The Old Blue Truck

Maggie wasn’t as oblivious as her mother and grandmother thought. She knew something was up. She could feel the tension and see it in their faces. Mom’s usual bright smile had disappeared into a thin line, her lips tipped downward on the corners. Grandma rocked manically in her chair, its usual comforting squeak more of a squeal. Grandma wasn’t enjoying a quiet afternoon on the porch, she was downright angry.

Miss Kitty meandered across the barn yard, spied Yeller Cat, and pounced. Yeller jumped three feet off the ground before landing on all fours. He raced after his sister, easily catching her. The two rolled over and over in the grass, and then stopped suddenly, their paws around each other as if hugging, ears laid back as if fighting. After losing interest in their game, Miss Kitty fled to the safety of a nearby maple tree. She peeked through the leaves, waiting until Yeller Cat disappeared around the corner of the house, before running up the porch steps. Maggie reached down and picked her up. It was then she heard the sound of Grandpa’s truck.

“Grandpa’s home!” Maggie called, as she jumped up to run toward the sound. Maggie’s wide smile disappeared when her mother grabbed her by the shoulder, abruptly stopping all forward movement. Miss Kitty’s claws dug into Maggie’s arm in an attempt to keep from falling. Maggie screeched, and dropped Miss Kitty. Miss Kitty took off for parts unknown.

Maggie watched the drive for Grandpa. Instead of its usual slow pace, the truck was coming fast. Maggie could tell from the cloud of dust rising above the trees along the gravel road. The moment the old blue truck came into view, Maggie screamed. The truck was sliding sideways. It tilted slightly, threatened to roll, before coming to rest against the old oak tree at the edge of the yard. Grandpa crawled out the passenger door, waived, and stumbled toward the porch.

Relieved, Maggie waived back and tried to run toward him. Her mother’s hand still gripped her shoulder, successfully preventing all forward movement. She looked to her mother for help, but her mother turned her toward the house and gave her a shove through the door.

“Stay inside,” was all she said.

Confused, Maggie obeyed. She peeked outside through the living room drapes. Grandpa stumbled on the steps and fell at Grandma’s feet. Grandma reached for the straw broom leaning against the wall and tried to sweep Grandpa off the porch. Maggie’s mother merely stood with her arms on her hips, looking disgusted.

Risking a trip to the woodshed when her father got home, Maggie raced outside. She didn’t know what she could do, yet she knew she had to do something. No one, not even her grandma, was going to hurt her beloved Grandpa. Maggie grabbed the broom and hung on. As the broom took one more swipe at Grandpa, Maggie’s hands slipped. She fell on top of her grandpa’s chest. She lay there for a moment, breathing like a marathon runner nearing the finish line, inhaling Grandpa’s breath. Her eyes moved from the old blue truck to Grandma, to Mom, and then she lifted her head to see her Grandpa’s face. Maggie involuntarily wrinkled her nose. That’s when she realized why everyone was mad. Grandpa was drunk.