Paint chip: “Dust bunny”

Photo by michal dziekonski on Unsplash‍ ‍

At Grandmother’s house in Gate City. I have a long summer and the run — a long run — of the whole house. Every corner, every cupboard, even the outbuildings in the back. Smokehouse, toolshed, former springhouse. With the smells of decay and danger, rotten motor oil, rusting saw blades.

Inside — a china cabinet filled with specialty bowls nobody has put a spoon to in 40 years. Doilies, gravy boats, Reader’s Digest anthologies, Grimm’s fairytale collection, Grandaddy’s Argosy magazines. I examine his pipe rack, bite the end of each pipe, put the pipe back in its slot, open the tobacco jar and breathe deeply.

There’s one room nobody goes into — except me. I’m told it’s where my Mamaw — my grandaddy’s mother — lived for many years. It’s unique because it has its own door to the outside and, beyond, a paver pathway now grown over with clover.

More exciting, it has its own water closet. Not that I know that name. It is a closet with a toilet in it. Peeling wallpaper, a faint scent of ancient urine. If I am feeling particularly brave I might go in there, pull the light chain and pee. Peeing there is scary, with spiders and dust bunnies lurking in the corners.

I flush and run out fast. Maybe I lie on the long-vacant twin bed. A chenille bedspread on it. White as snow. Retaining the coolness of night even on the hottest day in early August. My ear to the coverlet, listening for the faint, hollow creaking of springs. Vaguely wondering what it might be like to be old, or dead. Remembering her scary fingers and that smell of death.

She’d hold me to her and tell me how much she’d loved my mother Nita, and how much she loved me. Even though everyone said how truly mean and unforgiving she was. How like an old witch, a nasty presence, emerging from her bedroom — I was told, years later — only on Friday nights to watch the fights on TV and only — I was told, years later — the fights featuring a black man vs. an Irishman.