Mongrels. Stephen Jones Graham

school that month, but I was still learning. Libby had finally told me that the scar on Grandpa’s arm, it was probably from a cigarette he’d rolled over on once. Or an old chickenpox. Or a piece of slag melting into his sleeve, burning down into his skin.

      What I had to do to get to the truth of the story was build it up again from the same facts, but with different muscle.

      Grandma had died and been buried. I knew that. Even Libby said it.

      Probably what had happened—no, what had to have happened, the worst that could have happened—was that some town dogs had got into the cemetery the night after the funeral, when the dirt was still soft. And then Grandpa had gone after that pack with his rifle, or his truck, even if it had taken all month. And then used his shovel to bury them.

      I preferred the werewolf version.

      In that one, there’s Grandpa as a young man, a werewolf in his prime. But he’s also a grieving husband, a new and terrified father. And now he’s ducking out the doorway of the house this other pack dens up at. And his arms, they’re red and steaming up to the shoulders, with revenge.

      If Libby grew up hearing that story, if he told it to her before she was old enough to see through it to the truth, then all she would remember would be the hero. This tall, violent, bloody man, his chest rising and falling, his eyes casting around for the next thing to tear into.

      Ten years later, of course she falls for Red.

      Everything makes sense if you look at it long enough.

      Except Darren showing up at the house two or three hours later. He was naked, was breathing hard, covered in sweat, his eyes wild, leaves and sticks in his hair, one shoulder raw.

      Slung over his shoulder was a black trash bag.

      “Always use a black bag,” he said to me, walking in, dropping the bag hard onto the table.

      “Because white shows up at night,” I said back to him, like the three other times he’d already come back naked and dirty.

      He scruffed my hair, walked deeper into the house, for pants.

      I peeled up the mouth of the bag, looked in.

      It was all loose cash and strawberry wine coolers.

      The last story Grandpa told me, it was about the dent in his shin.

      Libby leaned back from the kitchen sink when she heard him starting in on it.

      She was holding a big raw steak from the store to her face. It was because of Red, because of last night.

      When she’d come in to get ready for work, she’d seen Darren’s trash bag on the table, hauled it up without even looking inside. She strode right back to Darren’s old bedroom. He was asleep on top of the covers, in his pants.

      She threw the bag down onto him hard enough that two of the wine-cooler bottles broke, spilled down onto his back.

      He came up spinning and spitting, his mouth open, teeth bared.

      And then he saw his sister’s face. Her eye.

      “I’m going to fucking kill him this time,” he said, stepping off the bed, his hands opening and closing where they hung by his legs, but Libby was already there, pushing him hard in the chest, her feet set.

      When the screaming and the throwing things started, one of them slammed the door shut so I wouldn’t have to see.

      In the living room, Grandpa was coughing.

      I went to him, propped him back up in his chair, and, because Libby had said it would work, I asked him to tell me about the scar by his mouth, about how he got it.

      His head when he finally looked up to me was loose on his neck, and his good eye was going cloudy.

      “Grandpa, Grandpa,” I said, shaking him.

      My whole life I’d known him. He’d acted out a hundred werewolf stories for me there in the living room, had once even broke the coffee table when an evil Clydesdale horse reared up in front of him and he had to fall back, his eyes twice as wide as any eyes I’d ever seen.

      In the back of the house something glass broke, something wood splintered, and there was a scream so loud I couldn’t even tell if it was from Darren or Libby, or if it was even human.

      “They love each other too much,” Grandpa said. “Libby and her—and that—”

      “Red,” I said, trying to make it turn down at the end like when Darren said it.

      “Red,” Grandpa said back, like he’d been going to get there himself.

      He thought it was Red and Libby back there. He didn’t know what month it was anymore.

      “He’s not a bad wolf either,” he went on, shaking his head side to side. “That’s the thing. But a good wolf isn’t always a good man. Remember that.”

      It made me wonder about the other way around, if a good man meant a bad wolf. And if that was better or worse.

      “She doesn’t know it,” Grandpa said, “but she looks like her mother.”

      “Tell me,” I said.

      For once he did, or started to. But his descriptions of Grandma kept wandering away from her, would strand him talking about how her hands looked around a cigarette when she had to turn away from the wind. How some of her hair was always falling down by her face. A freckle on the top of her left collarbone.

      Soon I realized Darren and Libby were there, listening.

      It was my grandma, but it was their mom. The one they’d never seen. The one there weren’t any pictures of.

      Grandpa smiled for the audience, for his family being there, I think, and he went on about her pot roasts then, about how he would steal carrots and potatoes for her all over Logan County, carry them home in his mouth, shotguns always firing into the air behind him, the sky forever full of lead, always raining pellets so that when he shook on the porch after getting home, it sounded like a hailstorm.

      Libby cracked the refrigerator open, pulled out a steak, held it under the water in the sink so it wouldn’t stick to her face.

      Darren eased into the living room, sat on his haunches on the floor past the chair he usually claimed, like he didn’t want to break this spell, and Grandpa went on about Grandma, about the first time he saw her. She was in a parade right over in Boonesville, had a pale yellow umbrella over her shoulder. It didn’t look like a huge daisy, he said. Just an umbrella, but in the clear daytime.

      Darren smiled.

      His face on the left side had four deep scratches in it now, but he didn’t care. He was like Grandpa, was going to have a thousand stories.

      In the kitchen Libby finally turned the water off, pressed the steak up to her left eye. It wasn’t swelled all the way shut yet. Her eyeball was shot red like it had popped.

      I hated Red at least as much as Darren did.

      “Go on,” Darren said to Grandpa, and for two or three more minutes we went around and around the house with him, after Grandma. Until Grandpa leaned forward to pull up the right leg of his pants. Except he was just wearing boxers. But his fingers still worked at the memory of pants.

      “He wanted to hear about how this happened,” he said, and tapped his finger into a deep dent on his shin I’d never noticed before.

      This was when Libby pushed up from the sink.

      Her lips were red now too, and part of me registered that it was from the steak. That she’d been chewing on it.

      The rest of me was watching Grandpa’s index finger tap into his shin. Because I’d asked about the scar by his mouth, not one on his leg. But I wasn’t going to mess this up.

      “Used to have this dog …” he said to me, just to me, and Libby dropped