Work Text:
You grow up speaking three languages. You talk to your friends in English, you talk to Mama in Spanish, and you talk to Papa in his language. He never tells you its name. Mama doesn’t either, she just looks away and shakes her head. He says to wait until you are older. This always seemed weird to you, but everyone says that John Crocker is eccentric, so maybe that is all it is. It isn’t the only odd thing he does. When you were little, and came to him afraid of monsters under the bed, he would never say, “there are no monsters”. Instead he would say, “none of the monsters live in Washington.” You conclude early on that your dad is a little bit crazy. You have other things to think about, most of the time.
As you get older though, you do notice a few things. What few books there are in Papa’s language are not printed. They’re typed. When you were eight, you found the typewriter. Unlike a normal one, it goes from right to left. You asked him if he made his language up. He looked at you for a second without speaking, then said, “it wouldn’t be a very funny joke.”
A close friend suggests that maybe he speaks 'one of those Indian languages' and that's why there aren't any printed books. But you don't think your father ever said anything about being native.
About a week after your tenth birthday, your father knocks on your door. "Hey, kiddo." His expression is jovial, but you can see an edge of tension in his eyes. "This weekend I'm seeing my grandmother, and she wants you to come along. Don't you want to see your great-grandmother?"
Now this was an ill-used linguistic flourish. Your father asks in the affirmative usually. Do you want to see a movie? Do you need to do your chores? He only says 'don't you' when it would cause trouble for him if you don't do it.
You raise your eyebrows and say, "your grandmother is still alive?"
He chuckled, but something in his eyes was wrong. "Of course she is, son! Betty Crocker will never die."
Your Pop wakes you early on Saturday, and the trip is on. You spend hours on the freeways, and Pop tells you about how they didn't have these freeways when he was your age, that they got made after the second world war. Your Pop is older than most of the other Dads, already in his fifties, and he says “second world war” instead of World War 2.
By noon you aren't in the state anymore. There aren't a lot of cars anymore. Pop says you're in Idaho. Then he says, "right by the water is where she likes it, but she likes being away from humanity a little more."
It's an odd thing to hear. You realize that you don’t know that much about the relative you are about to meet. Papa looks worried sometimes, but when he catches you looking, he puts on a smile. You think that maybe Great Grandmother is on her deathbed, and that is why he is so uncomfortable. It makes a lot of sense; you don’t know anyone whose great grandmother is still alive.
The road stretches on. Papa speaks his language, almost exclusively, except when he mumbles along to the music on the old car's radio.
"This music these days is pretty happy," he says, suddenly. "Or not happy, but… it feels different than the stuff that was new when I was young."
You brace yourself for the parental tirade against rock and roll that your friends all warned you about. It doesn't come. Instead he says, "I wish it had more piano. I feel like music's leaving me behind!"
You don't know what to say. You are used to Papa being corny, playful, stern if you misbehave, and especially if you make Mama mad, but rarely serious. You start to feel like you won’t like what’s coming.
The car rolls through hills and fields. Eventually Papa points out the sign to one of the properties and says, “we’re here.” Despite turning into the narrow lane, it takes another few minutes before you even see the house. On either side of the lane are fruit trees. You recognize the apple trees, even though the tree is bare in the fall weather, but the other ones you are not familiar with. You imagine they are peach trees and orange trees, but you don’t know, nor do you know how unlikely orange trees are to grow in chilly Idaho.
When Papa pulls the car to a stop, you see your great grandmother’s house. It looks to you like a mansion. Three stories tall at least, long and rambling, dotted sparsely with narrow windows with the shutters drawn, an empty porch along the front which has no light fixtures and looks supremely unwelcoming. As you get out of the car, you notice that the land on the property on the other side of the rows of trees is simply bare around the house, and the land beyond is uncultivated. The sun is low already, and the world is in brown and grey.
You grab your bag and follow Papa to the colossal front doors. They open inward when he turns the handle; apparently they were unlocked. The room beyond is the largest room that you have ever seen in your ten year old life. The room appears to be taller than your house, and nearly as wide. A massive staircase leads to the second floor, which is a good bit higher up than your second floor. It’s as if the house was made for a giant. An incredibly rich giant. You almost feel bad for your great grandmother, who has to live in a house where everything is so big and far apart. Old ladies have trouble walking, don’t they? Your abuela does, at least, and she’s younger than Betty Crocker!
Papa doesn’t let you spend too long looking around, and steers you to a door along the side wall. “We should go straight to her," he says, "she doesn't like to be kept waiting, and she already knows we're here."
You wonder why Papa is so sure she knows you are here. You haven’t seen anyone around. The expression on Papa’s face suggests maybe you shouldn’t ask him about it. Despite his stated rush, however, he does not rush you. He opens another door, revealing a flight of wide steps, carpeted in bright pink and purple, leading downward.
You are a little surprised, after all the house had three stories, yet your great grandmother apparently lives in the basement. The staircase curves and winds, and in a minute you are thoroughly turned around. You can feel the air get warmer and damper as you descend, which you don't know how to react to. Basements are dry and cold, in your experience. In adventure books the deep places heroes explore are all cold and wet, or they are hot and dry from the heat of an underground lava pool. As you descend you hear what sounds like running water.
You reach the bottom and step into a long hallway. The walls are covered with a fountain designed to look like a waterfall, broken only by the frames of doors. Papa leads you in one direction, past door after door, until he reaches the end of the hall. A golden statue stands in the cul de sac at the hall's end, a statue of a mermaid wielding a trident.
"Wait here for a minute, son," Pop says, "I'll go in and talk to her, and then I'll bring you in to meet her."
He smiles a nervous smile and walks to the nearest door. Like the others, the door is wide and tall, more than any door you can think of.
Of course, as soon as he's through you creep over to the door to hear what's going on. What ten-year-old boy wouldn't?
With your ear against the door you hear your father speak his language.
“Hello, Grandmother.”
“Hey, there, guppy! Long time no sea.”
You frown. The other person doesn't sound like an old lady. Her voice carries too much, like whoever spoke had large lungs. If anything, her voice reminds you of Catwoman from the Batman show, rich and almost purring in a language that you never imagined Eartha Kitt speaking. And why would she call your old man a small fish? And did she misspeak, or did she pun the greeting with the word for 'large body of water'? Why?
“Oh, you know how it is. I’ve been busy as a bee lately. As you’ve heard by now, I have a son.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s good that you aren’t stupid enough to try and hide him from me.”
Something about that chills you. Papa isn’t stupid at all, but why would Papa hide you from this person?
“I am a fool, yet playing the fool requires a certain wit.”
You roll your eyes at the Shakespeare line, but the other voice chuckles, deep and throaty.
“I remember—Grandmother, you told me I could have a son,” Papa says. You can hear the tension in his voice. “You said that I could keep him. You said you would spare him.”
Your brow furrows. Why is Papa asking like he needs this person’s permission to be a father? And what does he mean by ‘spare’ you? It sounds like Papa is afraid that she will kill you. But he wouldn’t let that happen. Your Papa wouldn’t let anyone hurt you. This must be a misunderstanding. Or a prank.
“I said I might,” the voice says. “But he has to be the right son, of course.”
“The right son?”
“You milksuckers breed like rats,” the other voice says, “It grosses me out. I’m gonna let you have one son, the one who gets to raise your granddaughter. Any other spawn you make, I kill. If that buoy hiding on the other side of that door isn’t the right one, he gets forked tonight.”
You freeze. Does she know you’re here? How? And she might ‘fork’ you? No, this cannot be real. This is some sort of practical joke.
“But Grandmother—” Papa pleads.
“Shut up. I let you speak out of turn when you’re funny about it. But you ain’t fucking joking are you? Get your whelp.”
The word 'fucking', more than anything else, convinces you that this isn't a trick. Papa does not use such coarse language, not to you. This person, who Papa keeps calling ‘Grandmother’ even though she speaks as though she isn’t a human being, really might kill you.
You step back, look to the side. The mermaid statue seems to leer at you. The rock she lies on resembles a prone body. You look the other way. Which door led upstairs?
But it's too late. The door opens. Your father is there. His face is controlled, tense. Beneath his eyeglasses, you think his eyes look a little watery. He looks down at you.
In English, he says, “you heard all that, didn’t you, son?”
You nod. He sighs and nods back. “Don’t try to run away, son. She'll come after you. You can't escape.”
“Why,” you ask. You mean to ask a longer question, but it gets lost somewhere along the way.
He doesn’t look you in the eye. “You’ll see.”
He puts a hand on your shoulder and guides you inside.
The room on the other side of the door is huge, opulent, covered in hot pink and gold. There is a wall directly to your left, so you turn to your right and.
And sitting on a throne on one of the walls is a monster. A giantess, horns extending up and up, eyes whose whites are black, with fuchsia irises, skin and clothing and mane of hair is as dark as tar, resting her head on one fist as if bored. You see her and stare. Her eyes lock on you. You feel like a deer in the headlights. She smiles, revealing teeth that are pointed like a shark’s.
“Come here, guppy,” says the monster—the voice that Papa addressed as Grandmother—and Papa nudges you forward with a hand on your shoulder. As you get closer the reality of her size becomes more and more obvious, more real, and it becomes harder for you to keep going. Once you are about three feet from her throne, your Pop lets you stop. She extends one of her hands, and—oh, gee, she has claws—she touches you under the chin, tilts your head from one side to the other.
“Do you know who I am, guppy?” she asks.
You nod. “My great grandmother? Betty Crocker?”
She snorts. “That’s just a stage name, kid.”
You start talking before you can think better of it. “So what’s your real name?”
She still has her claw at your throat, and she pauses, and you realize that if she makes a move, you could actually, literally be killed this very second.
Instead she smiles. “Your brat is brave, Johnny buoy. You oughta teach him how to be smart.”
“Of course, Grandmother. Son, your Great Grandmother is royalty, you must only speak when spoken to.”
You nod. The monster known as Betty Crocker looks at you and smiles. “Good buoy.” She turns to your father. “He’s cool. Make sure he raises your granddaughter right, you hear?”
“Of course, Grandmother, thank you.”
“And make sure he’s the last, or I will.”
“Yes, Grandmother.”
He relaxes and starts herding you toward the door. You let him. The sooner you are away from the monster the better.
“And kid!” you turn. The giantess is smiling, those sharp teeth on display. “My real name is Meenah.”
You nod and let your father get you out of there.
When the door closes, he lets out a sharp breath. A nervous giggle. He looks at you with a guilty expression. “Your Great Grandma is a little intense, isn’t she? Why don’t we go up to the kitchen and I’ll get you a double scoop of ice cream?”
You nod, but inside you are reeling. “Can I have three?”
Your father laughs and brings his hand underneath his glasses. “Yes,” he says, “you can have whatever you want.”