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My grandma’s second husband, a man I called Bob (because technically he wasn’t my grandpa and that’s what everyone else called him), had a belly the size of a medicine ball.

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While his frame was average, his stomach stuck-out so far that it would show up at the dinner table long before the rest of him followed.

Oddly enough, Bob seemed proud of his bulging midsection. While others might hide behind baggy shirts and sweats with elasticized waist bands,  Bob wore only tight-fitting slacks–held together with safety pins–and too small t-shirts that would ride up when he sat down, exposing his unsightly midriff.

What made this eyesore even more of an anomaly was that it was hard as a rock.

“C’mon! Punch it!” He’d shout, as all of the grandchildren would stand anxiously in line, eager to pound our fists of fury into his lower torso. “And none of them sissy punches either! When yer done I wanna be scooping my guts off yer granny’s new carpet!”

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Our knuckle-bruising jabs would barely cause him to flinch. “Awe, shit! You call that a punch? My mother can hit harder’n that.” Laughing, he would continue egging us on as we tried in vain to cause some kind–any kind–of internal bleeding.

Sadly, we would always walk away defeated. Easing our swollen fists into buckets of ice, we’d spend the rest of the afternoon on the porch, convincing ourselves that next time we’d kick the living shit out of him.

This game was an endless source of amusement for my sister and I. While at home we wanted nothing to do with each other, at grandma’s house we were allies, like-minded siblings working together to bring this geezer to his knees.

Using the male anatomy diagram found in my parents’ medical encyclopedia as a reference, we’d spend hours planning our strategy.

“Okay, so when it’s your turn I want you to aim for one of his kidneys.” Taking a felt pen, I’d circle what I assumed was a kidney but looking back was probably more like the prostate. “Once it’s out of the picture I’ll come in and take it from there.”

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Because of her young age and poor hand-eye coordination, I knew Laura didn’t stand a chance. Still, being her older sister, I felt like it was my job to encourage her.

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“Do you think it’s gotten even bigger?” we’d ask our mom, who would roll her eyes and remind us that Bob’s belly wasn’t a toy.

While the kids thought Bob was a God, none of the adults seemed to care much for the man. Even my grandma acted indifferent, calling him pet names like “Blob” or “Slob” whenever he was out of hearing distance. I often wondered if the only reason she married him in the first place was so he could play the role of Santa Claus at Christmas.

Every Christmas morning just after breakfast, the entire family would gather downstairs to open gifts. “Bob, Isn’t there somewhere you need to be?” My Grandmother would look pointedly at Bob, who would obediently make up some lame excuse about having to leave.

“I knew I shouldn’t have had that last bran muffin. You guys go ahead, looks like Bob’s gonna be busy for a while.” Then just to drive the point home, he would ask my grandma where she hid his stash of nudie magazines.

Ten minutes later we would hear the sound of bells, and before we knew it Santa was making himself comfortable on Bob’s recliner.

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Call it the ignorance of youth, but we never put two and two together.

It wasn’t until I asked Santa for a set of brass knuckles one year that the game came to a sudden end, my mother banning me from going anywhere near Bob’s lower torso.

Instead, in an attempt to steer me away from a life of violence, my parents enrolled me in accordion lessons.

“Who knows,” my Dad said, adjusting the straps around my neck so I wouldn’t do a faceplant while making my big debut at the Senior’s Polka Festival.  “Maybe you’ll end up being the next…er, famous accordion player lady.”

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One day, my grandma decided she’d had enough of Bob and his belly and kicked them both to the curb.

“Promise me one thing,” she said to my mom shortly after filing the divorce papers, “If I ever marry a pot-bellied barbarian like that again, have me put down.”

Eventually she did remarry, only this time to a shy, mild-mannered blue-collar worker named Frank.

But while Frank seemed nice enough–showering the kids with presents and doting over my grandma, because of his unassuming voice and lean body type, it took me a while to warm up to him.

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Bob remarried as well. I never saw the man again, but word on the street was that he ended up being accused of sexually assaulting one of his new wife’s grandchildren. I didn’t find out the specifics–only that the case never went to trial –but for some reason it didn’t surprise me.

A few years later, Bob passed away. I was shocked.

While I don’t remember exactly how he died, when I heard the word “prostate” I just knew that my sister was somehow responsible.