Old MacKenzie hated her on sight - the large woman striding past his house every morning with her golden Labrador.

"What in tarnation are they so skittish about?" he grumbled to his old dog, Zach.

All through his marriage, Old MacKenzie had never looked at another woman. And, though widowed, he wasn't about to start now! "What in tarnation would I want with that dried up bean pole?" he asked his dog.

Zach answered with a sympathetic thump of his tail.

One spring morning passion raised its impulsive head, and the Labrador, Lady, fell in love with Zach. The lovelorn dog dragged her mistress over Old MacKenzie's bushes and across his lawn until they came to a screeching halt at the edge of the verandah.

"What in tarnation?" asked MacKenzie.

"I'm extremely embarrassed," said the woman, as Lady sidled her quivering body towards Zach.

Old MacKenzie's eyebrows shot up. Zach merely opened one eye.

The woman tried to leave, but Lady would not budge. "Please accept my sincere apologies," said the woman. "I cannot imagine what on earth got into her".

"She's in heat," said Old MacKenzie. "You should've had her fixed."

"Oh! No." said the woman. "I couldn't bring myself to interfere with the course of nature."

"Now. Listen here, woman..."

"My name's Effie," she said, holding out a polite hand which MacKenzie ignored.

"Listen here. Eff . . ."

"I said my name is Effie. Not F! Don't ever call me F."

Old MaKenzie snorted. "I'll call you more'n that if you don't get off my effin' property."

She marched her reluctant dog away.

Satisfied, MacKenzie turned towards the house, but there was a distinct chill in the air.

"What in tarnation's the matter with you, Zach?" he said. "Don't be looking at me like that. You're far too old for such shenanigans."

Old MacKenzie and Zach ignored the woman and her dog as they passed by, and Lady tried in vain to approach her beloved.

"You're not interested in that bitch, are you Zach?" Old MacKenzie asked his dog.

When the woman and her dog did not appear for a week, MacKenzie was relieved, but Zach seemed a little restless. One morning, he staggered onto his rheumaticky legs and inched slowly down to the gate where he kept vigil all day long.

"Zach, you old fool," said MacKenzie. "She's way younger than you. She's way bigger than you. What in tarnation's the matter with you? Get back into the house."

Zach tried to obey, but his legs had stiffened up and MacKenzie had to carry him.

"Zach," he said, "You're too old, dammit. Don't you know that your tail-chasing days are over, pal?"

On Tuesday, April 12th at two-fifteen in the afternoon, Zach fell out of lust.

"About bleedin' time," said Old MacKenzie.

Zach plopped down beside him with a sigh and settled for dreams of yesteryear.

MacKenzie, on the other hand, grumbled about "those females" next door. "Now that you've come to your senses, Zach," he said. "We've no cause to pay them no mind. Don't you worry; I'll take care of you. We don't need no women messing up our lives."

Old MacKenzie began to clean his house from top to bottom. It took days. All the unaccustomed exercise had him gasping for breath. "I told you I could," he said to no one in particular.

Then he started on the outside of the house. Zach looked on with calm acceptance. The woman next door threw a few glances in his direction as she walked by, but MacKenzie ignored her.

He climbed his rickety ladder without mishap and cleared the leaves from the gutters. After returning the ladder to the shed, he stepped back on his way into the house to admire his handiwork and fell off the verandah.

Old MacKenzie fell off the verandah much as he did everything else - in slow motion. It was not very high, and he drifted down like an autumn leaf until his body came to a halt with one foot grotesquely beneath him.

"What in tarnation . . .?" he growled.

Zach slept on, lost in his dreams of canine erotica.

Again and again, MacKenzie struggled through the pain trying to release his mangled foot. "Goddamn," he said. "I'm trapped like a fish on a bleedin' hook."

Later the woman next door passed without a glance.

"Psst!" said MacKenzie. "I've fallen."

"Indeed you have," said the woman and continued on her way.

"Get me out of here. What in tarnation's the matter with you, woman?"

She stopped. "My name is Effie. There is not a single thing the matter with me. Get yourself out."

Some people are plain ornery, thought MacKenzie. He wondered why she hated him. He had called her dog a bitch and told her to get off his property - but was that any reason to leave a man groveling around in the dirt? He longed for his wife. She had not abandoned him - not until the cancer came along and she had no choice.

This goddam woman oughta know better, he thought. What in tarnation's she so bloody pissed off for? She's old enough and ugly enough to stomach a few bleedin' words.

MacKenzie had never had to watch his language when his wife was alive. She had known that words didn't hurt her, and she never turned a hair when he raised his voice.

But this woman was different. "Mr. MacKenzie," she said. "I may or I may not come to your assistance. However, I shall not even consider the possibility until you have voiced a sincere apology."

"Apology!" MacKenzie spluttered. "What in tarnation's should I apologize for?"

"Many things," she said. "In particular, all your insulting behavior towards me and towards my dog."

Apology be damned, he thought. He'd never said sorry to a woman yet, and he wasn't about to start.

Effie waited briefly and then started to walk away. Old MacKenzie kept a stubborn silence until the pain beat his pride and he muttered, "Goddamn it, woman... I'm sorry."

Effie continued walking. "I beg your pardon," she said. "I can't hear you."

"I'm bleedin' sorry," he yelled, waking Zach from his amorous dreams.

"Attitude, Mr. MacKenzie," she tutted. "You don't seem to have the right attitude."

Old MacKenzie made a decision. He would not try and please this big bossy woman - he would stay where he was until he died from pain. He thought about his wife, and, to his horror, a tear rolled down his cheek. He brushed at it with his sleeve, and then Effie came and carried him into the house in her strong and gentle arms.

After she rescued Old MacKenzie and nursed him back to health, Effie embarked upon a plan to change his life. "What the hell is the matter with you woman?" he would explode. "Don't you have nothin' better ter do than to meddle in other folk's business?"

Even Zach was pissed off with her. Zach - whose friendly nature had hampered his career as Old MacKenzie's watchdog. Zach - who still loved company in spite of the fact that a tired thump had replaced the wild welcomes of his puppyhood. Gone were the days of carefree gloom, when Zach could laze away the hours while Old MacKenzie prowled and growled around the house and gone were the days of easy silence that had been the golden link between the man and his dog.

"Zach," said Old MacKenzie one day. "What the hell we goin' to do? She's in and out of here like the folds of a squeeze-box."

Zach sighed.

"Too old to learn new tricks, ain't you, Zach?" he said and stomped over to his comfortable chair. "Don't worry. I ain't gonna have nobody mess up the place."

Zach ignored him.

"Big ugly woman moves in next door." Old MacKenzie continued. "That don't give her no right to move into my life." He banged his fist on the kitchen table. "She tended to things here when I bust the ankle but dammit all, I don't reckon that give her leave to act like my goddamn mother."

Old MacKenzie got up and shook his stiff leg. He paced around the room and bent down to the dog.

"I'll get rid of her today, Zach," he said. "You see if I don't."

And then Effie walked in bearing gifts. Old MacKenzie looked at the plate of homemade cheese biscuits, he smelled the pot of clam chowder and he hesitated.

Well, he thought, perhaps, I'll get rid of her tomorrow . . .

Copyright © 2000 Brenda Ross

Old Mackenzie thought his wife would be pissed off if she knew. He had often tried to get her dander up when she was alive. He missed those times -- the way she would twist her face. The way she would clench her fists. And the way she would stifle her laughter. She had always pretended to take life "real serious." He wondered how serious she was taking death.

When they had retired, she had said, "Well, I guess we're waiting to die now."

He had been upset.

"You do know that we are going to die, Mac, don't you?"

"I am not a dying person," he told her firmly, and she was silenced.

Silence was Mackenzie's favorite sound. He didn't want anyone tampering with his thoughts. His wife had been the worst offender. She had ruined many of his grouchy moments. Mackenzie used to think that other folks could go to hell including his wife. He was not so sure about that when she died.

Mackenzie thought that his wife would be pissed off with him because of their grandson, Jake.

Jake had never been a pleasant teenager. His hair used to hang below his shoulders in dirty strands. Old Mac did not reckon it much of an improvement when Jake shaved it down to an ugly fuzz.

Jake walked with a downcast shuffle and talked in grunts. Although this was pretty much Old Mackenzie's own style, he didn't find it acceptable in his grandson.

"That young bugger'll never amount to a hill o'beans," he would insist.

"Give him a chance, Mac," his wife would say. "He has to learn! Give him a chance."

"Lazy good-for-nothing. I'd like to beat some sense into him. When I was his age . . ."

"There'll never be another you," she said. She sounded pleased about that. "He's just trying to find himself."

"Bull!" said Mackenzie. "You gave me all that crap with our girls."

"They turned out all right, didn't they?"

"No thanks to you! With all them fancy notions that you used to feed them."

"Now, Mac. You're proud of your daughters and you know it."

"They've not done too bad," he muttered. "But that young Jake. He's another kettle of fish. He ain't going nowhere. You mark my words."

"Have a little patience. It's hard being young these days."

"Always was hard -- being young," Mackenzie said. "And it's bloody hard -- being old."

God! He missed his wife. She would always let him have the last word. She had looked real snazzy when she was riled up -- sometimes he would say things just to get her going! And then he would tell her to shut up. Sometimes he wondered what she had really thought of him.

But now here was Jake, asking questions. He had been surprised when his silent grandson walked into the house and began to talk.

"Will you explain to Mom?" he asked.

"What about?"

"Stuff."

"What stuff?"

Jake shuffled his feet. "Being a man and all that."

Mackenzie felt uncomfortable. "Why're you asking me?"

"Mom will listen to you, Gramps."

"She never listened to me before," Mackenzie snorted.

"You're her Dad."

"You listen to your Dad, Jake?"

"That's different."

"How?"

"Dad's never home."

"Is that a fact?"

Old Mackenzie had had enough conversation. Mackenzie could build a barn. Mackenzie could mend a fence. He could even cure an ailing cow. But he had no experience solving family problems. That was woman's work.

His wife would have understood, but she was gone, and here he was stuck with Jake who was looking to him for solutions.

He tried to think what his wife would have said. Although he had been full of opinions in the past he was beginning to realize that everyone had turned to her for advice.

He had been so sure that he would go first. If he had known that she would be leaving him to struggle with everything, he would've paid more attention.

Take food. Old Mackenzie had a healthy appetite. When his wife's food had been to his satisfaction he had always given her an appreciative belch. After she died, his daughters had fussed around for weeks until he threatened to shoot them if they didn't leave him alone.

Finally they did, and with no one to fight with, no one to ignore, and no more appetizing meals, Old Mackenzie was forced to fend for himself. He used to boast about his wife's homemade bread, cakes and pies so when he found her packaged sauces and cake mixes hidden at the back of the kitchen cupboards he felt betrayed. Nevertheless, these newfangled gizmos were easing his way into the culinary arts.

But, there were no crutches to support him through the craft of grand-parenting. Old Mackenzie grabbed a beer from the fridge and blundered into action.

"Tell your mother about being a man," he said. "Reckon I know how to be a man, Jake. What do you want me to tell her?"

"Mom doesn't want me to quit school."

Mackenzie forced himself not to give his opinion on that matter. "What does your Dad think?" he said.

"He doesn't care. He doesn't know I'm alive. When he's home -- he's blind drunk."

Mackenzie looked at the can of beer in his hand. "Is that a fact?" he said.

Old Mackenzie kept hoping that Jake would leave, but the boy stayed. He seemed half-poised for flight, but desperate for answers.

"Listen here, Jake. I don't think I'm the right one to help you."

"Yes'sir. You're Gramps."

"Damn it boy. Why in tarnation does it have to be me?"

"Because I trust you, Gramps. I'm going to be like you one day."

"Well! Well!" Mackenzie was amazed.

"You didn't stay at school too long did you, Gramps?"

"No. I didn't, but I should've. You're in an awful damn rush to leave school. Why'd you want to do that?"

"Because," said Jake.

Mackenzie felt like a child again trying to battle some sensible answers from his stubborn parents. But he was the adult now, and it was his duty to provide wisdom. Throughout his marriage his wisdom had never been challenged. His wife used to agree with his opinions, although he noticed that she usually acted on her own initiative.

This had been an ideal arrangement for them, but now Mackenzie hankered to do more for this grandson who wanted to be like him some day.

He had no idea how to go about it. "Hungry?" he asked.

"Yeah. I am."

"Made a cake," he said with some pride. "Not as good as your grandmother made." That had puzzled him because he had made it from the same type of cake mix that she used.

"Thanks, Gramps." He had two wedges and a large glass of milk. "I miss Gran," he said. "She used to listen to me."

"Is that a fact?"

"I never said much really. She heard the things I didn't say."

Aha! That's what I'll do, thought Mackenzie, relieved to have a plan. It was going to be hard if Jake was going to say one thing and mean another, but he would give it a go.

"Is this really about leaving school?" he asked.

"Well, some of it is."

"And the rest?"

"I want to leave home."

"What in tarnation do you want to do that for?"

"Because."

Old Mackenzie really needed another beer, but decided to wait. "Trouble at home?" he asked.

Jake shook his head. "Everything's fine, Gramps. I think I'd better go now."

Old Mackenzie sighed. He would never have his wife's patience, but Jake was his grandson too. "Want to live here for a while?"

"No, thanks. But I'd like to come over again soon."

"You would?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"I like talking to you."

"You do?"

"Yeah, Gramps. You're a great listener."

      Brenda Ross was born in England and immigrated to Canada years ago. Since retirement, she has become a "compulsive writer" and has been published in the Canadian Journal and has had portions of her book on the writing process entitled "On the Other Hand" printed in other magazines.

      This year she had articles published in other ezines, including the Writer's Life, Thought Cafe, Doorknobs, and Bodypaint. Brenda invites you to visit her three web sites: her main website is Shaking the Kaleidoscope, her Silver Arrow site is a novel about the adventures of two 11-year-old boys, and Rosie and Me is a collection of short stories about two school-age girls.