Lennon
IHAD JUST crossed River Street and was halfway down Woods Avenue when the air conditioning in my 2003 Camry completely crapped out on me. No big surprise considering it was currently one-hundred and seven degrees in Denverand the last time I’d had the A/C serviced was two presidents ago. The power windows and seat controls had both given up the ghost earlier this year, and I knew it was only a matter of time before the next critical system failure. Just like everything else in my life.
I only needed my beloved Red Rider to last for another three weeks. Then I could park her at the nearest ‘We Buy Cars’ yard, get on the plane $83.99 richer, and worry about transportation when I got back from Africa. I’d driven this car since undergrad school. In fact, the Red Rider was christened so by Waverly, my college freshman dorm roommate, and bestie, who’d been the only constant companion in my life over the past nine years. Well, other than mygrandmother. Who, coincidentally, was the only person I’d brave this kind of heat for.
Shirley Whitman was my eighty-nine year old grandmother and had lived through four wars, outlived two husbands, won three bouts with cancer, and she was both my hero and my greatest champion. My sister, Kadance, and I adored her, and the very least I could do for the woman was sweat. Besides, in three weeks I’d be in west Africa doing field research and needed to get acclimated to the heat. I’d be visiting during the cooler months on the Serengeti, but still.
I’d recently submitted my doctoral thesis and was not-so-patiently waiting to find out if I’d be leaving for Africa as a doctor, or as a disappointed and mopey postgrad. Ofcourse, I hoped the results of my work would impress the university enough to offer me a full-time position when I returned, but I wasn’t holding my breath.
Okay, Iwasholding my breath, but I didn’t want to be.
By the time I arrived at Granny’s apartment complex, I was a swampy mess. The bun I’d put my hair up into this morning had long since given up and was now dangling from the side of my head. I felt sticky all over and I smelled like a yak during mating season. And believe me, I would know. I’d had close encounters with them in both Nepal and India. Not that what I looked or smelled like would matter one skinny bit to Gran. I could show up on her doorstep wearing a burlap sack with half myhead shaved and she’d still tell me I looked beautiful. Then she’d praise me for repurposing the sack so cleverly before complimenting my ‘fashion forward’ hairdo.
The woman was a saint and always saw the best in people. It was one of her many superpowers but I often worried that her positive spin on people would make her vulnerable. Scammers and con artists preyed on sweet, trusting, old ladies like her and I couldn’t always be around to protect her.
I parked in the last remaining guest spot of Gran’s apartment complex and grabbed my tool bag from the back seat. Granny had called me over two hours ago about trouble with her kitchen sink, but before I could get to her, I had to drop off ahard drive containing the past three years of research to the head of the university’s peer review board, then drive across town to the Denver Health Center to receive the necessary immunizations required for travel into Tanzania and Kenya. Fortunately, sweatpants and a CU Denver T-shirt were appropriate attire for all of this morning’s tasks including plumbing. Granny said she’d already called the manager twice about her clogged sink, but he kept blowing her off, so I told her I’d come by and take a look at it.
Having two daughters had never stopped my father from teaching us about how to do all the stuff around the house usually attributed to men. He taught us everything from plumbing to auto mechanics. It’s how I wasable to keep the Red Rider on the road for so long.
“Hey, Granny. It’s me, Lennon,” I said, letting myself in, only to find a very large man sitting in her recliner. The recliner that no one was allowed to sit in but Granny.
“Who are you?” I demanded.
The man had shaggy, long blond hair, a beard that begged to have someone’s fingers run through it, and his arms were covered in tattoos. He was wearing a well-worn pair of blue jeans, black leather boots, and would have been wholly intimidating had it not been for the shirt he was wearing.
It was also impossible to ignore that he was very good looking.
“Did the landlord send you?” I asked, thinking he might be theapartment complex’s handy man.
The large man smiled and shook his head. “No.”
He wore a bright pink T-shirt with a picture of me and my sister on the front which read ‘World’s Bestest Granny.’ It was three sizes too big for Granny when my sister and I made it for her, but on him, it looked like doll clothing.
“Where did you get that shirt?” I demanded.
“Shirley let me borrow it,” he replied in a syrupy southern drawl.
“Who are you?” I asked again.
“Didn’t you read the shirt?” he asked, far too calmly for my liking.
“What?”
“My shirt,” the man said, pointing to the birthday gift from me and my sister. “I’m the world’s best Granny,”he said with a smile.
“It’s bestest,” I corrected him before cocking my head. “What have you done with my grandmother?”
“Whoa there, it’s okay. I came over to fix Shirley’s backed up kitchen sink drain. That’s all. The kitchen plumbing is now fully operational, but Shirley’s currently using the latrine due to her own personal plumbing problems. I have a suspicion that the culprit in both cases is a frozen lasagna that had passed its expiration date. But I’m not a doctor.”
“So, you’re a plumber?”
He shook his head and pointed to the shirt again. “No, I’ve explained. I’m the grandma on duty.”
Keeping my eyes on whoever this wolf in Granny’s clothing was, I made my way down the hall towardsher room. “Granny?” I called out but got no response. Her hearing wasn’t the greatest in her advanced age, so I tried again, a little louder this time. “Granny? Are you okay?”
“Is that you, Lennon?”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes. Is everything alright?”
