Like a Horse

I’ve been breaking federal law by opening my grandmother’s mail. I don’t think she’d mind; she’s dead and, beyond that, she was not the type of lady to believe in an afterlife she could judge me from. “Oh bullllllshit” she’d say, the first and third syllables staccato but the second pulled to near-breaking. “Bullshit” was a versatile descriptor of many things, notably: any neighborhood gossip pertaining to any man doing anything, the Zapruder film, and the ghost hunting shows she’d religiously DVR for me. “I can’t believe you like this crap,” she’d say, setting down her embroidery to watch it. 

I’d mirror her performance of disdain when she’d read me her history books, each with titles like The Untold Story of the Battle of Hastings (her PIN to everything was 1066) or The Shocking History of Parliamentary Systems or Sex and Murder: The Early Plantagenets. 10-year-old me would attempt to discuss the finer points of political or military strategy but would always end up badgering her for explanations on the goriest bits.

“So, he was hung, drawn, and quartered and that was only for, like, super treason?”

“Hanged.”

“What?

“When talking about people you say hanged, not hung. Remember: hung like a horse, hanged like a man.” 

The meaning of the first half of that mnemonic escaped me but was nonetheless dutifully repeated throughout grade school. In my head it was simply one of those arcane grammar exceptions I’d learned about, like the weird way you place a possessive apostrophe after “Jesus:” when discussing equine executions by gallows they were, of course, “hung.” Men, on the other hand, must be described as “hanged.” 

Her health started to decline in my teen years. Her hands got shaky so I’d thread her needles for her. Eventually she quit all together. When a series of cancers and failed brain surgeries left her paralyzed and unable to speak, we swapped jigsaw puzzles and iced tea for VHS tapes of M*A*S*H and thickened water.

On appointment days I’d wheel her around the hospital to look at the terrible paintings I hated in various waiting rooms. As the most-captive-possible captive audience, she was subjected to my endless, useless commentary.

“I wish they knew that just ‘cuz we’re in dairy country doesn’t mean everything needs to be a painting of a cow in scrubs. It’s ridiculous.”

On a journey to radiology I’d neglected to notice her arm had slipped off her arm rest until I was met with unexpected resistance while attempting to get onto the elevator.

“Shit, I’m so sorry.” I kneeled in front of her to scan for damage and move her hands to her lap. I was met with sharp, present, trapped eyes. 

When I went off to college I had the distinct sense that I was abandoning her. And that I had left my little brother to deal with more than his fair share of meds dosing and assisted toileting.

She didn’t last much longer. I didn’t make it home in time to see her again. 

The summer after her death was spent working at a classical music festival. The majority of my job was to sit in the lobby of the opera house offering programs, setting up the table of champagne for intermission, and joining my coworkers in getting drunk off the flutes that were left during the second half. The other portion was attending whatever promotional party was being held to exist as hired social glue. 

Manicured gardens, cutesy cocktails, and a per-capita wealth and bowtie level that, paired with unbearable personalities, inspired daydreams of revolution.

“‘A bowtie announces to the world that you can’t get an erection.’ Or something. Who said that again?” My partner in forced social interaction turned to me after surveying the crowd. The sunburn on her nose and sun-bleached hair alluded to an effortless surfer lifestyle. The itchy redness that had crept across the entirety of my face instead gave the impression of something dreadful and possibly contagious. I spent the walk back to the theater piling on aloe vera, deciding a slimy face was marginally more professional than peeling skin. 

My rhythm of work at that night’s performance was interrupted by the orchestra playing Rachmaninoff’s Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini. I’d recognized it from a record my grandma had owned, called something like “Classical Love Songs Anthology.” Unlike her Kingston Trio albums, it was reserved for when we were feeling “fancy.”

I loitered by the theater door to listen, tears cutting into an inadvisably-thick layer of cooling gel.

Years would pass before my brother and I lived in the same town again.  

“Do you ever think we should’ve helped her along more? Towards the end?” My guilt-tinged question was casually thrown into the mix of breakfast conversation. 

“Probably,” eyes squinted, vowels stretched. Said almost-imperceptibly like a question.  “How would we have gotten away with this perfect crime?”

“I just mean giving her as many pain meds as she wanted even if it ended things quicker. I don’t genuinely mean, like, a murder staged to look like something else.”

“Well, yeah, it’s not like we could’ve made it look like she hung herself.”

“Hanged,” I corrected.