Grandpa’s Mules on Main Street

So he went into the nursing home in town, the one on the east end of Main Street, the brick one with the big porch and the lawn that runs down to the sidewalk. It was the closest one and it had a bed.

It runs seven thousand dollars a month. I want to be fair to Royce about this, because he was the one who sat in the office and signed the papers, and he was the one who looked at those numbers every week.

Grandpa had some savings. He had the farm, and the machinery, and the cattle he had already sold down to a few cows. Seven thousand a month eats through savings like a fire in dry grass.

Royce had the power of attorney. Grandpa had signed it years ago, after my dad died. My dad was Grandpa’s younger son, and we buried him six years ago this fall. Royce’s dad, my uncle, went two years before that.

That left Royce and me as the grandsons who stayed close. Royce lived in town, ran a body shop, and kept good books.

I lived out on the county road and worked cattle. Grandpa picked the one who kept books, and I never held it against him.

So the papers were Royce’s. Anything that belonged to Grandpa, Royce could sell, and he was selling it.

The disc and the hay rake went to a farm sale. The two old cows went to the sale barn. The mules were next.

I could not make him stop. That is the plain fact of it.

If I had called a lawyer, it would have taken a year and money I did not have, and the mules would have been on Quincy’s trailer by Saturday no matter what.

The only way to keep them was to buy them.

The Visit

That same afternoon, after Royce drove off, I took the boys to see Grandpa. We go two or three times a week, after my shift, before supper. He likes to see the boys and he likes to hear about the cattle.

He was in the chair by his window when we came in. His room looks out over the front lawn and Main Street. He can see the hardware store and the bank and the flags on the light poles.

He had his good straw hat on the dresser, where he could see it. He did not wear it inside, but he wanted it where he could reach it.

“There’s my boys,” he said. His voice was thin since the fall, but his eyes were the same. Gray and sharp and always a little bit amused at something.

The little one, who was eight, climbed right up on the bed next to him. The older one stood by the door with his hands in his pockets, and I knew he was thinking about what he heard at the barn lot.

“How are my girls?” Grandpa asked. He asked it every single visit. It was always the first thing or the second thing. “Pet keeping weight on? Kate minding?”

I looked at my oldest. He looked at me.

“They’re fine, Grandpa,” I said. “Kate came right up to the fence today looking for sugar.”

“She’ll do that,” he said, and he smiled. “You give her one for me next time. Not two. She’ll get spoiled.”

I said I would. My oldest went out in the hall and stood by the water fountain until it was time to go. I did not blame him. I did not want to be in that room with that lie either.

On the way home, he asked me straight out. “Are you going to let Royce do it, Dad?”

“I’m working on it,” I said.

“Grandpa would hate it.”

“I know he would, son.”