years. Grandfather sat at the kitchen table.
“What would you like for breakfast , Grandfather?”
“Two scrambled eggs , two pieces of toast. Lightly buttered. Don’t get them too dark. I don’t like burnt toast.”
I made Grandfather a specially prepared pot of coffee and poured a cup.
“Still tastes bitter,” he grumbled. “You sure you bought the right coffee?”
“Yes, Grandfather. The doctor said your medication might affect your taste buds. You only have to be on your medication another week.”
“I’m going to die of starvation if you don’t hurry up.”
I felt a smile , but made sure Grandfather didn’t see it.
I cleaned the lunch dishes and decided to bake a batch of cookies. It would keep me busy and I could watch when Grandfather went in his room.
First, I baked a tray of chocolate chip cookies that I could take on my trip. The rest of the batter was Grandfathers. I added a double dose of powder.
I pulled t he last tray of cookies out of the oven when the bedroom door closed. That was my cue. I went upstairs and grabbed two bags of clothes, along with a bag containing the letters, diary, and photo album. I tried to tiptoe down the creaking steps. When I reached the last step, I dropped my bags. Grandfather was standing by the front door, looking meaner than ever.
“What do you think you ’re doing?” Grandfather demanded.
I wasn’t going to lie. I looked Grandfather straight in the eyes. “I’m leaving.”
“ Where would you go? You’ve got no friends or family. And, no money.” He was partly right.
“I have plans.” I picked up the bags and walked past him. He hit my back with his cane. I stumbled, dropping the bags. The photo album slid across the floor.
“You snoopy child !” he yelled. “You’ve been in the attic. You were told never to go in the attic!”
Grandfather’s face turn ed red. He started brandishing his cane. I bent down and pulled on the rug. Grandfather lost his balance and fell. He didn’t move. I grabbed his cane and poked him. His head tilted to the right.
I had to leave—now. Grandfather was injured and knew I had things from the attic. Grandfather had to die today.
The oven was still on . I walked over and turned on all four burners. I grabbed the bag of cookies I’d made for myself, and made a quick stop in Grandfather’s room to grab the two other containers of white powder.
I picked up my three bags and walked out the front door. Everything I owned was now on the back seat of the Rambler. The barn was the last place I wanted to enter, but inside were things I needed. I took the lighter from the counter, grabbed a gas can, stuck a rag in the spout, and walked back to the house. I opened the back door, lit the rag, and threw the gas can in the kitchen. I walked calmly to the car and drove down the gravel driveway.
I didn’ t even look in the rearview mirror as the house started to burn.
18 Monday, February 4, 1980 (Mason)
R esearching other people’s family history had made Mason want to know more about his own. He had little information on his mother. He didn’t know her parent’s names, if she had siblings, or if any living relatives existed. Was it possible she was adopted? Raised in foster care? Mason needed answers.
Mason had been ten when he moved 345 miles from Clinton County to O’Brien County. He couldn’t take another day off work, not so soon. Instead, he’d call the recorder’s office in Clinton County on his lunch break.
“Jean Reynolds. How may I help you?” The voice was smooth , calm.
“ Hi, Jean. My name’s Mason Pierce. I’m looking for information on my maternal family history.”
“I’ d be glad to help you, Mr. Pierce. What type of information?”
“Birth, marriage , and death records for my mom and her relatives. I’m trying to put my family tree together.”
“Okay. First, tell me what you have. Then, I’ll tell you how long it’ll take to find what you need.”
“My mother’s name
“What would you like for breakfast , Grandfather?”
“Two scrambled eggs , two pieces of toast. Lightly buttered. Don’t get them too dark. I don’t like burnt toast.”
I made Grandfather a specially prepared pot of coffee and poured a cup.
“Still tastes bitter,” he grumbled. “You sure you bought the right coffee?”
“Yes, Grandfather. The doctor said your medication might affect your taste buds. You only have to be on your medication another week.”
“I’m going to die of starvation if you don’t hurry up.”
I felt a smile , but made sure Grandfather didn’t see it.
I cleaned the lunch dishes and decided to bake a batch of cookies. It would keep me busy and I could watch when Grandfather went in his room.
First, I baked a tray of chocolate chip cookies that I could take on my trip. The rest of the batter was Grandfathers. I added a double dose of powder.
I pulled t he last tray of cookies out of the oven when the bedroom door closed. That was my cue. I went upstairs and grabbed two bags of clothes, along with a bag containing the letters, diary, and photo album. I tried to tiptoe down the creaking steps. When I reached the last step, I dropped my bags. Grandfather was standing by the front door, looking meaner than ever.
“What do you think you ’re doing?” Grandfather demanded.
I wasn’t going to lie. I looked Grandfather straight in the eyes. “I’m leaving.”
“ Where would you go? You’ve got no friends or family. And, no money.” He was partly right.
“I have plans.” I picked up the bags and walked past him. He hit my back with his cane. I stumbled, dropping the bags. The photo album slid across the floor.
“You snoopy child !” he yelled. “You’ve been in the attic. You were told never to go in the attic!”
Grandfather’s face turn ed red. He started brandishing his cane. I bent down and pulled on the rug. Grandfather lost his balance and fell. He didn’t move. I grabbed his cane and poked him. His head tilted to the right.
I had to leave—now. Grandfather was injured and knew I had things from the attic. Grandfather had to die today.
The oven was still on . I walked over and turned on all four burners. I grabbed the bag of cookies I’d made for myself, and made a quick stop in Grandfather’s room to grab the two other containers of white powder.
I picked up my three bags and walked out the front door. Everything I owned was now on the back seat of the Rambler. The barn was the last place I wanted to enter, but inside were things I needed. I took the lighter from the counter, grabbed a gas can, stuck a rag in the spout, and walked back to the house. I opened the back door, lit the rag, and threw the gas can in the kitchen. I walked calmly to the car and drove down the gravel driveway.
I didn’ t even look in the rearview mirror as the house started to burn.
18 Monday, February 4, 1980 (Mason)
R esearching other people’s family history had made Mason want to know more about his own. He had little information on his mother. He didn’t know her parent’s names, if she had siblings, or if any living relatives existed. Was it possible she was adopted? Raised in foster care? Mason needed answers.
Mason had been ten when he moved 345 miles from Clinton County to O’Brien County. He couldn’t take another day off work, not so soon. Instead, he’d call the recorder’s office in Clinton County on his lunch break.
“Jean Reynolds. How may I help you?” The voice was smooth , calm.
“ Hi, Jean. My name’s Mason Pierce. I’m looking for information on my maternal family history.”
“I’ d be glad to help you, Mr. Pierce. What type of information?”
“Birth, marriage , and death records for my mom and her relatives. I’m trying to put my family tree together.”
“Okay. First, tell me what you have. Then, I’ll tell you how long it’ll take to find what you need.”
“My mother’s name
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