Time for another edition of Dysfunctional Discourses. I hope you enjoy it.

December 12

My Dearest Son,

I am terribly sorry that my last letter upset your plans to move in with grandpa and me; however, even you must understand that there is only so much room in this house, and I have only so much patience to go around. I fear that you misunderstand my present situation.
Since Mr. Spindleleg’s departure, your grandfather has been relentless with his insistence that I could have changed the man’s sexual preferences if I had just… Imagine if you will the multiplicity of ending that can be added to that sentence then magnify it a hundred times and you will have a close approximation of the harassment I have endured for the last few weeks.
Prepare yourself for a shock. Do you remember my telling you and your brother and sister how much I always wanted a brother or sister? Well, it seems that my wish is to be granted on a grand scale. Your grandfather was served with papers for several, YES I SAID SEVERAL, paternity suites. It would appear that “sans clothing” with some of the young women in your grandfather’s book did not mean “sans touching” as he lead me to believe. If all the paternity tests prove positive, your grandfather, at the age of seventy-six, will go from having one dependent, himself, to SEVEN dependents. And, I will go from having no brothers and sisters to having SIX of them fifty-six years younger than myself.
However, I was somewhat prepared for this event by your sister, Daughter of the Morning Star. She was not specific in details, psychics rarely are, but she did tell me to expect additions to the family over the next year. Of course, in my mind that translated to a new daughter or son-in-law or a new grandchild. How foolish of me not to have immediately suspected that it would be my previous generation adding to the family not the subsequent one. As you might imagine, your grandfather is more than ecstatic about the situation. He is so proud of his achievement that he has ordered a dozen new T-Shirts that have a picture of very pregnant young woman on it and the caption “My Weapon is Still Loaded.”
Upon hearing the news of the paternity suits, the community that had agreed to take us in on probation withdrew their offer. The reasons given were that they were an adult only community, and that they really didn’t need the negative publicity. However, I think the real reason is that they were afraid of the influence your grandfather might have on the other men who live there. I think the acceptance committee, which is composed of nine old prudish women had fears that their men might decide to join your grandfather in his more outlandish antics. The upshot of the entire event is that I had to call the realtor and begin a new search for a house for your grandfather and me. So far, I have looked at two houses. The first is so far off the beaten path that you need a “Hummer” to get to it, and the second is in an area that would have been called a “red light district” in my younger days. Believe me the last thing I need is an adult movie theater, an after hours gentleman’s club and hourly rate motel within walking distance of your grandfather.
I had a letter from Great Aunt Esmerelda. She says that, all things considered, she has adjusted to life behind bars rather well. In her words, for the first time in her life, she isn’t responsible for anyone but herself. She no longer has the obligation to concern herself with the goings on of the family, or her friends. She no longer has to keep track of time, because there are buzzers that tell her when she has to leave where she is to go where she needs to go. She hasn’t had to cook a single meal, and since she doesn’t have kitchen duty she doesn’t have to wash dishes either. Her days are quite simple; she gets up, eats breakfast, goes to her job in the sewing center, eats lunch, goes back to work, eats dinner and then has a few hours of recreation before bed. According to her, even the bars on her cell have proved to be a blessing because they provide her with safety from the world. I have to admit, she made being in prison for trying to arrange your grandfather’s demise sound almost inviting.
The only cloud on her horizon, according to her, is that she still hasn’t heard from her son. Your sister’s take on that is that Piatre’s command that he be gone sent him back to “the hell where he was spawned” as your sister puts it.
I have refrained from mentioning the press in this letter not because they have been leaving us alone, but rather because they haven’t. However, they have changed tactics. They no longer camp out on the front lawn en masse. They have scouts who have rented rooms at various neighbor’s houses, and other who stake out the places your grandfather and I frequent. In the last few weeks, I’ve changed grocery stores, book stores, gas stations and drugstores three times to avoid them. I couldn’t understand why none of the changes has made a difference for long until I read a notice that had been sent to every store in town offering a reward for information about us. I guess the idea of a few extra bucks for information is very inviting when you’re making minimum wage.
Well, My Dearest Son, I have to close this letter because your grandfather is answering the door, and that can only mean trouble.

Write soon.

Love always,
Mom