With and Without Class by David Fleming Read Free Book Online

from him in some way, or pay royalty.
    Grandpa came to our house around four that Christmas day with the party already going strong. He hobbled over the threshold with silver horse-head cane in oversized patent leather shoes, shuffling feet heal-to-toe a good half inch with each stride. His gray twill sport-coat with brown elbow patches had sleeves that almost hid his hands except for overgrown fingernails. His boney liver-spotted hand grasped the silver horse head as if it was his life but his eyes, magnified behind black vintage frames, held the smug confidence of an eighteen-year-old as he made a bee-line to the kitchen. My mother ran her hands over his fleshy walrus jowls and thick white whiskers, asking how he’d been. Without delay, his index finger and head cocked to the upper wooden cabinet, “Sneaky Pete!”
    The seated crowd rejoined, haggardly, “Sneaky Pete.” Most people understand a Sneaky Pete to consist of apple brandy and beer. To Grandpa it was beer and Irish whiskey, which was likely something else, but to him it was Sneaky Pete or The Pete.
    Making The Pete was an ordeal with the Jamison stashed behind empty mason jars in a big storage cabinet in the den and the beer in the basement, not to mention the last highball being dirty.
    Grandpa grumbled, “I’ll take my Pete in the family room.”
    â€œThat’s right,” Great Aunt Bethany said, actually she barked. Whether speaking quiet or loud, everything was more of a bark. She was the sister of Grandpa’s departed wife. “Better not stay with Grown-Ups and we discover how far you’ve gone.”
    Grandpa stopped momentarily but kept shuffling, negotiating four stairs down to the family room.
    â€œI’m watching him,” Bethany said to my mother. “He’ll spread lies to them kids.”
    I followed Grandpa into the family room. Though I was somewhat afraid to go in there because the cousins were in there. It was like they owned the house when we had people over and it seemed they shared some common history I wasn’t a part of. They played with our generic Legos near the burgundy sectional couch, building a city and eating white frosting-coated pretzels from a large red and white tray. Cindy, age eight and Jenny, nine, stood and informed me with exuberance that I was mentally retarded because my eyes were too close, then they ran upstairs to the kitchen. Jack and Benson raked over Legos on their knees.
    â€œWhatcha building?” I asked.
    â€œA tower,” Benson remarked, prying apart plastic blocks.
    â€œA tower to where?”
    â€œTo inside the TV.”
    â€œCan I help?”
    â€œYou have to find all the long, skinny ones. That’s your job.”
    I sat and segregated a few long, skinny ones for Jack’s inspection. They passed and were dutifully added to a generic Lego moat ringing the tower. The moat would discourage the inevitable invasion of the crocodile men. Grandpa watched us from the brown easy-chair in the corner. His eyes flicked momentarily to Bethany walking toward him. She carried his Pete to him with the slightest hint of a grin. She was also a widow, seemingly around fifteen years his junior and she enjoyed displaying how well she could still walk; how she could carry him things.
    â€œHere,” Bethany said, handing him the ice-cube filled drinking glass.
    Grandpa took the glass and tasted a draught. “Wait,” he pointed a long fingernail at her.
    Bethany stopped and turned.
    His face hardened, adjusting and struggling, readying to stand. “Where’s the Irish?”
    Bethany smiled. “They couldn’t find it. It’s a lot of trouble.”
    â€œNot true. It’s you. Waiting for the day I can’t taste. When I can’t smell it. Ain’t senile—”
    â€œYou’re too old to drink that way!”
    â€œA Pete without the Irish is no Pete!”
    Bethany turned sharply and Grandpa