CONVERSATION AT THE PEPPERMILL

What I heard at the Peppermill did not shock me. We were celebrating my grandmother’s 90th birthday.

“So you work in a prison,” my deceased uncle’s ex-wife said.

I had a pretty good idea where the conversation was headed. As a surprise to my grandmother, she brought her 11-year old grandson, great-grandson to my grandmother, great-grandson to my deceased grandfather who died when I was eight or nine after driving his car off a dock.

“Every time there’s a parole hearing,” my deceased uncle’s ex-wife said, “the department of corrections notifies me.” She was referring to the drunk driver who killed her son, my cousin. “His name’s Bobby Brown*, can you believe it? He’s in the system somewhere. He’s past his 5-year minimum.”

Five years for killing another man doesn’t seem like much time. It’s been roughly ten years since the so-called accident; the boy sitting across the table from me never got to know his father.

“The minimum is just a guideline,” I reassured her. “He probably hasn’t fulfilled his requirements.” Worse case scenario, I’m thinking, is that he refuses to go to Alcoholics Anonymous or has to retake it because he got caught making spud juice.

The conversation quickly changes to my deceased uncle’s ex-wife’s brother; how he was mauled to death by dogs. I’d heard about it, how one of the dogs punctured a main artery and he bled out in the dead of winter. Our casual conversation at the Peppermill seemed surreal, strange, unbelievable. But it’s factual. We are the survivors, we have stories to tell.

My grandmother blew out the candles on her cake. She opened her presents. She wept tears of joy. Not many people make it to 90.

*After checking the Michigan Offender Tracking Information System, I did not find a Bobby Brown with a vehicular manslaughter sentence; He may have served his minimum and moved on with his life.