When he'd overheard his mother on the phone trying to guide http://www.storypraxis.com/ he'd thought Gramma was trying to kill the bird; he'd imagined her holding down a flailing feathered hen while cradling the phone on her shoulder. His mother, having been making dinner herself, finally had turned the phone on speaker, and he'd heard his Gramma say she was taking a knife to it. Turns out, his mother had bought her one of those precooked chickens they themselves sometimes ate, and Gramma couldn't get the plastic lid off. She'd taken to stabbing at it instead.
His mother didn't usually put his Gramma on speaker. Whenever he'd overhear their conversations, his mother would talk very loud, as his Gramma was going a bit deaf, but cup her hand over the phone or turn toward a wall, as if she didn't want him to hear her yelling.
Or sometimes she would just yell as she sometimes yelled at him: "No, Mom, you can't get up on the stepladder. You'll fall. Wait until I come out tomorrow and I'll change the bulb myself."
He didn't really like overhearing these conversations. They were nothing like when he and his mother made the hour drive to actually visit his Gramma; they'd play Monopoly on an old board missing half the pieces from when his mother was a little girl. And when his Gramma had been less feeble, she used to let him take her old tool box and hammer nails into scraps of wood. His mother bought him a pair of pliers to hold the nails so he wouldn't hammer his fingers, and they were like three kids who played well together. There was nothing to be overheard.
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