Free No Great Mischief by Alistair MacLeod Page B

have had our losses.”
    Throughout our formative years, my sister and I lived under the ambiguous circumstances of being the “lucky, unlucky” children, and of regarding our grandparents as our parents because they were closest to us in that role, while still yearning for the drowned idealized people who had gone into the sea.
    Some weeks ago, my eye fell upon an article in one of those magazines you sometimes see in the waiting rooms of the orthodontist’s office. It was called “Rearing the Modern Child,” and one of the subheadings was entitled “Grandparents.” The modern parent must sometimes be wary of grandparents, the article warned, for grandparents have a tendency to be overindulgent and sometimes to act irresponsibly. “They often act this way,” the article stated, “because they know the child will eventually go to its own home and they will not be responsible for its behaviour in that area.”
    The article pointed out that grandparents are generally more indulgent with their grandchildren than they were with their own children, “because modern psychological theory indicates that they do not love them quite so much.”
    “You are lucky that you can live here all the time,” said our enraged cousin, the red-haired Alexander MacDonald who lived some fifteen miles away in the country and was visiting us on a particular afternoon. “Just because your parents died.”
    We were all very young then, perhaps seven or eight, and mysister and I had laughed at him for spilling his tea into his saucer to cool it before drinking it from the same saucer. Later, in my room, he had punched me in the nose and I had hit him in return, and then we had fallen upon one another. As we wrestled back and forth across the room, he said, “They’re my grandparents too, you know.” He was stronger than I was and I can still feel the callouses on his small hands as they grappled about my face and neck. “No, they’re not,” I gasped, perhaps because I felt I was losing the physical battle or because of who knew what psychological theory. And then Grandpa was in the room. “Here, here,” he said. “What is going on in here?” and he grasped us both by our upper arms and lifted us off the floor so that our small angry feet kicked vainly in the useless air, even as we felt our arms and shoulders growing numb within his powerful hands.
    “He says you’re not my grandfather, only his,” said the sobbing red-haired Alexander MacDonald.
    “Of course, I’m yours,” said Grandpa, setting us both down and motioning us towards neutral corners as the referee in a boxing match does. “Of course, I’m yours,” he said, going to stand in the corner of the red-haired Alexander MacDonald, as my sister and I both felt a slight twinge of betrayal. And turning and pointing to me with his huge forefinger, he said, “Don’t you ever say that again. Ever.”
    “They’re just lucky,” said Alexander MacDonald, perhaps because he perceived the advantage of having the referee in his corner, “just lucky because their parents are dead.”
    “And don’t you,” said Grandpa, suddenly reversing the direction of his finger until it was under the trembling nose of Alexander MacDonald, “ever say that again, either. Never.”
    Later, much subdued in the kitchen, Alexander MacDonald sat beside his father, who patted him on the knee but also smiled across at me. His father continued to talk to Grandpa in a mixture of English and Gaelic as Grandpa slid the bottles of beer across the table in his direction. It seemed strange that such a big man could be the father of Alexander MacDonald, while, at the same time, being the son or “boy” of Grandpa. But there was no doubt that he was, especially when you saw the way that Grandpa patted him on the shoulder when he rose to leave. “Take care,” said Grandpa. “Everything will be all right.”
    “Yes,” said Grandma,
“Beannachd leibh
, good luck.”
    “I will return it as soon