Third time’s a charm, honey

A Flash Fiction by Cole Beauchamp

Photo by Andrei Ianovskii on Unsplash

I’m seven and Sunday dinners at Grandmother’s mean Grandfather Westbury on the threshold saying, “Ok, let’s see them then.” I open my mouth and he probes my teeth and gums with a fat finger while I try not to gag on the spit pooling at the back of my throat. He finally withdraws and pats me on the head saying “Good girl.” I file past him, past the sofas in their clear plastic covers, to take my place at the table between Grandmother in her twin set and pearls and my mother in her padded-shoulder trouser suit. The smell of roast beef competes with AquaNet hairspray as we pierce ladylike bites of meat with our forks. Later, when I complain at home, Mom says it wasn’t easy growing up with a dentist for a father and I should be grateful we only see him on Sundays and she lets me do Halloween.

I am seventeen and Grandmother has been widowed and remarried (disgracefully fast, says Mom). She’s gone cas’ and now it’s Sunday barbeques with Gramma and Grampa Tipthorpe. Grampa stands at the grill, flipping burgers and chugging beer, flashing me his Cadillac smile. Gramma is a new woman, flowing kaftans and long gray hair tied back with a scarf. Mom is sniffy about Grampa’s mansion (tacky) and his outdoor swimming pool (ridiculous in Connecticut) and insists we put white lilies on Grandfather Westbury’s grave every Sunday on the way home. Gramma plies me with questions about high school and Honor Society and my plans for college (aim high, honey), a relief after Mom’s relentless “You catch more boys with…” Before I leave for Yale, Gramma takes me shopping. “Grampa only gives me money when I show him the receipts, so let’s get spending.” At university, I learn about feminism and ask her why she doesn’t have her own money and isn’t it demeaning to hand over receipts and what about trust and sharing and all that good stuff marriage is supposed to be? She shrugs and takes me shopping.

Now I’m twenty-seven and Gramma’s asked me to be the Maid of Honor at her wedding. “Third time’s a charm, honey.” Grampa Zito is a Hell’s Angel and Mom refuses to attend, says leather and chains are undignified at their age and that woman doesn’t even know who she is. But I love Grampa Zito’s walrus moustache, the way he laughs with his whole body and the bedazzled looks he throws at Gramma. At the reception, I do the Cha-Cha-Slide next to a blond tipped, Doc-Martened Zito granddaughter and soon we are talking bio-robotics and downing tequila shots. Arm in arm, we agree Gramma is radiant, decked out in the honeymoon poncho she’s crocheted in pastel blue and yellow, the repeating pattern of skulls like a daisy chain. Maybe it’s to do with the roar of the Harleys or maybe it’s to do with the roar of my heart, but I think Gramma and I have found ourselves at last.