Page 53 of Power of the Mind

“Are we going to keep looking into Madame Rowena, or is it stupid?”

“I’ll find the neighbor.”

“Call me?”

I nodded.

Then he was gone.

Before I caved and bought alcohol or cigarettes, I packed a bag and headed to the gym.

***

The TV droned with a daytime soap of some kind. I wasn’t watching it. My focus was on the black-and-white framed photograph on a shelf nearby. The man smiling from the past reflected the one I saw in the mirror each morning, except more handsome.

Boone Leason Krause was thirty-two when the picture was taken. Smartly dressed in a suit and tie, grinning at the camera, he looked like the happiest man on earth with his new bride on his arm. Robbing the cradle, marrying a woman a decade younger.

Boone smiled like he’d won the jackpot. I remembered my grandfather as stern and stoic. He was never unkind, but you wouldn’t catch him emotionally compromised. Boone grew up in a time when it was frowned upon for men to show fear, for men to cry, or for men to be openly affectionate or vulnerable in any way. Between the war and his job working alongside the police department, displaying masculinity was fundamental. Men were tough. Unshakable. Women were the compassionate ones.

I’d never seen him kiss my nana, and although their love had been undeniable, it was never on display. Affection was reserved for behind closed doors. As his grandson, I was never allowed to be soft. The customary greeting was a firm handshake or slap on the back. Boone showed love in other ways. If he ever raised a hand to his wife or child—as might have been customary in his day—I never saw it. Boone, so far as I knew, had never been cruel.

Leroy Krause, my father and Boone’s only son, was a different story.

I glanced from the dated wedding photograph to the wilted woman in the rocking chair beside me. She’d fallen asleep ages ago, gnarled hands curled around her abandoned knitting, no longer watching the program.

I wanted to ask a thousand questions, but those days were behind us. Even if Nana had a clearer day, she wouldn’t comprehend my struggles.

Gently removing the project from her hands, I examined the line of sloppy stitches on the needles. The last few rows were a mess. She had purled when she was supposed to knit and knit when she was supposed to have purled.

I pulled it back, refit the stitches on the needle, and mindlessly fixed it for her, wondering why boys weren’t allowed to have feelings and emotions or be affectionate, but they were allowed to learn a distinctly feminine craft.

“Why did Boone let it happen, Nana?” I didn’t know if I was asking about knitting or my father’s abuse. It didn’t matter.

Nana slept on. I could never ask such a question when she was awake, fearing I knew the answer. The truth was, Boonehadinterfered, many times, but in the end, he believed a father had a right to discipline his son, and Nana’s concerns were nothing more than the softhearted complaints of a woman. Whatever Leroy did to me must have been deserved on some level.

Boone wasn’t to blame. He grew up in a different world, and my grandfather had never laid a hand on me.

Setting the knitting project aside, I watched Nana sleep, knowing her time on this earth was coming to an end. An ache bloomed in my chest. How would I survive without her?

“I don’t know what to do, Nana.” I squeezed my thighs and chewed my thoughts. “There’s… this guy. He’s… It’s like being offered a piece of chocolate cake but knowing you’ll get your hand smacked if you try to take it. He’s not meant for me, but he won’t listen.”

I buried my face in my palms. The TV droned on. Nana slept.

Midday was not my typical visiting hour, but I knew the old man would be at work, and it would be safe. Encounters with Leroy Krause were best avoided. They never ended well. He ignited a fire inside me that burned out of control. I’d never hated a human being more than I hated my father.

Another TV sounded from upstairs. Mom was home and likely watching the same daytime soap Nana was missing.

After the incident with Tallus the previous night, I’d been restless, unsure where to put myself. Short of calling Dr. Peterson for an appointment, which was a waste of time since I didn’t feel the urge to regurgitate the same bullshit conversations we’d been having for years, I’d sought the only person in my life with whom I had a somewhat stable relationship.

Nana.

Except the ninety-one-year-old woman suffered from late-stage dementia and didn’t know who I was half the time, so even if I wanted to talk to her or ask for advice, I couldn’t.

I used the remote to shut off the TV and found an oversized afghan on the back of the couch —one she’d made decades ago—and spread it gently over Nana’s legs. I studied the elderly woman’s wrinkly face and sagging skin. How many times had she rescued me from her son? How many times had I run to her for respite?

The shell that remained struck grief in my heart.

If I had been a better grandson, a healthier man, I’d have kissed her cheek before saying goodbye, but it wasn’t something I did.

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