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The Dead Guy in the Living Room
A tale of whispered secrets and a restless spirit
Grandpa Bill Hickey, a bow-legged cowboy with a penchant for whiskey and extramarital dalliances, died — or was more accurately murdered if some are to be believed — just a week after I celebrated my first birthday. After 34 tumultuous years of marriage, it’s said that Grandma Gertrude might’ve finally had enough of his philandering ways, allegedly pushing him down a staircase. He clung to life for 11 more days in the hospital, battling not just the injuries from his fall but also emphysema, renal failure, and what some swear was the palpable, deadly animosity emanating from Grandma Gertrude herself.
In stark contrast to Grandpa Bill’s free-spirited, boisterous demeanor, Grandma Gertrude lived in a small, tightly-knit world dominated by anger, judgment, and a disturbing level of racism — a particular issue for my Mexican mother and her seven children. Then, add a generous helping of homophobia, making life around her especially uncomfortable for me. All these unsavory attitudes were perpetually steeped in the smells of stale cigarettes, greasy food, and rancid perfume. I was only slightly upset when my mother alerted me to Grandma’s death years later via Facebook message — bothered not because of the news but because of the tactless delivery.
