Grannie and Grandpa's house hid in its nest of oleander trees, which were constantly fruiting orange, black-whiskered caterpillars. The house was raised a foot-and-a-half above the ground, and a bench swing hung from the front porch. Grandpa's was the only house without a screened-in porch because, as he had explained, "If you can put up with Florida skeeters, you can put up with pretty much anything". However, Grannie gained the concession of a screen door at which she stood to greet us. I had never arrived at the house without seeing her smiling from behind the silver mesh. I imagined at each visit she waited patiently for our cars to wind up the long unpaved driveway to the house. As soon as Mom and I got out of our cars, Grannie stepped onto the porch with her arms open.
"Don't say anything about Grandpa going to the doctor's. We don’t know anything for sure," Mom said to me in a whisper.
"I didn't know he had gone. What's wrong with him? Is it serious? Jesus, that's a bit of a bombshell, Mom."
"I told you the other day he was going in."
"No you didn't."
"I did so, now hush."
"Come here and give your Grannie a big wet kiss." She was half as tall as me. She looked delicate with the roundness and wrinkles of a grandma. I imagined if I hugged her tiny frame too hard she would turn to sand and pour from my arms, leaving me with her empty floral housecoat. Even this early on a Saturday morning, her hair was perfectly done. Grandpa sometimes pretended to rest by putting his elbow on the top of her head, to which Grannie would complain about just having her hair set.
"Where's Grandpa?" I asked. My Grandpa Arlin, on the other hand, was built of timbers and iron. His beer gut suited his large frame and broad shoulders. Regardless of the weather, he wore a white undershirt and blue jeans. The only thing that varied was the brand name on the front of his baseball cap. He might have been an intimidating man but, when he tilted his head back to look through his bifocals, his blue eyes magnified comically.
Grannie gave me that big wet kiss on the cheek and patted my arm with her soft, papery hand. Mom's offer to help in the kitchen was rejected.
"Grandpa's out in the barn. You want some coffee, Gavin?" Grannie asked.
"Sure. Milk and sugar please."
"You sit down, Grannie. I'll get it," Mom said.
"Hush now," Grannie said and they both went into the kitchen.
Grandpa appeared from the barn gripping his thumb tight against his chest. He crossed the yard and stepped onto the porch. Today's baseball cap read, "CAT DIESEL POWER".
He shouted, "Momma? Can you bring me your sewing kit?"
I stepped to the screen.
"Hey, boy. Go get your Grannie for me." A delta of blood flowed between his fingers and down his arm.
I remembered him standing on the porch with the same patience a couple months before. He had called for Grannie to bring him a new pair of jeans because he had spilled motor oil over the pair he was wearing.
"I don't want you tracking that mess in here. You change out there." She delivered the clothes and he changed before us on the doorstep. His pale, almost hairless, legs and socked feet went one after the other into the faded and baggy jeans. While he dressed on the welcome mat, she turned to me and said, almost as an apology, "Nothing wrong with being house proud."
"What'd you want with my sewing kit?" Grannie asked, walking to the door and wiping her hands on her apron.
"Damn it woman. Quit your fussing. Bring me some thread and a needle." He frowned, embarrassed by his impoliteness. "Gavin, I'm going to need your help. Can you come out here? Thank you."
I stared at the drops of blood that left his elbow and dotted his shirt. His tendons were taut against the thick freckled flesh of his arms. Queasiness from last night jumped in my stomach.
When Mom and Grannie saw the red streaks that ran down Grandpa's arm and down his shirt and jeans, they chorused "Oh my God", "What have you done now?", "Call 911" and "What happened?" I burped bile and held the screen door dumbly. I felt faint looking at his shirt's growing red stains that he didn't seem to notice.
"I’ll be all right. The boy is going to help," he said to answer the women's furrowed brows.
"Are you sure? We should call 911," Mom said.
"Sure I'm sure." He turned to me and motioned, "C’mon." I wasn't so sure, but I obediently followed. He sat on the bench swing, and I concentrated on controlling the sickness in my stomach. Grannie returned and handed him a threaded needle.
"Can you get some rubbing alcohol?" he asked her. Mom had replaced me at the screen door and continued her calls for doctors, ambulances and tetanus shots.
My vision went green and I started to see stars when Grandpa charged me with the duty of holding the torn flesh of his thumb while he stitched, with sky blue thread, the gash that ran from the tip of the digit to the meat of his palm. He pushed the needle through the almost translucent callused skin then drew the thread to bring the edges together and hide the thin line of yellow curds that I guessed was fat. He must have noticed the color leaving my face. His slow, deep voice -- "You all right, boy?" -- kept me from passing out.
"We’re almost done here." I tried to hold together the sides of the cut. His skin was sticky with drying blood. I adjusted my grip, and the cut opened again to provide a fresh dollop of red. I smelled that coppery scent and fought the churning acid in my stomach.
"Steady now," he said. Grannie came out with a plastic bottle. "Go on." He nodded to her, pausing his sewing. She poured the liquid over our hands as timidly as if she was going to feel the pain. Grandpa closed his eyes. His mouth tightened, but he didn't utter a sound.
"All right. That’ll do. Momma, now, can you get some clean rags or bandages if we got ‘em?" After she left, he leaned toward me and whispered, "Let’s get this done before that woman comes back and tries to kill me again." He smirked and winked. He finished his uneven suture.
"Are you okay?" I croaked.
"Me? You the one green around the gills. How you feeling?"
"Okay."
"Thanks for helping me play surgeon."