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    Grandma's Attic
    Grandma's Attic
    Grandma's Attic
    Ebook65 pages52 minutes

    Grandma's Attic

    By Guy Allen

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    About this ebook

    Eighteen-year old Jordy was on the verge of graduation, and his future prospects didn’t look good. Saddled with part of the emotional and financial responsibilities for his dysfunctional family, he had given up his dreams of attending University until his Grandma’s death changed his life.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBookBaby
    Release dateAug 11, 2014
    ISBN9780993810725
    Grandma's Attic

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      Book preview

      Grandma's Attic - Guy Allen

      Epilogue

      This is a work of fiction. All characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination.

      No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author.

      Talisman Publications

      Copyright © 2014 Guy Allen

      All rights reserved.

      ISBN- 978-0-9938107-0-1

      1

      Ma greeted me as I slammed the screen door shut.

      Grandma's dead.

      She was parked as usual at the kitchen table with a bottle of rye whisky perched in front of her. A second bottle stood ready to be opened in celebration of the event.

      Yeh, and it's about time, added sister Margery, as she chain-smoked her way through another pack of Camels.

      I figured if Dad had been in the room, he would have contributed his two cents worth as well.

      I didn't really blame them. Grandma had been difficult to get along with as long as I had known her and much longer according to the rest of the family. They generally used much stronger terms to describe her meanness.

      So, what happens now? I asked.

      I guess she has to be planted before she gets too rank, Margery observed. Old Man Lawton went out to the house and found her this morning. He called the police, and they had her carted off to the funeral home. The old creep says we got a week to get her stuff out of the house before he brings in the bulldozer. I guess that's your job, little brother, being as she left all her treasures to you.

      Well, so much for my spring break, I thought. Julie and I had been planning to fly down to Florida with a bunch of friends to party and lay on the beach for a week. Now I had to tell her I couldn't go.

      I don't suppose you're willing to help me with all this? I asked my sister.

      You know the answer, why ask? You can take all that money you planned to spend on a plane ticket and deal with it.

      My sister, at nineteen, is two years older than me, and I figure about five years stupider. She eked out a graduation from elementary school, but her freshman year at high school was too much of a challenge, as is her present employment at Walmart. I figure she has inherited all our family's dumb genes, of which an overabundance exists. I also came to the conclusion my ability to cope successfully in the halls of learning and in everyday life is a genetic gift from ancestral generations, since my father isn't the sharpest knife in the drawer either. In fact, everyone from the last two generations comprise a dedicated group of losers.

      I calculated the money I planned to use for the Florida trip would probably just about cover the disposal of Grandma. I had been looking forward to going south, sort of a last fling before I had to hustle a job after graduation. I had hoped to go to college, but helping support my dysfunctional family had killed that dream.

      Grandma had purchased a plot in the local cemetery years ago and had buried a couple of stillborns over the years. Enough room remained for her. At least that was looked after. I drove out to the cemetery and arranged for the hole to be dug.

      When will the service be held, and who will be conducting? The caretaker asked.

      As soon as we drop her in.

      I thought about the 'conductor' bit with a smile. Every pastor or priest who had ever called on her had been run off with the threat of being shot. Any of them who showed up at the gravesite would be doing it out of some sick sense of revenge.

      We won't be having a service. I expect a limited turnout of mourners.

      I paid the man then drove to the funeral home to settle accounts with them. When the question of selecting a proper casket came up, I was going to suggest a body bag but thought I might be pushing it. I settled for their cheapest model, which consisted essentially of a painted plywood box with brass hinges. Realizing I was operating on an extremely limited budget, they threw in transportation of the body to the gravesite. They seemed as glad to get rid of her as her family.

      As expected, the service consisted of me saying, goodbye Grandma and tossing the first shovel full of dirt into the hole.

      My next task was to go

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