by

Conda V. Douglas

Granny Sandy’s trim, tight rear end proceeded me up the steep trail, the jealousy-producing butt of a much younger woman, maybe even as young as me. She looked back over her shoulder to where I huffed, puffed, groaned and sweated like an overheated javelina, maybe that fat one that lives in our Tucson neighborhood.

“This is why I signed you up for boot camp at the gym, Olivia,” she said, in that tone she used that brooked no argument against a done deal. “You can’t start planning for when you’re my age soon enough.”

I sighed and trudged upward, focusing on placing one hot, dusty, heavy hiking boot in front of the other. My mom always explained her estrangement from her mother with, “Your grandmother likes to control the process and the outcome of everything. She calls it planning for success, hoping for the best.”

Granny Sandy might plan me right into an early grave. I thought all my struggles would cease once my ultra-controlling folks died (control freakiness must run in my family). I thought I’d be able to enjoy my life the way I wanted with my grandmother’s money. I mean, little old ladies let their grandchildren do what they want, right?

Not my grandmother.

At long, painful, marching-through-hell, last, we reached “Granny Sandy’s overlook,” a narrow ledge near the top of Mount Lemmon.

“See?” Grandmother said, “there’s never anyone else here. It’s my own private picnic spot.”

My mouth watered at the thought of the fried chicken and potato salad I’d packed for my part of the picnic lunch. Grandmother only ate unadorned vegetables and an occasional piece of plain fish. Ick.

Granny Sandy set her backpack down and rummaged through the ancient canvas pouch. I did the same with my brand-new backpack, desperate for a first bite of . . . nothing? Where was my food?

“I threw out that nasty junk food,” my grandmother said, having read my mind, psychic as well as controlling. “You’ll eat my diet from now on.” She held out a container of raw veggies with one well-tanned hand.

Melanoma much, Granny? I couldn’t be that lucky.

I stifled a groan. Before I moved in two months ago, I knew there’d be some adjustments to life with an old woman, like maybe having to drive her to her doctors’ appointments, pick up her meds, that type of thing. Rest of the time I’d be free to enjoy being free, young, and wealthy, instead of just young. Not, as I discovered, under Grandmother’s well-exercised, too-capable, tanned thumb.

At least I still had my THC gummies for dessert in the Arizona desert, thankful that Arizona allowed recreational marijuana. The hike down Mount Lemmon would be a mellow stroll, with a rewarding beer or two at the end of the trail.

Granny Sandy mind read again. “Don’t bother looking for those awful ganga gummy thingies, either.” She sat down next to me, a puff of stale dust poofing up from her perfect butt.

God, I hated hiking, the heat, and everything about this place. I figured when I moved here, I’d live in comfortable air conditioning. Not climb mountains.

“And don’t think you’re getting a beer after our hike,” my grandmother continued. “You need to be in great physical and mental shape when you go back to college next semester. I’m planning for you to get all As.”

That’s when I decided to kill my Granny. Yeah, yeah, my sweet, controlling, slave-driving, ultra-planning, 75-year-old grandma, the only family I had left.

It’s only self-defense. Who knew how long it’d take the old bat to die? I couldn’t waste my twenties surviving forced marches, boring classes, and veggies.

“I’m planning for our success, and hoping for the best,” she added. Adding another nail in her soon-to-be coffin, I figured.

I picked out a cucumber and started crunching. Planning for success, eh? I’d show my grandmother how to plan.

I’d use the Sonoran Desert as my murder weapon. There’s lots of death in the desert. People die here all the time. This death would sure not be as suspicious as when I carefully destroyed the brake lines on my parents’ car. I watch those forensic shows and take notes. Maybe if I’d done that during my college classes—naw, too much work.

The cops sure suspected me back then, but I planned it well enough. I needed to plan better this time. Be like my mom and my grandma.

I munched on a raw carrot and thought.

Rattlesnake bite? Lots of rattlers around, I saw two off the trail on this hike. If I could figure out how to catch one—and do what? Throw it at Granny Sandy?

Wild animal attack? Coyotes, bobcats, wild boar, a puma or two and even an occasional black bear roam Mount Lemmon. But how to get one to attack my grandma? Rub her all over with steak and stake her out where the beasts will find her reeking body?

Struck by lightning? Grandma told me when the summer thunderboomers roll in, somebody always gets smacked by lightning, often a newcomer who doesn’t know to stay out of the noonday sun and the afternoon thunderstorms.

But that’s not Granny Sandy. She’s nobody’s fool, like me, who’s everybody’s fool, as she too often points out.

Heat stroke? Oh, this is common. Every year a person or two dies who thinks they can beat the heat. The heat always wins.

I choked on the last of the carrot and slurped down big swallows of my water. Granny Sandy grabbed the bottle away from me. “Olivia, don’t drink too much water too fast. Sip, sip, sip, remember, like I trained you.”

Oh yeah, no way would my plan for heat stroke triumph over Grandma’s plan to avoid heat stroke.

Maybe a nice, bitter piece of raw broccoli would stimulate my planning neurons. I hate broccoli. Munch, munch. Gah.

It worked.

A fall. From a cliff. This cliff. Or rather, pushed from this cliff.

Old people have bad balance, they fall off stuff. Even better, no forensics to avoid. I could just say she fell. Totally believable.

I smiled around the broccoli remains and then spat the nasty stuff out.

Granny Sandy pointed at the masticated green wad. “Don’t waste good food.”

For a long, horrid moment I thought she’d make me pick it up and eat it, dirt and all. She couldn’t die soon enough. Instead, she stood up and dusted that bubble behind. “I suppose I’ll let it go this time. It’s best not to eat too much, anyways, on hikes.”

Too much? A few veggies?

My grandmother bent over her backpack to put away the veggies, presenting a perfect round target of her rear end. No better time than the present to implement my plan. A quick shove and . . .

I stood, held out my arms straight, and took a running start. My hands struck those massive glutes—and bounced off.

Granny Sandy stepped one step toward the close cliff edge, stood, whirled and grabbed my arms in a tight grip. “What the hell are you—”

“My killing you plan,” I answered as I wrestled with her, using all my strength, bringing us to the cliff’s edge.

“What?” Grandma pushed back, hard.

The edge crumbled beneath my heavy hiking boots. I fell.

# # #

Bright light greeted me when I opened my eyes. I tried to move my arm only to hear a rattle of metal. Turning my aching head, I saw my arm handcuffed to the side railing of the hospital bed.

Sitting next to the bed, Granny Sandy said, “Oh good, you’re awake. Now, Olivia, I had to file charges. My plan is that a little prison time will set your priorities straight. You will plead guilty, of course and . . .”

As Grandmother prattled on, I leaned back and began to plan my escape.

-end-