Another Dead Republican by Mark Zubro Read Free Book Online

replied in my softest voice, “You have no power over me.”
     
    “What I say goes in this family, in this county.”
     
    I said, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what we’re talking about. Is there something I can do to help you at this terrible moment?”
     
    Again, he turned very purple. He sputtered. Again, he began to pace and shout. “How dare you? You’re not in charge here. I’ve done exactly what this family needs. I know exactly what this family needs. I’ve made all the decisions. I will make all the decisions.”
     
    “What decision are we talking about?” I asked. “Your son is dead. I’m sorry for your loss.”
     
    The inkling of horror crept into the back of my mind. Had he made the decision to murder his son? Too ghastly, too inhuman; then again, he was a Republican. I so very much didn’t want it to be true that the Grums somehow could be involved in the death of their own son. It was just such an awful thing to contemplate.
     
    Mr. Grum tried to launch his vast bulk around the desk. He sprawled on top of it for a few moments. All of the rest of the papers and junk on top of the desk went flying. Some of the ceramic souvenirs broke into bits on the rug. It took him a few moments to control his rage and get himself righted on his feet.
     
    Next he tried to rush around the desk to attack us.
     
    We tried the simple expedient of not moving.
     
    The older man couldn’t get at us by going around to the left because the chairs were in the way. He tried the right, but had to stop because he had trouble fitting his gargantuan self between the desk and the grizzly bear.
     
    His feet crunched on shards of the broken paraphernalia he’d swept onto the floor. He kicked at several of the larger bits.
     
    Mr. Grum was breathing too hard. He swayed, shuffled sideways, grasped the desk for support.
     
    I said, “Do you need us to call 9-1-1?”
     
    He gulped breaths for several minutes. We waited. His face turned from awful purple to deep red. Then he began screaming again, “You’re just some faggot interloper who we’ve had to tiptoe around for years.”
     
    I thought of matching him scream for scream. The screamers usually think that once they’re screaming and you’re not, they’ve won.
     
    He waved a fat finger in my direction. “We aren’t going to put up with you anymore. You’re history.” He swayed, clutched the desk for support. I’m afraid the thought flashed through my head that if he had a heart attack or a stroke, should such a thing eventuate, I would not weep.
     
    I wondered if Veronica and the kids could hear him, or maybe Mrs. Grum and/or their kids might come rushing from the living room in support.
     
    In the softest, most measured tones I could summon, I said, “You will, now and forever, treat me and mine with dignity and respect. You do not get to play plantation master with me, now or ever.”
     
    Scott didn’t interrupt me or try to shush me, and I got no warning touch of his calming hand. As we met this threat, I felt his shoulder press against mine in solidarity. That touch was enough and more than enough to remember at that moment how much I loved him.
     
    As I stared at Mr. Grum trying to control himself, I wonder what the hell was going on here? Was he some kind of enraged, mad fool? Or a poor, desperately wounded schlub who had lost his son and didn’t know how to deal with the loss except to hit out at anything in his path, a wild animal too blind and grief stricken to deal any other way?
     
    Mr. Grum continued drawing deep breaths.
     
    Scott said, “Mr. Grum, we are deeply sorry for your loss. This must be the hardest thing a parent could possibly go through. Whether we like each other or not, Tom and I are here to help Veronica and your grandchildren and your family through this difficult time. We’ll be happy to do what we can.”
     
    Mr. Grum responded to this compassion with, “You can help by getting out. Now and forever. Veronica is not