When Warren was ten, his grandmother on his mother’s side became ill and came to stay in a guest room. Every day after school, he sat at her bedside reading her Bible verses.
One day, he showed her his new invention. He called it his S.O.S. Light.
“Grandma, I know you don’t feel good at night sometimes, so I invented the S O S light. If you feel bad you can call me. See? You take the blue wire and tap it on the red wire like this.”
Warren touched the wires together.
“That makes the light in my room blink.”
He paused.
“But first, you gotta know the code so I know it’s you. It’s dot dot dot- dot dot dot. And I come see what’s the matter. Maybe you want me to read to you.”
Warren frowned, put his hand to his chin, and looked around like he was trying to think of something he left out.
“I think that’s all. Grandma?” he said, moving closer to her face. “I love you.”
His grandmother’s eyes fluttered open. Her thin lips pursed.
“Warren,” she said, in a clear voice, “fuck you.”
Warren did not flinch.
“I love you, too, Grandma.”
His face remained close to hers.
Her breath left her in a long, thin exhale.
Warren breathed it in.
It felt cold. It tasted putrid.
He stood, turned, and closed the door behind him, walked down the hall, and down the steps to the lower veranda. His mother was sitting at a round, glass-top table, watching the steam rise from her cup of tea.
“Mother?” he said, stopping beside her. “Grandma- I think she died. I’m pretty sure.”
“Have you cried yet?”
“No.”
“If you need to cry, do it now before your father gets home.”
“I won’t need to.”
“You never liked her, did you?”
Warren closed his eyes, fighting back his tears.
“No, ma’am.”
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