Granny

Daisy

When I met Granny, I didn't like her. First, she was a woman, which meant I couldn't trust her, and second, she was related to Carson. He had finally gotten the nerve to knock on her door, his old door to the home he had lived in as a boy. I did that thing again where I was imagining him young and vulnerable, regretting every inch of it until Granny swung open the door, nearly knocking me off the stoop.

"Time different in Little Rock?" she asked. She was dressed like a man in old corduroy slacks and work boots. The button-down she wore was old and faded, slightly yellowed against her wrinkled skin. She was much older than I had expected, something I imagined Carson would have mentioned, but then again, Carson didn't mention much that was either of interest or importance. Also, if she was supposed to be dying, she sure as heck wasn’t acting like it.

"Well, let me look at her." She said it in a way that made me think there was someone else behind me, but she took me roughly by the elbow and into the house that smelled the same as her – musty with time. I had the insane thought to curtsy or pirouette, but both of those things made my feet wince. I had stayed long after practice at Madame Marie's the night before because I didn't want to go home and knew Carson wouldn't care either way, already delighting in his nightly routine of too many beers. I had practiced my part in the upcoming Spring recital until my right big toenail took leave. I had bandaged it the night before and then again that morning, basking in the pain that kept me in the moment and that moment alone. And I remember my mind's finger grazing against the edges of a deep-seated fear: I liked pain just a little too much.

"Well, I don't know about all the fuss. But I 'spose not bad," Granny said, lifting my arm and then dropping it, that same finger prodding against the pleasure of my fist finding my flesh.

"And there you are," she said to her son. Granny nodded at him, and he nodded back, Carson not knowing what to do with his hands. It was a hard thing to witness. It was like I was no longer the daughter of a bitter man, but the strange traveling companion of someone I was starting to suspect wasn't lawfully allowed to have a license. He looked so meek and small next to his mother, her literally wearing the pants, and she knew it too. There was a cat eating the canary smile on her face when her eyes weren't blank. It almost made me feel sorry for Carson.

Almost.

"Dinner's cold but might as well not waste it," she said, leading us into her dining room. We both were set on pause, waiting for the other to push "play." And in that moment, I felt my father's hand graze mine, and that's when I hit upon another fear: I couldn't place his touch as either pleasure or pain.