Twenty minutes later, all that changed. Grandmother walked by the bathroom and noticed a torrent of water streaming out from under the door.
She shrieked twice—first in astonishment, then in rage. She flung open the bathroom door and saw that the sink and tub were plugged up and that the faucets were going at full blast.
Everyone knew who the culprit was. The guests quickly formed a protective barricade around me, but Grandmother was so furious that she almost got to me anyway, flailing her arms as if trying to swim over the crowd.
Several strong men eventually moved her away and calmed her down, although she sputtered and fumed for quite a while.
My grandfather took me by the hand and sat me on his lap in a chair near the window. He was a kind and gentle man, full of wisdom and patience. Rarely did he raise his voice to anyone, and never did he argue with his wife or defy her wishes.
He looked at me with much curiosity, not at all angry or upset. "Tell me," he asked, "why did you do it?"
"Well, she yelled at me for nothing," I said earnestly. "Now she's got something to yell about."
Grandfather didn't speak right away. He just sat there, looking at me and smiling.
"Eric," he said at last, "you are my revenge."