Abare?"

"What, are you kidding? Eugene MacKenzie doesn't take orders." He jabbed his chest with his fingers in case I'd forgotten who he meant. "Especially not from a guy like that. Look at him, ass out to here.

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