Fallout (Crank 3)

If we had pancakes too often, you

wouldn’t appreciate them so much.

Grandfather downs a short stack,

then he says to me, I have to run

an errand. Want a ride to school?

Unusual. He hardly ever

goes anywhere. But what

else can I say? “Uh, sure.”

THE FIFTEEN-MINUTE RIDE

Seems to take an hour. Unlike Aunt Cora,

Grandfather is definitely fishing the same

tide of anxiety I find myself trolling.

He is taut as a tug-of-war rope. Impossible

to slacken, despite the fact that lately he’s been

downing bourbon instead of beer, along

with bigger and bigger doses of meds. He falls

asleep in his chair every night around eight.

Even now, with coffee rather than booze

chasing his mood fixers, his voice is muddy

when he finally cracks the wall of silence.

Your father is getting out next week.

Just the way he says it—all quivery

and ice-cold—sends shivers through me.

“I thought it might be soon. I heard

you on the phone the other day.”

He says he wants to see you. How

do you feel about that? He turns

a corner and the school pops into

view. Trey wants to see me? What for?

And how do I feel about seeing