Breaking Down

A Short Story

Written By

H.B. Bolton

http://www.hbbolton.com

Other Books by H.B. Bolton

-Book One-

Relics of Mysticus and

The Serpent’s Ring

Breaking Down

I wish it were still last summer. Gramps was here, and we had such a good time: fishing, camping out, and roasting marshmallows. He even showed me how to paint. “It’s in our blood,” he told me one sun filled afternoon. And he was the one to know. He had created works of art his entire life. He filled his house with portraits of our family and landscapes of the hills surrounding his farmhouse. There were pictures of his vegetable garden and flowerbeds. There were likenesses of his hound dog and sketches of his crazy rooster, Max. I thought it was funny how he would rotate his paintings to match the season and store the other ones down in the basement.

My mom pulls me out of my happy memory, “Aw kids, just look at all of the colorful leaves. You don’t get to see fall like this down in Florida… . Keira, Keats, are you two even listening?” The truth is that I am listening, but I’m not in the mood to admit it. The last thing I want to do is have to drive all the way to the mountains, just to be reminded of how much I miss Gramps. I mean, cut a girl some slack … this is too much to deal with.

My little brother, Keats, finally answers for both of us, and I am relieved. “Do you think when we get to Grams’ house we can pile up some leaves and jump in them?”

“Of course you can. In fact, we’ll make this trip as much fun as possible. Okay?” Mom says enthusiastically, but I can tell she is in as much pain as I am. After all, Gramps was her father.

The long ride winds and weaves along the double lane back-roads of North Carolina. Until finally, there it is, my most favorite place in this world … the home of my grandparents. Only now, it looks a little different – I can’t explain exactly how.

“We’re here!” Mom says, steering the car up the dirt driveway.

Grams swings open her front door. Her arms stretch wide and a smile lights up her face. Strange, she seems to be moving slower than before. Just last summer, she actually hiked along a mountain trail with me. But now, she can barely walk down the three short steps from her front porch.

We haven’t made it out of the car, when I ask my mom, “Does Grams look okay to you?”

Mom peers over at her mother and back towards me. “You must remember this has been difficult for her, but I’m sure she's fine. Besides, it’s our mission to cheer her up.”

“I wish Dad could have come,” I say, resenting the fact he had to work.

“I do too, but we’ll get through this,” Mom says, looking back toward Grams. “All right, happy faces everyone!”

The truth is that I love my Grams. She isn’t the sort to bake cookies and knit sweaters -- far from it. But that's fine; what I love about her is her unwillingness to be the typical grandma. Most of my friends’ grandmas swing on their front porches, but mine swings on a tire from the highest tree branch. And look out muggers; she’s a black belt in Karate. She may be a bit on the eccentric side, but I like it.

My Grams smells like exotic perfume, but in a good way. And when I hug her, memories from my past flood my mind. When she releases me, I have to remember my ‘happy face.’

“It’s so good of you to come,” Grams exclaims. “I hear that my little granddaughter will celebrate a birthday soon … fourteen. Honestly, where did the time go? In fact, I remember changing your diapers as if it were yesterday.”

“Oh, Grams,” I say, and I know my cheeks are turning a nice shade of pink.

“Please excuse the appearance of the house. It is a complete wreck,” Grams says, looping her arm through Mom’s and heading toward the white farmhouse.

When I walk inside, I quickly realize Grams isn’t kidding. This place is a complete train wreck. In all my years, I have never seen her family room look like this. The kitchen sink is full of dirty dishes, baskets of clothes are piled on the dining room table, and empty boxes with my Gramps' name on them are stacked everywhere.

“Grams, you haven’t put anything in those boxes,” I say. “Where are all of Gramps’ things?”

“I haven’t done anything with them,” Grams says.

“Don’t worry about it. That’s why we’re here. We’ll take care of Dad’s things,” Mom reassures.

“Thanks, dear,” Grams says, and the two women wander into the back room.

I still can’t get over this mess. It’s going to take us a long time to dig through all of this stuff.

“Hey, Keira, wanna help me pile up some leaves?” Keats asks excitedly.

“Not right now. Maybe later, okay?”

“Okay, but I’m going to get started,” he says and skips out the door.

Ah, to be nine again. It’s as if he has forgotten why we're even here. I wish I could too.

But now that we are here, I have a mission. I am going to visit Gramps’ art studio. That is where he spent most of his time and that is where I will remember him best.

I stumble over to the top of the basement steps, shoving empty boxes out of my way. His studio is at the bottom of those stairs. I can almost hear Gramps whistling while he paints.

“I can do this,” I say and take my first step down.

Step by step, I travel. Soon I will be there. It’s dark, and I will have to take a few more steps before I can turn on the lights. When I reach the last step, I take in a huge gulp of air and hold it in. Since it’s pitch black anyway, there’s little point closing my eyes. Five more feet, and I will be able to see. One, two, three, four, and five -- Lights on! And it looks just like I remember: half painted canvases resting

on various easels, rolled up paint tubes lining up like soldiers, paint brushes sitting in linseed oil. I inhale, and yes, the room still smells like a combination of chemicals and concrete.

There’s the painting Gramps was working on last summer. He had captured a perfect moment of our time together on canvas. We had been fishing in the pond, sun glistening on the water, dragonflies whizzing around our heads, fresh green leaves blowing in the wind. The truth was I never really liked to fish. I just enjoyed spending time with my Gramps.

It looks like he almost finished the painting ... but something is different. I wander closer and stare. I know Gramps painted those leaves a bright green. In fact, the tube of paint is still on his palette. So, why are the leaves now orange, red, yellow, and brown? Why would he have changed the painting from summer to fall?

I shake my head and look at some of the other paintings. There’s the portrait of Grams as a teenage girl. Gramps told me he was going to give it to her as a surprise. I move closer to the canvas and study the lines of her face. I don’t understand. For crying out loud, why does she have wrinkles, and her hair color is all wrong. She couldn’t have had grey streaks at that age. Something isn’t right, here.

I make my way back up the stairs and find my Grams and Mom folding clothes in the family room.

“Grams, about some of Gramps’ paintings, um, why did he change them so much?” I ask, feeling a little uneasy. “I mean, they looked good like they were last summer.”

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about, Keira. I haven’t been down to Gramps’ studio in months. It’s a bit too dark down there for me,” Grams says with a shiver.

Mom chimes in, “You know how Gramps was always changing his mind. He probably just wanted to use his artist’s intuition and jazz up his paintings."

“You’re probably right. It’s just strange,” I say. “You know, I think I’ll go outside and help Keats with the leaves.”

“That’s a great idea. You go have a good time,” Mom says, and I open up the front door, feeling a whoosh of crisp, cool air. It’s definitely fall. I walk outside and watch as my little brother rakes colorful leaves into a huge mound. Actually, I have the sudden urge to leap from the porch, down into that gigantic pile ... but I probably shouldn’t. I mean, that would be sort of cruel. It’s just that those leaves look so inviting. I can’t resist! I take off into a run, when suddenly, my foot catches on a buckled board and punches a hole through the wooden floor! I fall on my rear. I lift my foot, but my sneaker is still stuck.

I must have made a loud noise because Mom rushes out, while Grams follows slowly behind. “What happened?” Mom says, helping me to my feet.

“I just fell through the porch deck!” I answer. “I don’t know how it happened.”

“Well, we’ll just have to hire someone to come and fix it,” my mom says, tapping at the boards. “I’m afraid the wood here has decayed.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. The wood can’t be rotting,” Grams says.

“Maybe they used old wood or something,” Mom says.

“I can assure you, it was completely fine,” Grams says.

“Okay, but we still need to have someone come and replace these boards,” Mom says, and Grams is still shaking her head, as they both return indoors.

“Don’t worry about me,” I say to myself. “I’ll be fine.”

Suddenly, I’m not in the mood to jump into Keats’s pile of leaves. I’ll just sneak over to the tire swing. As long as my brother doesn’t hear me, we won’t have to fight over taking turns.

There’s the old tire. At least something looks like I remember it. I race over and dive, ready to take off and up. But when I land on the tire, the branch snaps, and I crash to the ground!

“Nice!” I snap, dusting leaves off my jeans. I look up at the heavens and say, “Gramps, are you mad at me? Did I do something wrong? Why is everything breaking down? Hello?” But there’s no answer.

I give up. I’ll just hang inside with Mom and Grams. Carefully, I creep up the porch steps. I’m about to go inside, when, Spider! With my luck, it’s probably poisonous. I brush my hands across my back and fling the tiny beast off my shoulder. It lands and scurries away. I look up, and what I see makes me squirm even more. Cobwebs are woven tightly across the entire front porch ceiling. Disgusting! Grams really should take a broom out here or hire an exterminator.

I scurry through the front door and slam it shut behind me. That was traumatizing. Still gasping, I manage to say, “Grams, what’s up with all of the cobwebs? It’s as if you’re getting ready for Halloween.”

“Keira, what are you talking about?” Mom says. “I didn’t see any cobwebs out there.”

“Well, they’re there now. Check it out ... if you dare,” I say.

“Why don’t you sit here with us for a bit, and I’ll check it out in a few minutes?” Mom says, peering up at me anxiously.

“I’m not imaging things,” I yell.

“I didn’t say you were,” Mom says. “But I'm thinking this trip is perhaps harder on you than I thought it would be.”

“Sure, it’s not easy, but I’m fine. And there are cobwebs out there,” I exclaim. “And the branch holding up the tire swing, well, it just broke.”

“The tire swing broke?” questions Grams. “That swing has been there for ages. I can’t believe how everything is crumbling apart around here.”

“Don’t you worry about it,” my mom says. “Keira, I need to show you something in the other room. Grams, we’ll be right back.”

With that, Mom grabs my arm and leads me to Grams’ bedroom. Swiftly, she shuts the door behind us and glares at me.

“Mom, why are you giving me a dirty look?” I ask

“Keira, all I am asking of you is to help me through this difficult time.”

“I guess I did sort of overreact a little. But don’t you think it’s weird how things just keep breaking down?”

“Maybe it’s your mind playing tricks on you.”

“I’ll admit I am upset about Gramps, but I know what I saw.”

“Alright, Keira, we’ll deal with your issues later. For now, can you refrain from making wild comments in front of Grams?”

“I think I can manage that.”

“Good. We’ll get through this, you’ll see,” Mom says and kisses my forehead.

“I know,” I say and look around at all of my grandparent’s personal things. “I think I’ll just stay in here for a while.”

“Okay, I’m going back out there. Love you.”

“Love you, too,” I say, as she leaves the room.

Gramps’ pocket watch! I rush over to his dresser and pick up the golden timepiece. It may have been a little old-fashioned, carrying around a pocket watch, but that was Gramps – old-fashioned. The hands have frozen in place. Slowly, I twist the little knob. And it works once again. At least I’ve accomplished something today.

I return my grandpa’s watch and peer up at the painting hanging above the dresser. I remember when Gramps hung that there. Actually, I remember when he painted it a few years back. The front of the house had just been repainted and it looked like new. Well, as much as an old farmhouse can look new. All I know is that Gramps wanted to capture the very moment his house looked fresh and white. He set up his easel and went to work. I even got to help out a little. He showed me how to add a few billowing clouds in an otherwise cloudless sky.

At least this painting looks like it’s supposed to. Except, I don’t recall there being cracks under the upstairs window, and it appears as if some grime has made its way between the wooden boards. I stare closer and ... what is going on here? There are cobwebs on the front porch. And, they’re even worse than what I had just seen.

“Mom,” I hear Keats yell from outside, “I can’t get into the house! There are cobwebs everywhere, and I'm not going through them!”

I rush out of the room and back down the hall. I hesitate in front of the front door, before opening it. I have to try, and I do, but it won’t budge. It’s stuck! I tug harder and harder. But it’s no use, it won’t move. The window! I dash over and push aside the curtains. Cobwebs are strewn across the glass panes. The entire front porch is covered with nasty, sticky strings. And my little brother is stuck outside!

“Keats, go around to the back door!” I holler.

All of a sudden I hear a soft thud, and my mom screams for me. She is hovering over Grams. I sprint to her as fast as I can. This can’t be happening! “Mom, what’s wrong with Grams?”

“I ... I don’t know,” Mom says, still holding Grams’s hand.

Grams doesn’t look so good. The lines in her face are deeper, and her skin has thinned. It looks as if she has aged ten years in ten minutes.

“I guess without your Gramps, things around here are just falling apart. That must include me,” Grams mutters and laughs quietly. “Your gramps used to say he was the chief ‘grounds keeper.’ Although, I always wondered what he meant

by that, since I never saw him lift a finger around here. All he ever wanted to do was sketch and paint, but somehow everything seemed to get done. He used to joke that he needed to touch up his paintings to keep everything fresh and alive."

Just then, Keats rushes in through the back door. “You won’t believe what just happened! I raked together a big pile of colorful leaves, but when I went to jump into them they were old and brown and dried up.”

Goose bumps travel up my arm. “Mom, something really strange is going on here, the painting in Grams’ room, the one of this house, it has changed. I was just looking at it and saw all of those cobwebs on the porch. And what about the paintings in Gramps’ studio -- it’s like they’ve aged.”

Mom clenches her teeth and says sweetly, “Not now, Keira, please. Keats, go get me a wet cloth from the kitchen.”

This can’t be happening. Please, not my Grams, too. Slowly, I back out of the room, turn, and run as fast as I can to the basement door. Five more feet and I will be able to see. One, two, three, four, and five – Lights on! As soon as I reach Gramps’ studio, I rush over to Grams’ portrait ... it is not my imagination; the paint is starting to fade and chip. I fall to the floor and weep. What am I supposed to do? This is crazy.

Suddenly, I am angry at all of Gramps’ stupid art! I’m so frustrated I want to break down every single drawing, painting, and print. I storm over to a far wall and ... stop. Sitting on the floor is a single portrait of Gramps. That’s weird. I’ve never seen a painting of him, anywhere. And he’s frowning. Why is he so sad? I wander closer and lift the painting. Abruptly, I drop his portrait. It’s not the painting of Gramps that has me startled; it’s the one behind it.

“How can that be?” I whisper, leaning closer to look, but not daring to touch. Propped against the concrete wall is another one of Gramps’ paintings. It’s a picture of me holding Gramps’ portrait. I look down at my faded blue jeans and pink T-shirt. How could he have possibly known what I would be wearing?

I can’t handle this. I’m just about to leave, when Keats finds me. “Can you fix it?”

“Fix what?” I ask, afraid to even consider what Keats is implying. But, he tilts his head a little, crosses his arms, and stares me down.

“Touch up those paintings, just like Gramps.”

“Besides, I don’t know how to paint, at least, not nearly as good as Gramps.”

“Well, you need to try something, even if it does sound crazy. Grams is in serious trouble! Keira, she’s having trouble breathing now.”

Mindlessly, I make my way over to Gramps' paints and brushes. I peer over at the portrait of Gramps, still flat on the floor. I wish he could help me. I squeeze some paint onto the palette and stare vacantly at the likeness of Grams.

“Here goes nothing,” I say and lightly dip my brush into the flesh colored paint.

Using small brushstrokes, I fill in the tiny cracks. A little pink on her cheeks, some brown in her eyes, and pale blue for her dress. After a short while, the image starts resembling my grandma again.

“Keats, go upstairs and let me know how Grams is doing,” I say, still focusing on my work.

“Yeah, sure,” he says and starts to leave. “And Keira, that looks good.”

“Thanks! Who knew, right? Actually, I guess Gramps would've known,” I say, and suddenly something occurs to me. "Keats, just don't tell anyone. I have a feeling Gramps kept it a secret for a reason."

"No prob," Keats says and hurries up the stairs. Anxiously, I wait for his report and continue fixing the portrait. If nothing else, I will try to make it look just like Gramps would have.

A few seconds pass, and I hear his feet stomp back down the stairs. “Keep painting. It’s working!”

I clear my throat and clean my brush. I change the sky from a charcoal-grey and cast it in a lovely shade of lavender. There, now the sun is setting behind the mountains. You know, I never noticed before how you could see the tire swing just behind Grams. I take the smallest brush I can find and carefully restring the strands of the tire swing rope and repair the branch.

I realize this is insane, but what else am I supposed to do? And I’m still not sure whether or not I believe all this. In fact, before I truly believe in anything, I’ll need to see Grams with my own eyes.

As soon as I finish the portrait, I rush upstairs and find Grams cooking in the kitchen. She’s actually chopping veggies and tossing them in the pan.

I hurry back to Grams' bedroom and sneak the painting off the wall. After removing a small tube of paint from my pocket, I get to work. First, I have to remove the webs; they are giving me the creeps. A little white over there, and I always thought the front door would look better if it were red. I have to try this. Thank goodness, I just so happen to have a tube of the perfect shade of crimson.

It looks amazing, if I do say so myself. In fact, I can’t wait to go outside. When I am finally finished re-touching the painting, I am anxious to see the results. I hesitate before leaving the house. What if the cob webs are still out there, and what if the door is still grey? I can do this.

I open the door -- the webs are gone! In fact, the entire outside of the house looks good as new.

I hear footsteps, as my Mom joins me on the porch. “I thought you said there were cob webs out here."

"I wonder where they went. Strange, huh?” I say with a shrug and wander back inside.

“Where are you off to, now? You’ve been zipping around this house all afternoon.”

“Oh, I just need to check on something.”

“All right, but dinner will be ready in a few.”

“Sounds good,” I say, heading for the basement stairs.

I make my way down into Gramps’ studio and go straight to his portrait. After all, I did drop it on the floor. That’s funny. Where did it go? I search and search, but it’s just not here! Unfortunately, that disturbing painting of me is still right where I left it, against the wall. Why does that painting freak me out so much?

Keira, don’t be such a wimp. I mean, it’s just some paint on a canvas ... or is it? Curiosity gets the best of me and I amble over, but I’m still not going to touch the canvas. I stare, and it’s as if the images on the painting stare back. Gramps is

smiling at me, or at least, the portrait of Gramps is smiling at the portrait of me. Alright, this might be a little confusing, but I am strangely at peace. And it would appear as if Gramps is too. He may not be with me in body, but I know a part of him will always be alive through his art.

.----.------.------.----.

By the next day, I have restored most of Gramps’ old paintings. I can’t explain it, but everything is better. Grams is back to her spirited self, swinging idly on the tire.

"I'm so glad you retouched Gramps' paintings," Grams says. "Somehow, it makes me feel better to know the two of you can still share a common bond."

“Grams, how often did Gramps touch up the paintings?”

“Just like clockwork, every fall and every spring he would set to work,” she says, lightly dragging her feet over the grass.

“I guess I’ll just have to visit more often,” I say and spin both tire and Grams around playfully.

“I hope you do, dear. I hope you do.”

About the Author

Currently, H.B. Bolton resides in sunny Florida with her supportive husband, two adorable children, gorgeous greyhounds, and scruffy mutt. She is actively creating new worlds and interesting characters for the next book in one of her series. Shhhh, can you keep a secret? Not only does she write books for the young-at-heart, adventurous

sort who yearn to dive into a good young-adult fantasy story, she also writes spellbinding, heart pounding women’s fiction. These

particular books are written under the name Barbara Brooke, but that’s another story, altogether.

Check out her websites

http://www.hbbolton.com http://www.barbarabrookeglimmers.com

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Copyright

Breaking Down a short story Copyright H.B.Bolton 2012

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