Old Fashioned

I inherited the house from my grandparents, they could best be described as the traditional types. Grandma cooked and cleaned; Grandpa worked eight to five every day. He would come home, set his knitted newsboy cap on the hook by the door, and lumber his way to the dinner table. His grunts would fill the small home; there was no “honey I’m home!” No kisses or show of affection, a curt nod would pass between them, as food was placed on the table in front of him. I always thought it was like a black and white film that had been stuck in the player for too long.

I remember as we would eat Grandpa would lean over to me, his thinning hair and tired eyes looking past me.

He’d whisper, “this is how it’s supposed to be.”

I always wondered if they were happy like that, stuck in the permanent limbo. Grandma was quiet, she would smile, but it never reached her eyes.

My parents never wanted to visit, so their solution was to send me. The moment my dad started expecting dinner immediately after getting home, mom put a stop to seeing them. I think it was pity that made her force me to go. Truth be told I kind of enjoyed it, kind of like a break from reality.

I was fifteen when I found them. The door was slightly ajar when I arrived, a newscaster’s voice wasn’t floating through the air. It was too quiet, even for them.

I nudged the door open, “hello?” My voice rang out, nothing responded. The vase that normally decorated the mantle was on the ground. Tentatively I stepped forward, my footsteps echoing. The rack lay empty, no long gray coat or cap where it belonged. I glanced at my watch, 6:15; they should be here. There was no pot roast smell roaming through the house, no grunts filling the empty space.

Glass shards littered the normally pristine living room, they caught the lights and dimly smiled in my direction. I crept up the steps, maybe they were upstairs.

“Grandma! Grandpa! It’s Eric, you here?” My voice echoed. It hit the end of the hallway with no response.

I mean, they probably went out. It’s out of character, but not impossible, I guess. Grandpa complains about getting the mail, God forbid that man goes for a walk in his free time. To my left a small brass statue of a kid playing baseball sat, I grabbed it quietly.

“Just in case,” I muttered to myself.

Their bedroom was untouched, bed still made, everything neatly in its place.

Making my way down the stairs, I rounded the corner to the kitchen. Their kitchen sat in the back of the little ranch house, a cute nook I’ve always loved. Until now that is.

I felt the brass statue slip from my hand. The clatter was deafening as it bounced across the floor.

My grandparents lay on the floor, still. Both bodies were cold to the touch. A scream escaped my throat, heavy and too loud for the quiet air. Grandpa looked almost scared… but grandma died with a small smile on her face. The only smile I’ve ever seen reach her eyes.

On the kitchen table there was a cake, two pieces cut out. Only one bite was taken out of each piece. The fork was on the floor, a trail of chocolate following its descent across the tile. There was no blood, no sign of struggle. Only a tipped-over chair, with the body to match.

My shaky hands reached for my phone, I called 911 and sat there until they arrived. It was all a blur after that. The red and blue lights still swim in my vision.

The coroner later ruled the cause of the deaths as poison.

I’ve never stepped foot in the house since. My names on the will, one last gift from them, but I can’t unsee it. I can’t unsee them.

The one thing I couldn’t bring myself to show the police is the note. It was tucked under the tray, only an edge pointing out. As if Grandma wanted me to find it. Her perfect handwriting painted the page.

The words live in my head, repeat like a sick mantra, “this is how it’s supposed to be.”