Free Behind the Curtain by Peter Abrahams

right,” Ingrid said. “You’ve got the pig. We’ll appeal.”
    “Takes more than one pig,” Grampy said.
    He sat slowly in a chair. Mail cascaded off the table. Ingrid bent down, started picking it up. Under the table, she could see his legs. They were shaking.
    Ingrid rose, began arranging the mail in neat stacks. “We’ll have to get more, that’s all.”
    Grampy nodded, but not an energetic sort of nod.
    “Where should we get pigs from?” Ingrid said.
    “There’s places,” he said, but his eyes had a faraway look and he didn’t really seem to be listening. Raising pigs was going to demand a lot from Grampy. Hadn’t he had it up to here with farming? Why couldn’t the board of assessors have just left him alone? Maybe Chloe was right: selling the farm might be the best thing for Grampy. How long can this Grampy character take care of it?
    She sat down beside him. “Grampy?”
    He turned to her. “What is it, kid?”
    “Do you think that maybe…” The flow of words dried up.
    “Maybe what?”
    She licked her lips. “Maybe it’s time to sell the farm.”
    Energy came rushing back into Grampy’s body. He seemed to get bigger and redder, and just like that he was on his feet, a neck vein throbbing. “You too?” he said.
    “No, Grampy, I’m only saying that since—”
    He pounded his fist on the table, Ingrid’s careful stacks all tumbling back down. “Never,” he said. “Is that clear?”
    “Yes.”
    He gazed down at her. “With me or against me?”
    “Me, Grampy?” There were all these questions, taxes, pigs, how long he could live here by himself. Ingrid ignored them. “With you,” she said.
    Grampy nodded. “Then let’s roast up some marshmallows,” he said.
    Grampy built a roaring fire. They roasted marshmallows, Ingrid getting those perfect golden-brown crusts on the outside, Grampy burning most of his although he didn’t seem to care. The house warmed up. Grampy practically went through the whole bag of marshmallows by himself, like he’d been starving.
    “We’ll have to get those pigs pretty soon,” Ingrid said.
    Grampy popped another blackened marshmallow into his mouth. “Thing with bullies,” he said, “you got to punch ’em right in the nose.”
    “Won’t just filing the appeal be enough?” Ingrid said.
    The flames flickered in Grampy’s eyes. “I learned about bullies when I was—how old are you again?”
    “Thirteen.”
    “When I was even younger than you. Just a little guy back then, didn’t get my strength till I was eighteen, went to Wyoming and worked on a ranch.”
    “You worked on a ranch?”
    “But this was before, right here. Those days there were still lots of farms around, including a small one the Prescotts had right across 392.”
    “There were still Prescotts then?”
    “Yup.”
    “How long was this before the accident at the falls?”
    “You know about that?” said Grampy. “Four or five years, maybe. But that’s not the point. The Prescotts didn’t live on the farm—they had tenant farmers, the Krakens, a rotten family from way back, and the Krakens had a boy a few years older than me. Liked to play cowboys and Indians. I was the Indian.” He stared at the fire for a long time. “Always ended up in their barn, somehow,” said Grampy, “me with my hands tied, noose around my neck.”
    “A noose?”
    “He was good with ropes. Noose around my neck, strung over the rafters, standing on a box. He’d threaten to kick the box out from under me ’less I spilled the beans.”
    “About what?”
    “Where the gold was hidden, whatever it was, the game we were playing. Didn’t matter what I said, he wouldn’t believe it. After an hour or so, he’d get bored and untie me.”
    “Oh my God, Grampy. Did you tell your parents?”
    Grampy shook his head. “No one can protect you,” he said. “Got to protect yourself. So one time, when he untied me, it finally dawned—here I am up on the box at eye level. And I popped him a good