The Riveting Conclusion of The Pink Fuzzy Slippers

“Dammit, girl, get out from under the bed!”

And that’s when I saw part of a tennis ball poking underneath the dust ruffle a few feet from the pink fuzzy slipper.

“Grandma?”

She took a shuffling step back, and I rolled out from under the bed, covered in dust bunnies.

“What were you thinking locking me outside like that? Good thing that door doesn’t close all the way and the deadbolt hadn’t caught. And I don’t know why you left the broom out there yesterday. I had to borrow the slippers just to go out there and get it.”

“Sorry, Grandma.”

“I bet.” She crossed her arms over her chest as best she could thanks to the permanent stoop of osteoporosis.  

She shooed me into the kitchen where I cleaned up the mess, and we finished supper. A full-blown storm raged and whistled outside putting a premature end to trick-or-treating. Grandma watched me as I did the dishes, savoring one of her Milky Ways. I poured the last of the spaghetti sauce into a spare container and opened the fridge to put it inside.

I had almost closed the refrigerator door when a glint registered, a glint coming from underneath the glass shelf just above the crisper drawer. I bent to open the door and found a bottle of Corona beside the lettuce.

“How in the heck did that get in here?” asked Grandma. “I poured all that mess out after your Aunt Elinor died.”

Hours later, Grandma snoozed in her chair as Leno soliloquized on the state of the union. I crept to the fridge and took out my prize. The cap popped off the bottle, and I looked to Grandma. She didn’t stir. I took a long sip of Corona.

And that’s when I heard the knock at the back door.

Shave and a haircut. Two bits.