Page 139 - Too Much and Never Enough - Mary L. Trump

My grandfather was having a bad day. Most of us were gathered in the library when he came down the stairs, his mustache and eyebrows freshly dyed and his wig askew but impeccably dressed in his three-piece suit.
The hair color and wig were recent innovations. My grandfather had always been vain about his appearance and bemoaned his receding hairline. Now his full head of hair gave him a slightly shaggy appearance. Nobody said much about the wig, but the hair dye caused considerable consternation in the family, especially when we were going out in public. My grandfather often left the cheap drugstore dye on too long, turning his eyebrows and mustache a jarring shade of magenta. When he joined us in the library, obviously proud of what he’d done, Gam said, “Oh, for God’s sake, Fred.”
“Jesus Christ, Dad!” Donald yelled at him.
“For fuck’s sake,” Rob swore under his breath.
Maryanne, touching his arm, said, “Dad, you can’t do that again.”
He was standing by his love seat when I came into the library.
“Hello,” he said
“Hi, Grandpa. How are you?”
He looked at me and reached for his wallet, so thick with bills I was
constantly surprised that it fit in his pocket. He carried a wallet-sized photograph of a half-naked woman in his billfold, and for a second I was worried that he planned to show it to me, as he had when I was twelve.
“Look at this,” he had said, sliding the picture out of its slot. A heavily made-up woman, who couldn’t have been more than eighteen and might have been younger, smiled innocently at the camera, her hands holding up her naked breasts. Donald had been looking over my grandfather’s shoulder. I hadn’t known what to say and had looked at him for some indication of how I should respond, but he’d merely leered at the picture.
“What do you think about that?” My grandfather had chuckled. I never heard him laugh. I don’t think he ever did. He usually expressed amusement by saying “Ha!” and then sneering.
Now, instead of a picture, my grandfather pulled out a hundred-dollar bill and asked, “Can I buy your hair?”
That was something he’d ask me every time I saw him when I was growing up. I laughed. “Sorry, Grandpa. I need to hang on to it.”
Elizabeth walked over carrying a small box in one hand. She looped an arm around my grandfather’s elbow and leaned against him. He looked