The Grenadier

The flames were already starting to lick the grates when Frank shut the lid of the grill. He pulled a faded kerchief from his back pocket and mopped his brow. It was mid-June and the heat from the grill wasn’t helping any. He looked down and checked his watch. When was Barb coming home anyhow? The Rack ’n Sack was only a few miles away, and she’d left an hour ago. Frank had a go with the kerchief again and looked up at the big oak where he’d hung the tire swing. It had been years when he’d leaned his ladder against that old gnarled giant, swung a rope over a branch. He’d almost fallen off the ladder putting it up.

The tire swing hung still, crystalized in the afternoon heat. Frank couldn’t remember the last time anyone had sat on it. Now it hung cockeyed, a lopsided tar-colored donut sinking slowly into hot grease.

He heard a car door shut and Barb’s voice: “Frank, would you come and help with the groceries?” He stuffed the kerchief back in his pocket and walked around the house and up the driveway. Barb was holding her car keys in one hand and her purse in the other. “The bags are in the trunk, honey,” she said. Frank moved over to the trunk and grabbed the plastic bags. “You were gone a while,” he said. Barb was walking down the driveway. “I ran into Terry in the checkout line,” she said. “We chatted for a while in the parking lot. Sweat right through my outfit, I’ll have to change before the Simpsons arrive.”

Frank had the grocery bags in hand and shut the trunk. He walked fast down the driveway to catch up with his wife. “Terry?” he said. “Yeah, Terry Cullins,” she said. “Jared’s pre-K teacher. You know, the teetotaler.”

They turned right behind the door, heading for the back door. Jerry stopped by the grill, put down his bags and rummaged inside one. He pulled out a plastic package of pre-formed hamburger patties. “Let’s get these on the grill,” he said.

Barb looked at the grill. “Honey, the Simpsons aren’t coming until 5:30,” she said. “They’ll get cold.” Frank pulled open the package. “You know me,” he said. “I like to be prepared.” He opened the grill lid. Flames teased at the grate. He grabbed a pair of tongs and placed the patties on the grill. “And we can always nuke them back up if we need to.” He shut the grill. He asked, “What else are we having tonight?”

“We gotta get this stuff to the fridge before it spoils,” Barb said “Give me a hand?”

In the kitchen they unloaded the plastic bags onto the floor and started putting them in the pantry. Cans of sweet corn, white beans, Mandarin oranges in syrup. “I got these on sale,” Barb said, holding a small bag of multi-colored mini Marshmallows.

“You don’t even like those,” Frank said. He put a bottle of Early Times halfway into the pantry, thought better of it. He unscrewed the cap and took a swallow, couldn’t hurt. “And neither do Jared and I.” He put the bottle in the pantry. Barb watched his hand move back to his side. “Well, we saved twenty cents at least,” she said.

Jared pulled a box of Corn Flakes from a grocery bag. “We’ve have saved more if you hadn’t bought the bag at all, you know,” he said. He put the box in the pantry, there was the Early Times watching him. He took another swallow to cool its gaze.

Barb looked at him, then looked out the window towards the tire swing. “Slow down, slow down,” she said, halfway to herself. The tire swing lay frozen still in the summer air. She lilted her words like a children’s song. “Slow down, slow down.”

A faint noise sounded from across the room. Frank put the bottle back in the pantry. “Jared’s up,” he said. “I’ll get him ready.” He walked through the kitchen and living room into the hallway, past the bathroom, and opened a door to his right. “Hey, son. Did you sleep well?”

Jared had a pinched, elfin little face and a shock of blonde hair. His legs were skinny as a couple of pipe cleaners. His wheelchair sat beside his bed. He turned his head towards his father at Frank’s words. “Hi, Dad,” he said. “I’m ready to get up now, please.”

My son is an angel, put on this earth to pierce me, thought Frank. He moved over to the bed and gently tousled his son’s hair. “You’ll all warm, kiddo,” he said. “Let’s get you out of that hot bed.” He eased the covers off his son’s body, gently lifted him out of the bed. He could feel his son’s small breaths against his neck. He tenderly deposited his son into the waiting embrace of the wheelchair, adjusted the supports against his son’s feet. Then he moved to the doorway, opened it, and snapped his hand smartly into a salute. “After you, general,” he said.

His son smiled. “At ease, soldier,” he said. He pressed a button on his chair and it moved out through the doorway. Frank followed him, then moved past him as he stopped in the living room. Another sweetener of Early Times, then a shower. Got to get well before the Simpsons arrived. He moved into the kitchen, then stopped in his tracks. His mouth dropped open. The grocery bags were almost all empty. His wife was by the pantry shelving a box of Minute Rice. And there was smoke billowing up by the kitchen window from the grill. “Oh, shit!” Frank shouted. He tore through the kitchen, down through the laundry room, yanked open the back door. Faintly, he could hear his wife’s voice behind him. “Slow down, slow down,” she said.

Frank grabbed the grill lid and pulled it open. The burger patties were black stone-hard turds. They may as well have been charcoal briquettes sitting on the grate. They were ruined. “Oh, shit. Oh, god,” Frank groaned. He ran his fingers through his hair. Was there time to run up to the Rack ’n Sack again and buy more patties? He doubted it. He turned off the grill and plopped down beside it. The tire swing loomed in his vision like a hanging carcass. He grabbed the tongs, snatched up a scorched patty, dropped it into his hand. It burned but he didn’t care. He threw the patty at the tire swing. It flew through the tire hole and banged against the back fence. He plopped back down beside the grill and put his hand over his eyes. His chest shook.

The sound of his son’s wheelchair made him look up. Jared was coming down the ramp from the side door. He wheeled across the patio to the grill and looked at his father. He puffed out his cheeks. “That was some throw, soldier,” he said. “We can use a steady hand like you against the godless Prussians.”

Frank got shakily to his feet. “I had the title of First Grenadier by those who knew me,” he murmured. “Threw an incendiary clear across the Seine during the Battle of the Bulge.” His voice grew. “Men falling all around me. Dark unending night.” He strode over to the grill, picked up another brick-patty. “My grenade lit the sky, blazed a trail to victory!” He hurled the patty with all his might. It whizzed through the tire swing and broke a hole in the back fence. His voice grew to a shout. “And the forces of evil laid prostrate before the holy sword of the chosen!” His son was laughing and clapping his small hands. Frank stabbed at the air with the tongs wildly. “Huzzah! Burnout! Bullseye!” he screamed, leaping in the air. He could see his wife at his kitchen window watching. She was mouthing words but for the life of him he couldn’t hear what she was saying.