A King's Ransom Read Online Free PDF Page B

Colombian guerrillas. Her son was a fighter, a survivor, like her. Grandma was a Conch, a native of the Florida Keys. When she was twelve years old, her house was destroyed by the monster hurricane of 1935 that killed more than four hundred people. The Upper Keys were ravaged, entire families were lost, a rescue train was washed into the sea. At least one fool braved the storm trying to save his fishing boat. Grandma found her father's body naked in the mangroves, his clothes ripped away by two-hundred-mile-per-hour winds. Nine months later she and her mother moved into one of twenty-nine houses built by the Red Cross for the survivors who'd insisted on staying put and rebuilding their shattered lives. They were built for fishermen and farmers, plain folk who had lost everything. They were built to last. The frame, the walls, the roof were all poured concrete, two hundred fifty tons of it, reinforced by another hundred and fifty thousand pounds of steel rods - all for a two-bedroom house that was a mere six hundred square feet of living space. It was a bunker, virtually indestructible, symbolic of the Conch spirit. Grandma inherited the house when her mother died and made it her home as a young bride. That was the house my father had grown up in.
    It wasn't an easy life. I remembered seeing an old photo of my father as a young boy seated in the kitchen, each leg of the table resting in a tin can of kerosene to keep the cockroaches from climbing up and walking off with the family meal. Not that there was ever much food around the house. At the age of six my father became the man of the house. He loved the ocean, but hunger had really inspired him to fish. He caught them, Grandma cooked them. It was all they had and all they needed, each other and their Red Cross house. Together they'd survived the occasional hurricane and anything else the world could throw at them.
    Now it was up to me to tell Grandma that her son was missing.
    Get out! she shouted.
    I was standing just inside the front door, hadn't even set foot inside the living room. It wasn't a case of killing the messenger. It was just one of her bad days. Grandma had Alzheimer's disease.
    She was seated on the couch watching Judge Judy on the tube, dressed casually in a cotton blouse and plaid Bermuda shorts. Her hair was done the way she'd always worn it, neatly cut with a hint of reddish tint. She looked just fine, and it pained me to see her act this way. For months my parents had been trying to persuade her to move in with them, but she wouldn't budge from her concrete bungalow. A home-care nurse helped her get by from day to day.
    It's okay, it's only me, your -
    Don't you dare set foot in this house!
    The nurse interceded. Now, don't be rude, Marion. It's family.
    I tried to make eye contact from across the room, hoping to establish a connection. Her expression was cold, though it wasn't an unknowing blank stare. She seemed to know me all right. She just didn't seem to like me very much.
    I stopped by for a visit, I said.
    You pop in once a year, that's supposed to make everything okay?
    It's okay if you don't remember, but I was here last month.
    Just go! she shouted, this time flinging an ashtray across the room.
    I ducked as it flew over my head, then shattered on the wall behind me. The nurse pulled me into the hall, out of Grandma's line of fire. It's not a good day for her.
    I didn't mean to bring this on.
    You didn't. Just try again some other time.
    Would it really make a difference?
    You'd be amazed. The earlier in the day, the better. Before breakfast is best.
    I can come back tomorrow.
    I'll call and let you know how she's doing before you drive all the way down.
    I thanked her and started out the door.
    You bastard, Matthew! What kind of a son are you anyway?
    I looked at the nurse, almost speaking to myself. She thinks I'm my father?
    She's terribly confused today. But truthfully, you two do look a lot alike. You even sound alike.
    It wasn't the first