It was spring when Gawd got out of the Spring Valley Youth Centre. that was kind of fitting, because it seemed like the whole world was starting fresh, and that was what Gawd needed -- to start fresh. Even though everyone had agreed that his heinous act had been justified, and that he was young and had acted in the heat of passion, they still had decreed that he was a troubled youth, and he had spent the last two years at Spring Valley. It had been a most unpleasant time, filled with bullies and adolescent tyrants, who had made him pay again and again for his crime. By the time he was finally released on that fine spring day, he knew he needed to start fresh.
With his mother dead and no father, his grandfather came to claim him -- his mother's father, whom he'd seen only once before in his life. That had been at his mother's funeral two years ago, and they had exchanged no words.
The old man was waiting for him in the superintendent's office. There were some papers to sign, and as the old man signed, Gawd thought of it as like being sold into slavery. He listened patiently as the superintendent explained that his grandfather now had custody of him, and that he should listen to the old man and pay him heed -- or risk coming back here. It was only out of the goodness of his heart that the grandfather had agreed to take the boy -- that's what the superintendent said -- and he'd better show some appreciation. He was lucky to be getting another chance -- most boys who'd been in trouble weren't so lucky.
They got in the old man's shiny, new car and drove away from Spring Valley. It was fresh start time. They drove in silence for a while.
"Your name's Gawd?" the old man finally asked, breaking the silence.
"Yes, sir," Gawd answered.
"Well, that'll never do," his grandfather said. "I respect the name of the Lord in my house. We'll have to find something else to call you."
"Yes, sir," Gawd answered quietly.
"Have you got a middle name?" the old man asked.
"No, sir," Gawd answered, his voice remaining subdued.
The old man sort of grunted and returned his attention to the road, seeming to lose interest in the boy. They drove again in silence, but only for a short while before the old man pulled the car into a roadside eatery.
"You hungry?" he asked the boy, after bringing the car to a stop.
"Yes, sir," Gawd answered, nodding his head.
"Well, let's get something to eat. We've got quite a drive ahead of us," the grandfather said as they climbed out of the car and went inside. They ordered -- the old man a bowl of soup and a sandwich, the boy a cheeseburger with fries and gravy, the meal he'd been craving for some time.
"You know, I'm not sure why I'm doing this," the old man said, as they waited for their food to come. Gawd said nothing, but watched the old man and waited for him to continue. "But your grandmother wanted us to take you in," he said. "She said that maybe we didn't give your mom a fair upbringing and that maybe we could make it up somehow. Your mom never wanted any part of us back when she left. I guess we were too stuffy for her. She wanted to have her head, and when we wouldn't give it to her, she just up and left." Their food came, so the old man's monologue was momentarily interrupted, but it wasn't long before he continued.
"Your grandmother really took it hard. She was never the same," he said. "She always hoped we'd be able to patch things up, but we never saw her again. It's a good thing she never lived to see what became of her daughter. Murdered by a drunk."
They ate for a moment in silence. Gawd was unsure of what to say. His mother had never said much about her parents, just to say that they lived in a small town a long way from the city, and that she hadn't seen them for quite a while. He didn't know what to say to the old man -- he'd read about grandparents, but never had any of his own -- never had any family except his mom.
"I never been too good at raising kids," the old man said. "We had your mom when we were older, and we had a hard time with her. I don't know how we're going to make out, or what you'll think of me -- but your grandmother, on her death bed, made me promise to come and get you when you got out of that place." He paused and returned to his meal.
"So, I've come for you," he said. "But how it turns out is all up to you. I'm kind of set in my ways, especially since your grandmother died, and it'll be up to you to fit into my way of living. There'll just be the two of us, and hopefully, we can get along. I'll try to give you a good home, but it'll be mostly up to you."
Gawd quietly regarded the old man.
"You're a quiet boy," the grandfather said. "What have you got to say for yourself?"
Gawd thought for a moment. "I'll do my best, sir," he said solemnly.
"I can't have you calling me sir, either," the grandfather said. "How about Bert?" he said.
Gawd didn't answer, but he offered a small smile.
"And we've got to have a name for you," the old man said. "We can't go around calling you Gawd. That's not proper at all. It'll never do." He seemed to plunge himself deep into thought for a moment. "What say? Are there any other names you like?" he asked.
The boy thought. He had taken many a taunt and blow over his name, but now that he had a chance to part with it, he could think of no better alternative, his mind a blank.
"How about Adam?" the old man asked. "It's a good Christian name, and one that you can get used to." He paused and regarded the boy. "Got any objections to Adam?" he asked.
"No, sir," Gawd answered.
"Bert," the old man corrected.
"No, Bert," he answered.
The grandfather smiled warmly for the first time since the two had come together. Gawd couldn't help but smile as well. Soon, they had finished the repast and were back in the shiny, new car, driving toward Gawd's fresh start.
After much of the day had passed, they came to the small town where the old man lived. It made Gawd think of places where real families lived on tree-lined streets, in white frame houses with white picket fences. It had been some time since he'd had such thoughts, and he found it difficult to think them. He thought of his mother who had grown up on these very tree-lined streets back in another time, and he found himself imagining her as a young girl, filled with innocence and awe at life, not with the grief and misery that had become her lot.
The old man guided the car into the driveway of one of the white frame houses, complete with white picket fence, and soon Gawd was following him into the house, carrying all his worldly possessions in an old worn-out duffle bag. He followed his grandfather up the stairs to the second story and into one of the bedrooms.
It was a girl's room, frilly and sweet in every regard. Gawd stood quietly by the old man, who said nothing at first but stood in silence. "This was your mother's room," he finally said. "It'll be yours now. I'll expect you to keep your things picked up and keep it neat and tidy. Understand?" He turned and looked at the boy.
"Yes, sir," Gawd answered, forgetting to use the old man's name as he'd been instructed. It caused the old man to look toward him with a slight frown.
"Don't worry," the grandfather continued, "we'll make a few changes in here. We can't have you living in here with all this girl's stuff." He paused. "Now you get cleaned up, and come to the family room." And he turned and left.
Gawd stood in the middle of the room, giving it a lookover. It was hard to imagine his mother had ever lived in a place like this -- that she'd once been a real little girl with real parents. He regarded the big dollhouse in one corner of the room, saw the teddy bear in the tiny rocking chair. Oh, that she had come to her end so far away and in such dire straits, when this had been here, seeming to wait for her.
He put his duffle bag in the closet and then found the bathroom before descending the stairs to find the family room. His grandfather was there, sitting in a comfortable-looking recliner chair, his feet up.
"You settled in?" the old man asked, when he saw the boy enter.
"Yes, sir," Gawd answered.
"Bert," the old man insisted.
"Sorry," the boy answered.
"I know; it'll take some getting used to, eh?" The question was more a statement. "For me, too." A pause. "But I've been getting used to a lot of things lately." A silence fell -- a solid silence that surrounded both of them in their own thoughts.
"Thanks," Gawd finally said, pushing the small word out of him and into the quiet of the room.
"What's that?" the old man asked.
"Thanks for getting me out of Spring Valley," Gawd answered.
"Well, it wasn't really my idea," the old man said. "It was your grandmother's. She wanted to take you when your mother died, but she wasn't well enough. She made me promise on her deathbed to come and get you. I never let her down in life, and I wouldn't in death either."
"What happened to her?" Gawd asked.
"She died. She had cancer. It wasn't too good," the old man answered, shooting the sentences out in staccato.
"I'm sorry," Gawd said.
"We live to die," the old man said bluntly. "It was her time."
But Gawd could tell the old man was only putting on a front. "You must miss her," he said.
"We were married for forty-six years," the old man said. "I guess I sort of got used to having the old girl around." There was a matter-of-factness to the old man's voice, and also emotion, like it was creeping in and he couldn't stop it.
Gawd thought for a moment. "I'll try to do good," he said softly.
"I know you will, boy," the old man answered, his voice also quiet with an unsteadiness to it.
There was more silence, and Gawd could hear only the old man's breathing, shallow and uneven. The boy got up quietly and crept back upstairs to the room where he'd put his things, leaving the grandfather alone to his thoughts. And Gawd was reminded of the sorrow and unhappiness in the world and that this was nearly all he had seen of life.
Gawd had an uneasy night's sleep in his mother's old room. It was like he was haunted by her image throughout the night. Every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was her, and he wanted her to be with him again, so they could again share the quiet times they once had. Try as he might, Gawd could see her only as the unhappy wretch she had become. There was no more little girl who played with dollhouses and teddy bears. It was sad, and Gawd almost wept at such a memory.
The next morning, the old man fixed Gawd what might have been the best breakfast he'd ever had, and he ate and ate and ate. He chased the food down with a great, steaming mug of coffee, even though he was told that coffee was for adults and that it would stunt his growth.
Then, it was off uptown to the post office to get the morning mail. They walked, because most things are close in a small town. As they went, they passed this person and that person, and the grandfather introduced the boy. "Like you to meet Adam, my grandson," he'd say, and Gawd thought he could almost hear pride in the old man's voice.
Back home, the old man sat on the porch swing and read the morning paper, indicating that Gawd was expected to find his own amusements for a while. The boy disappeared into what could now be called "his" room and soon discovered a shelf full of books in the closet, where they must have been placed years ago when his mother was no longer there to read them. There were books like "Black Beauty" and "The Sword in the Stone," a battered copy of "Mother Goose Nursery Rhymes." Gawd thought of his mother reading and re-reading them, alone in the confines of this room. He'd never known his mother to read anything more than the tabloids, but here was something more -- another side that spoke of contentment and bliss on a rainy summer's day.
They ate lunch out on the back deck in the warm sunshine.
"I suppose we'll have to get you into school in the fall," the old man said, between bites of his sandwich. "But we'll have to keep ourselves occupied for the summer. Are you a fisherman?" he asked.
"Not much," Gawd answered.
"Are you interested in fishing?" the grandfather asked.
"I've liked it when I've tried it," he answered, and it was true that he had warm memories of fishing.
"Well, how say we head out this afternoon?" the old man asked. "We won't catch much in the heat of the day, but I'll at least have the chance to show you around to a couple of the spots. Would you like that?"
"Sure," the boy answered, and he was sure he would.
By mid-afternoon, the two were sitting, statuesque, on a riverbank, idling away what remained of the day, hoping for a bite. Gawd had wondered what he would fish with, but the old man had two sets of tackle. He explained that one had belonged to his wife, who hadn't used it much. Occasionally she had joined him on his fishing expeditions, if the weather was just right and there was a good chance she wouldn't catch anything.
"I've never been a real serious fisherman," the old man said, as they patiently waited, "but like your grandmother used to say, it gives me something to do in my retirement. And I really don't mind it. It's sort of relaxing. I came fishing the day she died. Just to get away from everyone -- to be by myself."
"What did you do when you worked?" Gawd asked, finally working up enough courage to initiate a piece of the conversation.
"I ran a hardware store," the old man answered. "Spent over forty Christmases on the Main Street of this little town. I know it's not much of an accomplishment the way people think of things these days, but I was able to put food on the table and a roof over our heads for all those years. There was a time when that sort of thing counted for something."
Gawd found himself reminded of something he'd read about small-town hardware stores. "Did you have a toyland in your store?" he asked.
"Every Christmas," the grandfather answered. "The biggest one in the county."
"Wow," said Gawd, "that must have been cool."
The old man smiled. "I suppose it was," he said.
They sat for a while in quiet. "Your mother wasn't very happy, was she?" the grandfather suddenly asked.
"No, sir," Gawd answered.
"I suppose I was to blame for that," the old man said. "Did she tell you that?"
"No, she never talked about you," Gawd answered.
"I'm not surprised," the old man said, then was quiet for a while. "I was over forty when she was born. Her mother and I thought we couldn't have kids. The doctor told your grandmother she couldn't get in the family way because of some medical problem she'd had. But she got pregnant anyway, right out of the blue, and we had your mother. I tried to bring her up right, you know, but we argued about everything as she got older. It was the times as much as anything, now that I look back on it." He paused for a moment, flicking his fishing pole, as if he might have had a bite, then continued his tale.
"Kids were rebellin' against their parents everywhere. We couldn't understand what she wanted out of life, and she couldn't understand what we wanted out of her. Finally, it all just blew up over one thing or another -- I found drugs in her room and she was hanging out with all the wrong kids -- she didn't want to go back to school -- she wanted to go hitch-hiking in Europe. I hit her -- I shouldn't have, I know that now. It was the only time I ever did anything like that, but she made me so mad -- I never remember being that mad either before or since. She just wouldn't listen."
He hesitated again in the telling, looking as if he might be remembering what had happened all those years ago. "She was a strong-willed girl, like her mother, and she packed her things and left with a guy in an old van painted all over with flowers. We never saw her again. She never let us know where she was. She was seventeen. Didn't even know about you until her funeral." The words poured from him.
"It's sad," Gawd said.
"Yeah, it is; I know that now," the old man agreed, looking honestly remorseful.
They sat again in quiet.
"Your grandmother took it hard," the old man continued. "Wanted me to hire a private investigator to try to find her. I wouldn't. I figured she'd come back." He paused again, seeming to be reflecting on a time long past. "But I reckon judging by your age that she had you shortly after."
"Yes, sir," Gawd said.
"Was she a good mother to you?" the grandfather asked.
"Yes, sir," Gawd answered.
"I'll bet you miss her," the old man said affectionately, a warm and generous smile spreading over his face.
"Yes, sir," Gawd answered.
"I do, too," answered the old man, and he said it evenly and solemnly.
That was the first time Gawd felt like a family with his grandfather -- that time when they were fishing. It was the beginning of the wonderful summer of Gawd's life. It was like his grandfather couldn't get enough of him. They fished and hiked and built model cars, and went to the fair and the science centre in the city. It was beginning to seem like the fresh start was going to work. Gawd sensed a comfortableness coming over him. He smiled often, even to himself. And he started to call the old man grandpa.
But there were times as well, the boy learned, when the old man would suddenly grow quiet and sombre. He'd go into the family room and sit quietly in his recliner chair, seeming to be of heavy heart, and a sense of melancholy would come over the whole house. Then, Gawd crept around the place, careful not to disrupt the old man, respecting him and what he might be feeling.
One night, they sat watching a baseball game on TV, something they'd done often since they'd been together. Summer was almost over, and Gawd was reflecting on the fact that school would soon begin. He assumed he'd have to go, and so was feeling his own sense of melancholy. He could tell the old man was the same. He was sitting silently in the recliner, hands folded on his chest and not waving excitedly in the air while he coached and instructed the players on the TV. It was dark in the room, the only light the flickering of the television. As Gawd watched the game, one of the players smacked a long home run over the centre field wall, and the boy looked toward his grandfather for a reaction. The old man sat quietly -- no reaction -- and Gawd could see a tear glistening its way down his well-worn face.
"Are you alright, Grampa?" the boy asked, over the noise of the cheering fans.
The old man stirred, turned in the chair, and looked over. "Yes," he answered.
"You're awful quiet," the boy said.
"I guess I was just thinking about your grandma," the grandfather answered, and he clicked off the sound on the TV.
"You miss her," Gawd said.
"It just wasn't fair that it was her," the old man said. "She was the good one, the long-suffering one. When we found out she was sick, and things didn't look so good -- she was the one who took it the best. I was crushed. I felt like my life was over, instead of hers."
There was silence in the room -- the boy unsure what to say - the old man seeming reflective.
"She's been gone a year," he said, interrupting the quiet. "And it's been a long year. You know, I never knew what people meant when they said somebody had a broken heart, until your grandmother died. Now, I get this aching right in here -- right around where my heart is." He paused and pointed to his chest. "It's the emptiest feeling, so empty it hurts."
Gawd thought of his mother and knew the feeling, but said nothing.
"You've made me think about your mother, too," the grandfather said, seeming to read the boy's thoughts. "I was so angry at her for so many years -- and where did it get me?" There was no answer. "Maybe if I hadn't been so stubborn, and your mother hadn't been so stubborn, your grandmother wouldn't have gotten sick. She just wasn't the same after your mom left. She didn't say anything, stood by my side the way a good wife should -- tried to talk some sense to me when she thought the time was right. But I wouldn't listen -- and I knew how it was eating away at her."
"I wish my mom would have called you," Gawd said, innocence in his voice.
"It probably wouldn't have done any good," the old man answered. "I was too thick. I really thought I wanted her out of my life." He put his hand across his brow. "How could I have done such a thing?" He sounded angry with himself.
There was more quiet in the room, the old man withdrawing into himself, the boy not feeling he could offer anything that might help.
"But I shouldn't be talking like this to you," the old man finally said, after a few moments of the quiet. "You're a boy, and boys aren't supposed to have to worry about this type of thing. You've had your own share of sadness and heartache. It almost seems like that's what life is all about."
There was another brief moment of quiet, before the old man turned his attention back toward the TV. "What the heck's going on with this ballgame?" he asked, a little more loudly than was necessary, turning the sound from the television back on.
"Maybe we could go fishin' tomorrow," Gawd said over the sound of the cheering crowd.
"What's that?" the old man asked.
Gawd repeated the suggestion, more loudly than before.
"Sure," answered the old man. "That'd be great."
So they went fishing the next day and watched a ballgame that night. As the weeks passed, they grew closer and closer, the two who had each experienced a share of grief in their lifetimes, long and short. Gawd wondered if it would never end. He went to school equipped with his new name, and found some peace in that, although he kept mainly to himself, just as he had in the past. In fact, that there were only the two of them sharing with each other nearly all the time made it almost perfect for Gawd. He even resented the cleaning lady and the occasional relatives, who lived in town and came to the house, and was glad that the old man didn't have a great need for socializing.
Gawd had a for-real life then, and he reveled in it, thinking less about his mother and the beginning of his life, when everything had seemed so tragic. He thought that perhaps even the old man found some solace for his own grief in the relationship the two had developed. It was not uncommon to see the two just walking in the park on a sunny fall afternoon, the leaves rustling under the shuffle of their feet. They would talk about all manner of things, how their favourite team would do in the coming hockey season, whether Gawd should take up something like Scouts, which model boat they should build next. It was an idyllic time for the boy...and it seemed also for the man.
Finally, though, snowy winter came. The two comrades had stacked a cord and a half of wood along the side of the garage in the fall and were prepared to weather any storm. The fishing season was over, and they were immersed in the hockey season. There was the first talk of Christmas -- a season the boy had never liked. Gawd had even dared to think that this year might be different, so hopeful had he become. Perhaps there was more to life than he had thought.
One morning, as they ate breakfast at the kitchen table and watched the birds twitter around the backyard feeder with fresh snow all about, the boy was feeling particularly buoyant. It was Saturday and there was a road hockey game in Pinewood Park. Even though he continued to keep to himself on most occasions, he was so keen on road hockey that it was worth enduring others to be able to play. Sometimes, the old man came to watch.
"Want to come to Pinewood to watch the game?" the boy asked, between mouthfuls of cereal.
"There's a game today?" the old man asked back.
"Every Saturday," Gawd answered.
"You mind doing the walk before you go?" the grandfather asked.
"Do I have to do it this morning?" Gawd asked, with a pained sound to his voice. "I don't like to be late, or I'll have to play with whoever's short."
"Your Aunt Rose is coming over later this morning. We don't want her to slip and fall," the old man said. "She's a big woman, and it might mean the end of our sidewalk," he joked.
It was true that Aunt Rose was a big woman. She was really his great aunt, one of his grandmother's sisters, and a spinster who lived by herself in an oversized house across town. Gawd steered clear of her, and she seemed to have taken an instant dislike to him, he thought, just because he was a boy and would one day turn into a man. She didn't seem to have much use for the male sex. She was always complaining about how old and decrepit she was.
Gawd knew the walk would have to be shoveled. There was no use arguing. The old man and he had agreed at the first snowfall that it was the boy's job to do the walk -- a man came and ploughed the driveway because it was too big and long even for the two of them.
"Okay," the boy answered, but it was clear from his tone of voice that he was not pleased with what had transpired.
"It'll just take you a few minutes," the grandfather said.
"I know," Gawd said dejectedly, and he got up from the kitchen table to go to his task, his once buoyant mood deflated.
It had snowed quite a bit in the night, and he knew it would take longer than a few minutes. He went grimly about his work and had made it only a short distance toward the street, when he heard someone call his name.
He looked up and saw three of his fellow road hockey buddies standing at the other end of the snowed-in sidewalk, hockey sticks in hand.
"Hi," Gawd called out to them.
"Hey, man, you comin' to play hockey?" one of the boys hollered back.
"I hafta shuvel the walk," Gawd answered glumly.
"Come on," one of the boys urged. "It'll wait. That snow's not going anywhere. Anyway, if somebody comes, they can use the driveway -- it's ploughed."
"Yeah, we need you to help stomp down the road," another boy said. "That's why we're going early. There'll be a ton of snow, and the grader won't be around 'til later."
"I promised my grandpa," Gawd answered, but he was looking toward the freshly-scraped driveway.
"Hey, my old man wanted me to shovel," said the third boy. "I told him I would, and I will, but just not right now. You can do it later. You want to be on our team, don't you?"
Gawd did, indeed, want to be on their team, which was why he'd wanted to go early in the first place. These boys had treated him as a friend since he'd started school and they had first invited him to play road hockey. Perhaps he'd be letting them down if he didn't go. There was the driveway -- it was clean -- he could cut a path to it in short order.
"I have to do this," he hollered, indicating the short distance between where he stood and the driveway.
"Hurry up! We'll meet you there. We're going to try to get a couple of more guys, so we have our whole team together," answered one of the boys.
"All right," Gawd answered, and he went fervently about his task, all the time reassuring himself that grandfather would understand when he saw what had been done.
He finished quickly, leaned the shovel by the garage door, and got his hockey stick from inside the garage. Then he left...with no word to the old man...no chance to be dissuaded. Aunt Rose could walk up the driveway. The old man would understand.
The boys had finished stomping down the snow in the street, and the game had been underway for some time when a police car drove into the Park. The boys stopped their game as the car halted in the middle of their makeshift rink. An officer got out and asked for Gawd.
The boy was hesitant before stepping forward, distrusting police from his younger years. Finally, after the officer had asked for him a second time, he identified himself and stepped forward. He got into the car with the policeman, as he was told to do, with his hockey stick put into the trunk. The officer gave no indication why he'd come but asked if it was a good game of road hockey. Gawd grunted that it was okay. They rode most of the way in silence and were soon pulling into the driveway of the old man's house.
"What's the matter?" Gawd finally asked, knowing that something was almost always the matter when the police came.
The officer looked over at him -- there was a look of evenness to him.
"What's the matter?" Gawd repeated.
"It's your grandfather," the officer said.
"What?" Gawd asked suspiciously.
"He's had a heart attack," the officer answered.
"Is he all right?" Gawd asked quietly.
"He's dead," the officer said. "Died on the way to the hospital. They couldn't save him. We didn't know where you were at first."
"Dead," Gawd said quietly.
"He was shoveling the walk," the officer said.
And Gawd wept.