Chapter from the book, Some Rainbow

Passage from Some Rainbow

Monday, November 26, 1984 – High 64°F - Warm, dry

Gran knew I was staying at Mott’s. We never talked about it, but I had the feeling she understood.

This time, I called and told her where I was.

It was obvious there was more than just friendship.

She heard it in my voice when I told her Mott was leaving for New York. She knew it would be hard.

Mott and I were inseparable now. And soon, we wouldn’t be.

By then, being away from the house was routine. As long as she knew where I was, she was okay with it. Besides, Mott was someone she was close to. She trusted him.

Every moment with him felt precious. These last days before he left were slipping through my fingers, and I tried to memorize each second: The way he moved. The way he spoke. Those beautiful eyes. The creases in his palms. The sound of his laugh. The lines that formed beside his eyes when he smiled.

Every conversation—soul-baring and intense—was cataloged, boxed up inside me, packed tight for the day when there'd be nothing left but memories.

Last night, Gran had left a message. She needed help with grocery shopping.

I never heard it.

Fell asleep instead, the television’s static washing the room in monotonous white noise. I still hate myself for that.

Every passing day, the panic grew. The deadline of his departure loomed over everything, making even breathing feel heavier.

The cats were restless.

The house was restless.

So was I. __________________________________________
Back To the Old Grindstone -
Tuesday, November 26, 1984

The next day at work, I told Anita I’d be leaving at one.

Gran needed a ride home from the hospital around four. I was always worried when she was away. Nothing to worry about, though. This is something simple. Routine. Nothing to worry about. The doctors said they’d done knee surgeries thousands of times.

She’d be walking soon. Feeling like a new person. We'd stop at the Red Barn for burgers on the ride home, just like we used to when I was a kid. She’d probably laugh about how awful and bland the hospital food was, about how they tried to kill her with Jell-O.

I just had to put up with Mom until then. How she got from Reading to Pittsburgh amazed me. I'm surprised she was sober enough to remember.

One thing is for sure: the cats would be overjoyed when Gran walked through the door. Once they're done taking their turns curling up next to her, everything is going to be fine.
________________________________________________
Lunch at Admissions

The Office smelled like burnt coffee and reheated leftovers.

I sat at my desk, barely listening to Max as he leaned back in his chair. He launched into his annual deer hunting rundown—something about “growing out the beard for the first week of the season” and how real hunters don’t use tree stands. I tuned him out five deer spottings ago.

Anita made a face. "You still eat the stuff from last year?" She peeled her lunch container open. Her usual Tab next to it.

"Hell yeah," Max said proudly. "Still got some in my freezer. Venison chili, venison jerky. I had venison meatloaf last week."

"That’s disgusting," Anita said, grimacing.

"It’s the cleanest meat you’ll ever eat, Anita. No lie."

She slopped her lunch on the desk with an annoyed sigh. "Damn it. I was really looking forward to that." "What was it?" I asked, forcing interest into my voice.

"Leftover Schnitz und Knepp," she said.

Max wrinkled his nose. "I don’t even know what the hell you just said, but it sounds like something that crawls out of a swamp."

She turned away from Max, dramatically ignoring his comment. “Anyway, Phil. It’s dumplings, dried apples, and ham," sounding exasperated. She pointed a pencil at Max, "Meanwhile, all the Polish food you tell me about sounds disgusting."

"Oh, it is disgusting," Max said proudly. "That’s what makes it amazing. Ever had duck blood soup?"

"Max, don't. I still have to replace the lunch I spilled with something from the cafeteria."

In another life, I might’ve told Mott about this later—imitating Max’s voice until he laughed so hard he wheezed.

Today, the thought just sat heavy in my chest.

Max leaned closer, conspiratorial. "Debbie’s trying to unionize again."

"I heard she tried that last year," I muttered, pretending to care.

"Yeah, but now she’s got PowerPoints. And a flyer,
Phil. A flyer."

Anita asked, "Does it have clip art?"

He nodded solemnly. "A fist holding money. Looks more like she’s trying to start a Marxist uprising."

I couldn't resist, "She's been handing out little red books yet?" Does he have a clue what I'm referencing?

"Worse," he grinned. "Someone left a picture of
Stalin taped to her phone."

I almost choked on my coffee. I suppressed a laugh,
"Who the hell—"

"That's the weird thing. No one knows," Max said, eyes gleaming. "Facilities, probably. They hate her." I caught the time on the clock over the entrance. Slinging my bag over my shoulder. "Alright, degenerates, I’m outta here."

"Later, Croydon!" Max called, already spinning back toward his terminal like he might actually work.

Anita fell into step beside me, fumbling for her keys. "Hold up—I gotta grab something from outta the trunk."

Outside, the sun glared off a sea of cars. A bright blue sky with no clouds. I always cherished those moments. Pittsburgh didn't get many days like this. I squinted into it, wishing I could live in a place where days like this never ended.

"You ever think about Penn State?" she asked suddenly, popping her trunk.

I blinked. "What? I guess I never really thought that far ahead."

"After CCAC," she said, rummaging through bags and folders. "You’re smart. You actually care about school. You could get in."

I shrugged. "Dunno. Never thought about it."

"Well, you should," she said, shutting the trunk with her hip. "You don’t have to stay in Pittsburgh forever, you know."

"At times, it feels like it."

"Mott’s going to New York," she reminded me, her voice soft. "Maybe you should, too."

There were words she wasn't saying verbally, but I heard them just as clearly.

"See you tomorrow, Phil. Tell your grandmother I hope she feels better soon," she said, heading back inside.

I watched her go. Started my car and drove home. She's probably right. With Mott gone, I have to plan for my future. My future doesn't include him. ________________________________________________
Time To Bring Gran Home

As I stepped into the living room, I noticed the answering machine blinked—there was one message.

St. Joe’s Hospital, confirming her check-in. I let it play twice, like the second time would change something. Now I know she got to the hospital late.
She should have left earlier.

The doorbell rang.

A jolt of hope punched me in the gut—Mott!

Maybe he was here to help Gran into the car. I'm glad he remembered. Then, afterwards, we’d drive to Del’s.

Maybe it wouldn’t feel like goodbye yet.

The bell rang again, followed by hard, impatient
knocking. I need to get him a key. “Okay, Mott, I hear—”

I pulled open the door. Two police officers stood there.

“Mr. Szábo?” one asked.

“No... I’m Phil Croydon, her grandson.”

Their faces shifted — like a signal passed between them, quick and invisible as they both removed their hats. “Can we come in?” Their voices were too gentle. Too careful.

Mom shuffled in behind me, scowling, “What’s this about?" She sounded annoyed, "You arresting him?
Take him, I don’t care.”

The officers blinked. “And you are?”

“Mrs. Szabo's daughter. If you’re arresting this one, make it quick.”

They exchanged a look. The taller one spoke. “There was an accident this morning. A fatality.”

He took a slow breath, as if even saying it hurt.
“Helen Szábo... passed away at the scene.”

My mind emptied, every facet of how they were wrong ran in a maze through my mind. My voice cracked, too loud. "What?" The air in my lungs froze solid. “No, I think you guys have the wrong person. Our Mrs. Szabo...she’s at the hospital. St. Joe's Hospital. She’s had surgery. I am on my way to pick her up now—”

The officer shook his head. “She never made it there.”

Mom stood there, slack-jawed. Finally, she said what I never expected (even for her), “Told her she was a shitty driver.”

The officers looked at each other, stunned but staying polite. “She lost control on Forbes Avenue in Oakland, trying to dodge a student. There were witnesses. She collided with a delivery truck.”

I felt the floor tilt under me. I gripped the doorframe. “No. No, no, no, no, no, you’ve got it wrong. You’re wrong—she's strong—she promised me she'd—"

A hand landed on my shoulder. Heavy. Final. “I’m sorry, son.”

The room blurred.

Their words blurred. I was out the door before I was conscious of what planet I stood on.

I shook my head, realizing the car in back of me was honking. How did I get in the car? Where was I planning to go? I hit the gas with fury, the streets blurred past, and people gazed following me as I sped down residential streets.

Somehow, I found myself at the West End
Overlook — perched high above Pittsburgh, the city lay out before me. The distraction of the view was a small break in the panting and nervous system overload.

The Plymouth Duster's engine clicked as it cooled. The rain hadn’t started yet. The sky matched my inner world. Cold, slate grey, emotionless.

I got out, stumbling toward the rail. My knees barely held.

Below me, the rivers braided together—the Allegheny and Monongahela twisting into the Ohio, black snakes under a dying sun.

The city’s bones gleamed: the bridges with red lights lethargically blinking on top, glass towers stared blank and cold. It all looked so small.

And then —

Like a reel clicking into place —

A memory flooded back.
________________________________________________
The Reading Fair

I must have only been eight or nine, my hands sticky from cotton candy.
Stock cars roared beyond the grandstand, their engines snarling and growling like monsters caged behind wooden barriers.

The air was thick with buttered popcorn, roasted peanuts, funnel cake grease, and the sweet rot of hay bales.

Kids laughed and ran wild under strings of bare bulbs.

Further down the midway, I watched The Zipper rattle in its iron orbit, hurling screaming teens into the neon sky.

Across from that was The Himalaya as it whipped by in a blur of color. Electric, pulsing neon blues and polar white mountains lined the circular track; the speakers blasting Grand Funk Railroad's “The Locomotion” until the bass shook the dirt under my sneakers.

However, I had my dreams of trying the Funhouse.

A crooked porch rocked back and forth like a drunk pirate ship. A spinning barrel churned at the entrance. Painted faces leered from the ticket booth. Now that it was my turn, I panicked.

“Go on, then!” Gran said, thrusting tickets into my sweaty palm. “I’ll be right here.”

I stood there, paralyzed.

The entrance yawned like a mouth ready to swallow me whole. Floors tilted, mirrors twisted, black tunnels pulsed with strobe light.

I couldn’t move.

Gran’s face tightened. “You begged to come here.
You wanted this.”

I shook my head violently. Tears welled.

She crossed her arms, “We’re not leaving ‘til you do it.”
A group of college kids rushed past me, shrieking with laughter as they staggered past the porch and fell into the rolling barrel.

"See? They could do it. So can you. You'll have fun."

I turned back one last time — she was still there.
Watching. Unmoving.

And somehow, my feet carried me forward.

The porch buckled under me. I stumbled through the spinning drum. Slammed into mirrored walls. Fell, laughed, got up again.

By the time I burst out the back exit — breathless, heart hammering — I was laughing.

Gran was waiting, smiling widely, clapping her hands. Pride radiated off her like sunlight.

The sound of the midway faded to black. The last vision was Gran standing there smiling.

When I came back to earth, the West End Overlook was empty.

Only the wind answered me. The warmth of funnel cakes and the noise of the crowds were gone.

Now, only the cold iron of the rail bit into my palms, and tears blurred the skyline.

Gran’s voice whispered — not in words, but in the thrum of blood behind my eyes:

“Life’s a funhouse, Phil. It's supposed to be scary.

It's supposed to feel impossible.

But you’re never alone. Not really.”

The grief ripped through me like a riptide, yanking every bone loose.

I clutched the railing, forehead pressed against cold steel, sobbing like the lost child I thought I’d outgrown. I banged my head into the metal over and over and over. I wasn’t ready for any of this.

I would never be ready.

But somewhere, just out of sight, just beyond the fairgrounds, Gran would still be there.

And one day, when the ride ends, she’ll be there, patiently waiting for me.

Arms open.

Smiling.

And ready to hear all about it.

________________________________________________
The Calm Before the Storm

After a while, the tears dried up — or maybe I just ran out of them. That’s when the panic hit.

Oh my God!

Muzzy. Mittens. What’s going to happen? Someone’s got to explain it to them. Someone's got to tell them she’s not coming back.

They're going to miss her so much. They won't understand why. And who’s going to tell the family?

I remember Gran told me she had papers somewhere in her desk drawer. I remember she wanted to be buried next to Joe and her parents.

There’s got to be someone to call. Some adults to take over.

But who?

How do funerals even happen? Who invites whom?
Who buys the flowers? Who picks out the casket?

I sure as hell didn't know.

And truth be told, Ma was the last person I wanted to see in all of this. Despite that, I had to see Gran's babies.

Bursting through the front door, I called out to them
in the emptiness: "Muzzy? Mittens?" Silence.
Not a paw step. Not a meow. Maybe they were asleep upstairs. Maybe they knew something was wrong.

Upstairs used to scare me when I was a kid — the creaking floors, the weird shadows — but not anymore. Hell, I would've welcomed a ghost if there was any way to get a message to Gran, to find out if she was okay… I'd take the risk.

Sunlight spilled across the second-floor ceiling, turning floating dust into gold confetti.

A breeze stirred the thin curtains, the smell of earth and trees wafting in.

Birdsong stitched the afternoon together, rising and falling in soft waves.

Somewhere, the bells of St. John of the Cross rang one solemn note after another.

Four o’clock.

A key jiggled in the front door. The cops must've dropped her off.

I raced downstairs, hope still alive in my chest. Gran was probably parking the car.

"Ma—what are we going to do? Where’s her paperwork? She said she wanted to be buried with—
"

"Yeah?" she snapped, tossing her purse down. "Don’t worry about it. Nothing worries you more than being stuck without her. That’s why I’m almost glad she died."

The air left my lungs in a hollow rush.

"Your mother is gone. Gran's dead. And that’s what you have to say?" I could barely hear myself over the blood roaring in my ears. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

She waved a hand dismissively. Disgusted.

"Oh, shut the hell up. You didn’t know her like I did.
Always criticizing. Always sticking up for you.

I don’t know why she ever loved you. Could always tell what kind of piece of shit you’d turn out to be.

A leech." She looked at me directly in the face, "A goddamn faggot who should die of AIDS.

And I hope you do. I hope you croak."

The rage burned white-hot, hotter than anything I'd ever felt. Years of it—years of silence, years of second-guessing myself, years of swallowing pain— exploded out of me in a scream. "I’m not leaving, you bastard! Not until you apologize!" The knives were out, and I wanted every single one to hit. "She’s gone, and you’re going to have to deal with me now! I should have killed you when I threw that trophy at your head. You'd have done me a huge favor. In fact, why in the hell are you even here?
You're useless, especially as a caregiver."

She lunged for the phone.

I yanked it away, shoving her back into the beat-up recliner that still smelled like her cheap hairspray and Marlboro Lights. My eyes were wild with fury. I backed her into the chair, getting right in her face, "You know what, you old drunk? I’ve wanted to say this my whole life. You’re a loser. Not a mother, certainly not a grown woman." I pointed to a photo of Gran on the shelf, "You never deserved her love, and you damn sure don’t deserve mine." I grabbed her pack of cigarettes out of her fist and threw them across the room. "She fed you. She kept a roof over your head while you sat on your hate and self-pity. She gave everything she had trying to save you. It didn't matter. She never mattered to you. Let's face it, lady. You never loved anyone but yourself."

Her face flushed a violent purple, teeth bared.

I backed away, breathless, shaking.

She looked ready to kill me. I knew what was coming next.

I broke away from her and ran upstairs—she was going to call the cops.

The heavy thump of the phone hitting the receiver echoed up the stairwell.

I packed faster, my hands trembling.

What do I take? What do I leave behind?

Is this even real? Is this happening?

Digging through Gran’s closet, it had that familiar smell of old lavender sachets and dust.

Behind a battered shoe box, I found a tray of color slides—birthdays, trips to Massachusetts, Christmas mornings—I quickly stuffed them into a battered suitcase.

Underneath were delicate prints from Ollenbach’s— the factory where she'd worked for over twenty years before it closed for good. She said she was saving them for something special.

Maybe a birthday. Maybe Christmas. Something she never got the chance to give.

I grabbed the jewelry box, its hinges loose, packed full of plastic pearls and glass brooches.

I grabbed the old glass Alka-Seltzer container filled with silver quarters.

The Alvin and the Chipmunks record.

The London Symphony’s Nutcracker Suite.

Uncle Joe’s army photo in a cracked frame.

The Niagara Falls music box that played Let Me Call You Sweetheart when you wound it.

Cop’s boots thumped up the stairs, "Phil," he said, soft but firm. "Time to go. Your mother wants you out."

"I just need a few more minutes to get my things together."

"You’ve got fifteen. After that, you’re coming with me. No arguments."

I stuffed it all into the heavy old suitcase — brown vinyl peeling at the corners — until it barely zipped. At the curb, I loaded everything into the trunk of the Duster.

I sat behind the wheel, engine idling. The cops watched me, arms crossed.

I took one long look at the house. The house that had once been my heaven.

The house that had given me Christmas mornings and birthday candles and a warm bed after nights spent hiding bruises.

I looked back just in time to see Ma yanking Muzzy and Mittens roughly by their collars, dragging them toward the backyard like they were trash.

I swallowed the scream clawing up my throat.

I put the car in gear and drove away.
________________________________________________ Save The Cats!

After an hour of aimless driving through Reading, it hit me: What if she hurts them?

What’s she going to do? Neglect them? She can barely care for herself, let alone pets.

They'll be neglected. What if she tosses them out on the street?

Knowing Muzzy and Mittens would be left with that evil monster was unthinkable. Gran wouldn't want that. I had to go back.

I rolled the Plymouth Duster to a stop in the alley behind Gran’s garage. There was Mrs. Gruber, trimming her roses. I was sure she’d wondered why the cops were there earlier. Why, of all times, did she have to be in her yard?

She spotted me, "Hey Phil! What happened? I was worried." She brushed the earth off her hands, eyes narrowing with concern.

"Well, I sort of got-"

"She threw you out, didn’t she? Your Grandmom won’t like that one bit. She had a sneaky suspicion your mom would try something. How's Helen?
When's she coming back from the hospital?"

The sound that came out was pitiful, like a trapped animal. I could barely make out the words. "She's gone. She didn't make it."

She quickly put her hands up, covering her mouth.
"The operation?"

"No. A car accident—on the way to the hospital."

She said her condolences. After a few minutes, once I got myself together, she seemed urgent about something and torn about what to say.

"You know, she hurts them."

"Who? What do you mean?"

"Those two little babies, them," she said in a whisper, nodding toward Muzzy and Mittens. " When your grandmother wasn’t home, your mom would get angry. I saw her yank Mittens up by the collar and toss him like trash.”

She looked back at me pleadingly, "Do you think there's any chance you could take them?"

"I'm right ahead of you."

That was it. The decision couldn't be clearer. "Mrs. Gruber, I can't get over Gran's fence, and the garage is locked."

She opened the gate to her yard, "Use the step stool. Just hop over my fence. Helen wouldn't want them tortured and neglected by that drunk." She pleaded, "Please. They'd be better off. At least they'd be with someone who'll love and take care of them. I'd feel better knowing they're with you."

I coaxed each out from under the hedge. Once I brought each one over the fence, I placed them in the back seat. Both of them looked terrified. They'd probably never been in a car. Never left their small, familiar world—not since they were kittens. They both looked so scared in the back seat. The meowing got louder as the car's engine turned over.

Gruber gave a quick hug, mouthing the words,
"Thank you. Be well." She opened the back car door, "It's OK, you're gonna be fine. You're just going on a ride." She kissed them and told them goodbye. "Trust me, Phil, with as much as she drinks, she won't even notice they're gone for hours. Not at all.
Take good care of yourself, Phil, ya hear?"

For someone I used to think was just a nosy neighbor, she loved Gran—and the cats.

Wiping tears from her eyes, "What an awful thing to happen. God Bless Helen. I'm going to light a candle for her."

"Thank you, Mrs. Gruber. Thanks for helping." Tears started welling up.

"Phil, don't start crying again, you'll have an accident." She caught her breath when she realized what she had said and then turned to go back inside.
"She was a good person."

She turned around quickly, "Wait, Phil! Do you know when the funeral is? I'd like to pay my respects."

"No...um, no. I don't know where to start."

"Well, I can help you there. I have your grandmother’s list of phone numbers. She kept forgetting where she put them, so she gave me a copy for safekeeping. So, don't worry; I'll break the news. I don't trust her to do it. Hopefully, she's sober enough."

She gave me her phone number. I reached back and petted Mittens to try and calm him. She started sniffling, "OK, now go, go! Go before he comes out." I hopped in, hit the gas, and sped off; gravel flew under the back wheels with no idea where to go.
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