Free The Old House by Willo Davis Roberts Page A

said.
    Cassie turned off the burner under the milk. “Gus?” she said, and quickly followed Max.
    Grandpa seemed not to have understood anything that had been said. Maybe he hadn’t even heard any of it. He looked toward Buddy—seeing only a black spot where her face wouldbe, she remembered—and asked, “Where’s my cocoa? Didn’t somebody say we were having cocoa?”
    Curious, yet unwilling to join the others, Buddy offered, “I’ll pour the milk for you. I think the cocoa’s already in the cups.”
    She mixed only Grandpa’s, however, and carried it to the table. “It’s hot,” she warned.
    â€œOnly way to drink cocoa is hot,” the old man told her. “I remember your mama and daddy, Sister. They ran away and got married. I thought it was just what they ought to have done, but some people didn’t like it.” He screwed up his face, trying to force a recollection that wouldn’t come. “I don’t remember why they were so upset, though. Do you know?”
    â€œNo, I don’t,” Buddy said, her mouth going dry.
    Grandpa sighed. “I forget things. Some days I remember just fine, and then other times I can’t recall a thing. Sister cried, I think. Late at night, when everybody else was asleep. I heard her crying. My room was right across from hers. And there was another time when Sister cried. I can’t remember why, thattime. Now they make me sleep downstairs. So I won’t fall, Sister says. I only fell the one time. Broke my arm. Couldn’t arm wrestle. Can you arm wrestle?”
    â€œNot very well,” Buddy said. “My brother always beats me.”
    â€œLet’s see,” the old man proposed, and reached out across the table toward her.
    The movement was unexpected, and he couldn’t see what was directly in front of him. The cup overturned, and the brown cocoa splashed out across the table, onto the plate of cookies and the remote control beside it.
    â€œOh, oh. Sister’s going to be annoyed with me again. I spilled something, didn’t I?”
    Buddy was on her feet, going for a dish towel, mopping up the mess. Some of the cookies were beyond help, but she rescued the ones she could.
    Suddenly she could hear the voices from the front of the house more clearly. “Maybe we ought to take him to the hospital,” Cassie was saying anxiously. “That’s a nasty-looking cut. It needs stitches.”
    â€œI think we can butterfly it together,” Addie said. “Runand get the tape and some gauze, Max. Can you walk, Gus, as far as the kitchen, where there’s a better light? Cassie, a basin and a washcloth. The tape won’t stick until we get the bleeding stopped and dry up the blood beside the cut.”
    â€œBut what if he has a concussion?” Cassie persisted.
    â€œCassie, our car is in no shape to drive him to the hospital. Not with those tires. I haven’t had a chance to get the new ones yet. Come on, Gus, make an effort to help us, will you? Walk right over there and sit down.”
    Buddy, still with the cocoa-soaked towel in her hands, leaped out of the way, shocked at the bloody spectacle.
    â€œHead cuts always bleed profusely,” Addie said. She spared a glance for Buddy’s reaction. “He isn’t going to die of it.” Her tone suggested that this might be a pity.
    Gus sagged into the chair and slumped forward on his elbows, but Addie jerked him upright. “I can’t do this unless you cooperate. Tilt your head backward and hold it that way.”
    â€œSick to my stomach,” Gus muttered.
    â€œWell, don’tthrow up until Cassie gets a basin. Hurry, Cass, it’s coming up!”
    Buddy turned away, not wanting to watch. It was bad enough to listen to the man retching. She took the towel to the sink and dropped it there.
    In the middle of all the confusion, Grandpa checked the time. “10:06 p.m.,”