The Bad Guy

The Bad Guy

Or...When you turn a beloved family member into the bad guy.

If you read my book you will likely get the wrong idea about the complete person my great-grandfather was. But I needed a villain. And he fit the bill. Sorry, grandpa. No hard feelings, right?

Because, in the end, as I have stated elsewhere this story is about my grandmother. It is about her life. About her truths, real or imagined. And in her story my great-grandfather was not always Superman. I doubt many men are. I doubt many humans are regardless of sex or gender. And the man in my book is not the man I remember as a child. He is an exaggerated version of the man my grandmother would sometimes tell stories about.

My great-grandfather was always, shall we say, rough around the edges? He was a bit gruff and, though he had a sense of humor, was not exactly kid-friendly. He liked me for some reason. Maybe because I could sit still and be quiet. My most enduring memory of him is of the two of us sitting at the small table set up in the corner of the kitchen. It had a yellowed linoleum top and chrome legs. The chairs were wildly uncomfortable, even for a child. And, there, he would play solitaire. And, occassionally, build a house of cards with me. Afterwards, he would slip me some money, usually a twenty-dollar bill, and say "Don't tell your mother." And, of course, I immediately ran back to my grandmother's house where we were visiting and told my mother everything! I wonder what ever happened to all those twenty dollar bills...

My great-grandfather died when I was around eight. I remember my mother being devastated. I was young enough that I barely knew what it meant. All I knew was that he wasn't around anymore. After that, my great-grandmother's Alzheimers really kicked into high gear. Between the two things large rifts developed in my family. And there are many questions for which I will never have the answers. Many stories I will never here and never know what questions to ask. As a storyteller the loss of these memories is as painful as the actual death of my family member.

But I cannot resurrect the dead. I can only tell a story of which I only know the outlines. All the details I have to fill in with half-truths, imagined truths, and simply those things that keep a story moving. One of those things was turning my great-grandfather into the villain. I do not know the full extent of his physical abuse of my great-grandmother and my great uncles but my grandmother swore he never hit the girls. I am not sure that makes it any better. He also suffered from alcoholism for a while and was in jail at least once, for what, I do not know. And so, even if he was not the monster portrayed in the novel, the basic outlines of his life almost naturally lead him to the role of villain.

This has further implications than just my writing, of course. It means my mother will never read my book. She won't. My sister began reading it but had to stop. I know that reading about a family member-even after they are fictionalized-can be difficult. But without the villainy there is no character arc. There is no redemption. There is no forgiveness. There is no salvation. And for all the things my great-grandfather may or may not have done in real life and may or may not have done in this fictional life I created for him, in the end, I would like to believe he found redemption.