The Grubbs

1 

The Grubbs moved into the old Funkhouser house on a Sunday. It was early summer in Cedar Falls. Paul watched from the front porch of his own house, which was right next door. A man and a woman, and a girl who Paul assumed was their daughter, made trips back and forth between the moving truck and the house, carrying boxes, chairs, beds that had been broken up into pieces, frame, headboard, box spring, mattress. Paul thought the girl looked like she was maybe around fifteen; if he was right, that would make her three years older than himself. He was a little disappointed. He hadn't been best friends with Jerry Funkhouser or anything, but it was nice having a boy next door who was around his own age to hang around with sometimes. 

As the family was carrying the last few boxes off the back of the truck Paul moved to go back inside his own house, but stopped and looked back at the truck. The passenger door was opening. That meant there was one more member of the family who Paul hadn't seen yet. In the seconds between when he saw that door swinging open and when he saw the passenger drop down, he had just enough time to hope. That hope was rewarded. The person who climbed down from the cab of the truck was in fact a young boy, and he looked the right age. 

Paul hopped down off the porch and ran over to the other boy, eager to make a good first impression. As he came closer to the boy he was able to notice things that he hadn't been able to from the porch. The boy was smaller than Paul, maybe a year or two younger. He looked very pale, and he was thin as a whip, looking sickly and frail, like his bones might collapse under their own weight. Something about the boy's frailty unsettled Paul, and he stopped in his tracks, having second thoughts about introducing himself. It was too late, though; the other boy had noticed him. Paul forced a smile that felt fake and moved his feet again, walking up to the boy. 

"Hi; my name's Paul," he said. "I live right there." 

Paul hooked a thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of his house. 

"Hi," the boy said; it came out almost as a whisper. "My name's Ken Grubb." 

"Grubb?" 

Ken nodded his head, as if it was too much effort to reply with his voice. 

"Isn't a grub some kind of bug or something?" 

The thin boy shrugged his shoulders. 

"Hey, sport," a husky male voice spoke out, "your mom wants you to go inside and help her unpack." 

Paul turned to see the man of the family. 

"Hello, sir," Paul said. "Are you Ken's dad?" 

"I sure hope so; if not, Mrs. Grubb has got some explaining to do." 

Mr. Grubb laughed at his own joke, and Ken laughed softly along with him. Paul was unsure if he was supposed to laugh. It wasn't the type of joke grown-ups usually told to kids, and it made him uncomfortable. 

"Hey," Mr. Grubb said, "it looks like you two are gonna be friends. What do you say, Junior?" 

It took Paul a moment to realize that Mr. Grubb was addressing him. 

"Um, yeah. My name's Paul, by the way." 

"Paul Junior?" 

"No; just Paul." 

"Could've sworn you looked like a Junior." 

Mr. Grubb laughed again; apparently he had made another joke. 

"Well, Pauly, me and Ken had better get inside, or the ladies will jump down our throats. Come on, Ken." 

Ken gave Paul a feeble wave goodbye, then followed his dad into the house. Paul stood there for a minute in the failing light, looking at the place he would have to start thinking of as the Grubb house instead of the Funkhouser house.