Son of a Bitch

It was always the fault of “some son-of-a-bitch.”

Whenever something didn’t go well, when something like Mammam’s purse was missing, she always blamed “some son-of-a-bitch.” “Some son-of-a-bitch stole my purse!” she’d say on the phone, “You better get up here!” We would search her house thoroughly and find it wrapped in a large towel and hidden in the back of the linen closet. She would hide her purse from the son-of-a-bitch, forget where she put it and declare that some son-of-a-bitch took it. When we would find it she’d say, “Who’s the son-of-a-bitch that put it there!” It was an endless son-of-a-bitch of a cycle.

“Hia Mammam, it’s Allen, your grandson.” I was never certain she knew who I was – she seemed to, but one would expect that.

“Oh, hiya!”

“Mammam, I’m going to come up to your place in a little while, why don’t you tell me if you need any groceries.” Her short-term memory was nearly gone so I made an attempt to talk her through a process that would lead me to the acquisition of some sound information. “Go to the refrigerator and see if you need milk or butter – milk or butter Mammam – try to remember that. Tell me what you’re looking for?”

“Okay. Yeah – yeah, milk or butter, milk or butter –“ I repeated the plan several times and I was certain she had it. She set the phone down on the table near the entrance to the kitchen and I could hear her, “milk or butter, milk or butter.” She said it softly and as she walked into the kitchen her voice faded further. I could hear a few noises in the background and I waited. I waited some more and I could hear her talking but I couldn’t decipher her words - until she approached the phone, then I heard, “Who is the son-of-a-bitch that left the phone off the hook?” a click and then a dialtone.