2¢ A. Blinken

A. Blinken I went to see Granny Wise and she had me take her in my truck up canyon to the place of an old guy who’d been her friend since she and Grandad Wise came to the mountains in the early 30s. Granny’s never chatty, but on the drive she was real quiet, smaller and older than usual. She had a canvas rucksack on her lap. "What’s in the sack, Granny?" "A peck of mind-your-own-tillin’." "Looks like a gun, looks like your old hog-leg. Sounds like .45 long Colt cartridges clinkin’ against a pint bottle." Granny didn’t say anything. I said, "Ben got cougar troubles?" "No," she said, "he’s got leatherlung." She meant emphysema. It didn’t help much to lecture Granny, so I was quiet for a while as the truck chugged up the dry wash Ben calls a road. Eventually I said, "Granny, if you help Ben kill himself, you’ll be an accessory." "Either show me a badge or shut your face hole." We finally rattled up in front of Ben’s cabin. Granny pulled the handle and threw her shoulder into the door, it sticks some, then got down. I pulled on my handle but Granny glared at me over the seat before she slammed the door, so I sat. I listened to the creek getting ready for rime, little birds warning each other about coming cold, and I half feared to hear the hog-leg roar "Whoom" but by and by Granny came out, jerked the door and pulled herself into the truck. I tried one more time, "Granny, we could take him down canyon to Sacramento." She sighed, gestured with her chin to get going. I said, "they could give him more time." "You think Ben wants time in Sacramento? Besides, that little bottle of nuggets is going to his great-grandkids." I eased my rattletrap down canyon. I asked, "that what you’re going to do when you get tired? How do you think I would feel, and the kin?" Granny looked at the grey rock face out her window. "It ain’t about you," she said.