“Grit, ask the boy to pass the ketchup,” said Gramp.
Brady sighed. Gramp was still sore about the ruined cards. He shoved the ketchup bottle across the table. Gramp poured ketchup along a wiener. He broke his hot dog in half and slid one piece under the table.
“It’s not healthy for dogs…” Brady started to say. Then he changed his mind. He pushed his hot dog across his plate. He was still full of Chicken Supreme.
“Grit, ask the boy for the mustard.”
Brady groaned. A car door slammed. He jumped up and peered out the window hopefully. Maybe Mom was early.
A woman who looked like Julia was marching up the walk. She was armed with a mop and a broom and a bucket. Abra’s mom, Sue, followed her, carrying a huge casserole dish.
Brady glanced uneasily at Gramp. Then he sped to the front door to block them. They swept past.
“This is dreadful,” said Sue.
“A fire trap,” said Julia’s mother.
Sue carried her dish into the kitchen. “Tuna fish casserole. You’ll need to preheat the oven to 375 degrees and warm the casserole for forty-five minutes. Take the foil off for the last ten to brown the top.”
“Now,” said Julia’s mother. “Let’s get to work.”
Brady looked around wildly. Gramp had disappeared like a wisp of smoke. Sue was sweeping the kitchen floor vigorously. Dust balls whirled in the air. Julia’s mother opened Gramp’s cupboards. She said, “Oh my.” She produced a clipboard and a pencil from a bag and began writing.
“Hey,” said Brady. His voice cracked. “You can’t do this.”
He backed into the living room. Sue charged after him. She pulled the curtains wide open. The bright light blinded Brady. He ran into the hallway. Gramp fluttered in the shadows like a bird. Grit circled his legs and whined.
“Gramp, do something,” hissed Brady. “Get your rope and hog-tie them. It’s your house.”
Gramp opened and shut his mouth. Sue walked past, dragging an old dusty saddle. Gramp moaned and disappeared into his bedroom.
“Look,” said Brady. “I mean really … don’t you think…” He gulped as Sue came by a second time with one of the broken TVs.
“It’s looking better in here already,” said Sue brightly. “Thank goodness you alerted us, Brady.”
Brady gave up. He went upstairs and flipped through Gramp’s comics, trying to drown out the sounds of cleaning. He thought about the time Mom cleaned his bedroom while he was away at Beaver camp. She’d thrown away the cat skull he’d found in the dumpster and his half-rotten crab. She’d sorted through his cupboards and put stuff in boxes with labels. Brady shuddered. He had never totally forgiven her.
When the house was quiet, Brady crept downstairs. The smell of floor wax and disinfectant stung his nose. The floors were so shiny they were dangerous. A note on the kitchen counter said, Casserole in fridge. 375 degrees. 45 minutes.
Forty-five minutes was a long time. Gramp was probably starving, since he hadn’t had a chance to finish his hot dog. Brady turned the oven to five hundred. He stuck the casserole on the top rack.
The phone rang. Brady picked it up on the third ring. It was Mom. “Brady,” she said, “what’s going on?”
“Nothing,” said Brady. “Nothing’s going on.” He could hear breathing in the background.
Mom could hear it too. “Dad, is that you on the other phone?”
“Yes,” said Gramp sulkily.
“Good. Now I’ve got the two of you on here, I want you both to listen carefully. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Gramp and Brady.
“First of all, Dad, I hope you’re not gloating over your card games.”
“No, dear,” said Gramp.
“And Brady, I got the strangest call at my office a little while ago from Gramp’s neighbor. She said she was Abra’s mother. Some nonsense about garburators and attics.”
Brady was silent.
“Gramp’s house doesn’t have a garburator,” said Mom. “Can’t you find something constructive to do with that imagination of yours?”
Brady sighed. “Yes, Mom.”
“Honestly, you and Gramp are two peas in a pod!”
After Mom hung up, Brady stayed on the line. “Uh, Gramp? Why don’t you come out now? Those women are gone. There’s… uh… some kind of casserole in the oven.” He paused. “I could scrunch up potato chips to put on top.”
Brady set the phone down gently. He laid two places at the kitchen table. He cut up some carrots and put them on a plate.
“It smells burnt,” said Gramp from the doorway. He was wearing his bear paw slippers and his galloping horse pajamas. “I hate burnt tuna fish casserole.”
Brady opened the oven door. He put potato chips on the burnt bits. Then he dished it up.
He peeked at Gramp. Gramp was piling the pieces of celery in a wobbly hill. Gramp hated celery and tidy rooms, just like Brady. He loved orange pop and comic books and collecting junk. Maybe that’s what Mom meant when she said they were two peas in a pod.
Brady took a deep breath.
“Gramp,” he said, “I have a big problem.”