As he walked slowly along the street, tap-tapping his cane in front of him, he knew they were looking at him. And laughing. Because that was what they always did when he walked by. They looked and they laughed. The young hooligans. Why couldn't they just let him be? He was a harmless soul, who'd lived his life in a good way, except perhaps for imbibing in his homemade wine a little too much. Or so his late wife, Mary, would have reminded him.
He'd kept himself as well as he could since she'd been gone. But he'd never done much looking after himself, because it seemed she had carried out that task. Now, his clothes were somewhat older, practical though they might be. He seldom bothered to shave anymore, had always hated performing the morning ritual, so his face wore a grizzled look much of the time. He always wore his old, worn fedora, perhaps adding to an image of someone who'd been somehow beaten by life; an image that was made complete by a shuffling walk, accentuated by the arthritis that had caused him his share of grief over the last twenty years.
Still, they shouldn't laugh. Because he had lived, and they had not. Let them laugh when they stood on his side of life. Then, they could laugh. Until then, they should only pay respect; a respect that had been earned.
Life seemed a somewhat obnoxious place for him these days. Not that he really seemed to mind it. After a few glasses of wine, he usually minded nothing, and he rarely went anywhere without such re-inforcement. Such had become his way of dealing with the obnoxiousness of life. To wear within a little something to make it easier without.
He passed by the boys in the school yard none the worse for wear, having wished his usual curse on youth and its frivolity. And, finally, he had shuffled down to the end of the block where his son lived. He surveyed the large, two-storey brick house. The boy seemed to have done all right for himself. In real estate. He'd offered the old man a place to stay, and was always offering him cash, but the geezer had resisted the offerings, somehow afraid that his independence would be threatened if he were to accept. And that was something he was not sure he could deal with.
Still, he was not afraid to accept the occasional invitation to dinner, which was what he had done on this night. His son's wife was a good cook, and his own cooking left considerable to be desired. He just hoped the family was getting along on this particular night, his son and granddaughter having some difficulty with their relationship, as the young girl grew to be a young woman.
He rang the doorbell.
"Dad!" his son very nearly beamed as he opened the door. "Glad you could come," he added in the same positive tone.
The old man didn't answer, but followed the younger version of himself into the house, before handing over his coat and well-worn fedora so they could be dutifully hung in the hall closet.
Then, he followed the boy into the living room.
Although he had never been one to show it, he felt a certain pride in his son, and, in fact, in all of his children. Despite the fact that life had been pretty much of a struggle when they'd been young, they'd all turned out not too bad. It must have been my Mary, he found himself thinking.
He said a polite hello to his son's wife, and situated himself in the chair that was offered, settling in for the wait for supper, readying himself for the usual barrage of questions about how he was doing, and whether he was eating all right.
It was a peaceful enough scene, sort of filled with domestic bliss, or so he imagined as they exchanged the usual small talk. It was the kind of scene he had always enjoyed when he'd had his own family about him; sitting in the living room, sharing a few thoughts about the day, before sitting down to dinner.
It wasn't long before he could hear the sound of someone on the stairs, then he could see his granddaughter in the hall, taking her coat out of the closet, then putting it on. After she had done so, she walked down the hall to the living room doorway.
"Hi, gramps," she said, acknowledging the old man, but with a brash tone of voice.
"Where are you going?" his son asked her, a trace of irritation in his.
"Down to the arcade," she answered with some defiance.
His son got up from the couch where he and his wife had been sitting, and took the girl by the elbow, guiding her out into the hallway.
The old man watched and could see the father and daughter exchanging words.
"I thought I told you I wanted you to stay for supper tonight because your grandfather's here," the father was saying.
"I don't want to stay here and be bored," she said. "I'm meeting my friends at the arcade -- and there's not a damned thing you can do about it!" She added the last line with a startling insolence that shocked the old man as he sat listening. He turned toward them, just in time to see the girl pull away from her father and leave through the front door, slamming it behind her.
He also saw his son hang his head in defeated dejection, before he looked away so the boy wouldn't catch him watching.
"I'm sorry about that," the son said to the father, as he re-entered the living room from the hallway, and you could hear the embarrassment in his voice.
"It's all right," the old man said. "Kids can be difficult."
"I guess she won't be eating with us," the son said, his voice barely audible, as if he were making a difficult admission.
"That's all right," answered the father. "I'll see her again sometime."
And the subject was apparently dropped.
"I think the supper's almost ready," his son's wife said. "Why don't you come into the dining room and we'll eat."
And they did.
But the supper was not a happy affair on this particular night. It was obvious that something, possibly the scene with the girl, was troubling the son, as the old man watched him toy with his food. In fact, it was so obvious that the old man found he also felt his appetite wane.
"Don't let it bother you," he finally said. "Kids can be a real handful. She'll grow out of it."
"I'm not sure she will," the son answered. "She seems to really enjoy hurting us. It seems the harder I try to reach out to her, the further away I get." He shifted awkwardly in his chair, perhaps uncomfortable discussing such things with his father.
"Don't be too hard on the girl or yourself," the old man answered. "Remember, we barely tolerated each other when you were young."
The son looked over at his dad.
"Did I hurt you and mom like she's hurting us?" he asked, and he reached over and took his wife's hand, as she sat quietly, saying nothing.
"It used to bother your mother, but I told her you needed time to grow up," the father answered; "and you did." He paused, just for a moment, as if to emphasize what he'd said. "You turned out okay," he added, and he started to play with the food on his plate again.
His action also caused the husband and wife to return to their meals, but they also just toyed with their food.
"I've just got a lot of pressure on me," the son said, finally interrupting the awkward, heavy silence that had grown around the dinner table. "Things are not great at work. The market's gotten really slow. The firm might not be able to keep me on."
"You'll get another job," the father answered. "It's not the end of the world. I was between jobs a few times and we got by. You remember," he said to the boy in a re-assuring voice.
"But, Dad, I don't want to live like you and mom and us guys had to live sometimes," the son answered. "I know you tried hard to give us a good life, but I always wanted to do more for my family. If I lose my job, I might not even be able to do as well."
"You'll manage," the old man said, the supper again forgotten. "Because people usually always do. Something will turn up, because something always does."
"I hope you're right, Dad," the boy answered.
"In the meantime," the father said softly, "try not to be too hard on the girl. Try to remember what it was like for you when you were her age."
"I don't know if I can, Dad," the son answered. "I feel like I've tried everything with her, and nothing seems to work. It's like she knows I'm going through a tough time right now, and she's determined to make it that much more difficult."
"I'm sure that's not true," the old man answered, his voice soft and sincere.
"I hope not, Dad," the son answered. "I hope not," he repeated in a barely audible tone.
And they returned again to their plates where anything that might have remained was far past eating. But they ate anyway. In silence, and without making eye contact.
Later, after the old man had walked the few blocks back to his small apartment, having refused his son's offer of a ride, he felt a certain sense of melancholy to know that his son's life was in such turmoil. It also bothered him somewhat that the boy had such disdain for the life he and Mary had lived, but it didn't bother him too much, because he had always hoped his kids would do better than he had, and he sometimes thought himself that he'd perhaps let his Mary down at times.
But he was most concerned about the situation with his granddaughter. It was true that he and his son seemed to have agreed to disagree when the boy'd been a teen, but they had always been able to work out their differences, and things would cool down. Each time he'd accepted his son's supper invitation in recent months, there seemed to be more tension in the house. And there was almost always confrontation. Things didn't look great.
He wasn't that close to his granddaughter anymore, but, when he thought of her, he couldn't help but remember all the things they'd done together when she'd been younger; before she'd discovered that friends were more important than grandparents. He remembered the walks in the park, reading her bedtime stories when he and Mary would baby-sit, and having her huddle against him and cover her ears as they watched the July 1st fireworks in the night sky. He simply couldn't believe such a child could grow into a bad girl.
He found himself dwelling on the situation for most of the remainder of the evening. He also avoided his usual glass or two of wine over the course of the night, instead fixing himself a cup of tea before bed, much the way he and Mary had done for so many years. It was nice, but it seemed to remind him of how lonely he'd been in the years since she'd died. He felt a tightening in his throat, and his eyes grew moist, as he looked into his cup of tea, and could almost see her reflection looking back. It's too bad it wasn't you sitting here instead of me, he thought, because you'd have said the right things......you'd have made things right.
And so it was that his thoughts were of his Mary, as he settled in for the night. It was not often he allowed himself the luxury of such thoughts, so dear were they to him. Because although there was a certain sadness to thinking them, there was also a certain amount of comfort at knowing she remained only a thought away.
He fell into a deep, dreamless sleep that night. Deep and dark. Away where there is nothing.
It seemed hours, perhaps days, later, when a dull pounding sound started to intrude into his sleep. At first, he tried to ignore it, so sincere was his desire to sleep, but it persisted until he felt himself forcing his eyes open. He propped himself up on one elbow and stared groggily about the blackness of the apartment.
Then, it returned. A knocking at the door.
Why at this hour, he thought, but he pushed his way out of bed and found his way across the well-worn floor to the door.
The knocking returned.
"Grandfather," a hushed voice said. "Grandfather," it repeated into the darkness that surrounded him.
"Who's there?" he asked, but thinking he already knew.
"It's me, grampa," the voice said, and he recognized it for certain.
He quickly unlocked the door and hurried it open, where he saw his granddaughter, shivering and seeming very small and afraid in the night. her make-up covered face tear-stained and a picture of misery.
"Come in," he said to her, and he reached out and put his arm around her, helping her through the doorway and into his humble abode. "What's wrong, child?" he asked, the tone of his voice heightened by concern.
"Daddy and I've had a fight," she sobbed. "He said he doesn't want me in his house anymore. He threw me out," she said, with a trace of defiance and anger showing through the apparent misery.
"I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding," the old man said, trying to comfort her.
"No, it's not," she sobbed. "He means it."
He helped her over to the couch, then clicked on the TV light to break the room's darkness.
He sat beside her, with his arm around her, softly rubbing her shoulder and holding her tight, as if protecting her.
It took some time for the sobbing to subside, and then they sat in silence, neither seeming to have the inclination to talk. But, finally, she seemed better composed, and looked up at him and even offered him a little smile; one that reminded him of the little girl he used to read to.
"Sorry to come barging in on you," she said somewhat meekly. "Me and all my friends, and I couldn't think of anywhere else to go."
"It's all right," he answered. "I'd have thought you'd have had lots of other places to go too, but I'm glad you came here. I don't get too many guests......Now, then, can I get you anything, or do you just want to try to sleep?"
"I'm all right," she answered.
"Are you sure?" he asked. "I'm not sure you had a very good supper." He smiled as he added the last line.
"I think you're right," she admitted, smiling back at him.
"How about peanut butter and jelly?" he asked, immediately wondering if that was a stupid thing to offer a teenager.
"That'd be great," she answered. "Really great," she added, and this time a smile engulfed her entire face.
He got up from the couch and headed for his small kitchen area to search out the peanut butter and jelly.
"Mind if I wash up a bit?" she asked.
"Go ahead," he said, as he continued rummaging through his few cupboards looking for the necessary supplies.
By the time she returned from washing herself in the bathroom, he had prepared the sandwich and had also poured her a glass of orange juice. He thought how fresh she looked without the tear-stained make-up covering her face.
"You look a lot better without that stuff, than with it," he offered.
"That sounds like something my father would say," she answered, sounding a little disappointed.
"Sorry," he said.
"Forgiven," she said, taking a huge bite out of the sandwich. She followed that with another and another and there was silence while she ate.
"Still making the best peanut butter and jelly sandwiches anywhere, eh, grampa," she managed to say between mouthfuls.
"You're hungry," he answered. "You'd think anything was good."
And she laughed, and he joined her.
They sat for a while in silence while she finished, and when she had, it was she who broke the silence.
"You must miss grandma," were the words she offered, surprising him with both the comment and its frankness.
"I do," he softly answered. "I miss her very much."
"Is that why you drink so much?" she asked. "Dad thinks you drink too much," she said, indicating the source of her information.
"I don't know," he answered. "I guess it gives me something to do. I don't think it does much harm at my age. I'm pretty well beyond damaging."
She smiled when he made the last comment.
"I don't care how much you drink, or what you do, you're a lot nicer than he is," she said. "I hate him. All he does is make rules. Stupid, stupid rules."
"I think he's really just trying to do what's best for you," the old man offered. "You should try to be a little easier on him. Things aren't going very well for him right now, and he could use a little understanding."
"Then, why doesn't he try to give me a little?" the girl asked, and there was considerable animosity in her voice.
"He's forgotten what it's like to be your age," the old man said. "He's forgotten what it's like when you're young. He's taking himself too seriously."
"How come you seem to understand?" the granddaughter asked.
"I'm not sure why I seem to," he answered. "I was young once, so I've been there. But there was a time when your Dad was young, when I forgot what it was like too. I think we all go through that sort of thing. We think life is such a damned serious thing. It seems to take the exuberance of youth or the wisdom of age to know that it's not really all that darned important."
"I can't believe all parents are such jerks," she said. "My Dad's the worst."
"I don't think so," the old man said. "He cares about you and your mom. He works hard to put food on the table and to give you a good home. He doesn't hit or hurt you. He's always tried to be a good father." He paused for a moment as if to give what he'd been saying time to reach its mark. "He loves you, you know."
"It's pretty hard to tell sometimes," the girl said. "Why doesn't he show me?" She asked the question with a true look of puzzled innocence on her face.
"Men are supposed to be big and strong," he answered. "They can't let their little girls see them get all soft and mushy."
"That's dumb," the girl answered.
"It certainly is," the grandfather agreed. "And maybe your generation will do something about it, because mine sure didn't."
There was a small silence in the room and again it was the girl who broke it.
"You're still as smart as ever, grampa," she said.
"Sometimes I don't feel as smart as ever," he said, accenting the remark with a tiny smile.
She returned it.
"Now," he said, "if it's all right with you, I'm going to give your parents a call and tell them you're okay. Then we can get some sleep. You can have the couch."
"That'd be fine," she answered with a great sleepy yawn.
His son answered the phone on the first ring.
"Yes, she's fine," he found himself saying to the boy. "No, I don't want you to come and get her. No, she doesn't want to talk to you. Yes, we'll see you tomorrow, but it'll be later in the day because we're going to sleep in."
"Thanks, grampa," the girl said, after he'd hung up the phone.
"You're very welcome, my dear," he answered, then he walked into his bedroom and returned with some extra blankets. "Now, you get snuggled up in these and get some sleep," he said to her.
She wrapped the blankets around her and tucked the pillow from the couch under her head.
He turned out the TV light and headed for his bed to return to the night's sleep that now seemed so long ago.
"Remember when you used to read to me before bed?" he heard a small voice ask, as he pulled the covers up around him.
"I surely do," he whispered back through the darkness.
"That was nice," she answered.
There was a moment of silence in the dark.
"You're nice, grandpa," said the small voice.
He didn't answer. But he smiled.
And they slept.
But it seemed he had only fallen into sleep, when he fell out of it again, and he found himself laying quietly on his side looking into the dark toward the living room where the girl lay on the couch, apparently deep in sleep.
He felt good that she had come to him in her time of difficulty, but he felt badly that her life had come to the point where she would lay sleeping on his couch; feeling she had been forced to do so. It was tragic, he thought, and his mind wandered and drifted and he saw the flickering TV images of homeless youth, and, he thought, if you could see past the looks of anger and defiance on their faces, you saw hurt and desperation and hopelessness in their eyes. Sometime, somewhere, grandparents had read bedtime stories to all those kids, or so he thought, as he shifted slightly in the bed to give his old bones a different position in which to ache.
Finally, when a grey, pre-dawn light started to filter into the room, he drifted into a fitful sort of half-sleep, where he lapsed between the reality of the room, and the reality of his mind. And in the latter reality, he remembered walks in the park, reading bedtime stories to her, and having her huddle against him. And he could not shake an image of how tiny she had seemed then, and he couldn't help but think that she was not that much bigger now, and for all her brashness and cockiness, and all the anger and defiance, there still dwelt within the little girl who waited for bedtime stories.
He rose early, and, despite the type of night he'd spent, felt fine, as he went about fixing his morning coffee. The girl continued to sleep on the couch, swaddled in the blankets and looking very much like the little girl he knew she was.
Then, he sat quietly at the kitchen table, his hands curled around the warmth of his coffee mug. And he thought.
He was on his third cup of coffee, when the girl started to stir. She climbed from the couch and stretched sleepily, before padding across the short distance to the tiny kitchen, where she joined him at the table.
"Morning, grampa," she said, offering a shy, little smile.
"Morning, princess," he returned. "Can I get you anything?"
"How about some more of that orange juice you gave me last night?" she asked. "I'm kind of thirsty."
"Probably from all that sadness last night," he said, smiling over at her. "How do you feel this morning?"
"I'm all right," she answered. "Thanks," she said, offering him a look he understood.
He got her the orange juice, and they sat for a moment in silence, getting comfortable with the arrival of the new day.
"God, I was a mess last night," she finally said. "Daddy and I really said some mean things to each other. I can't believe what happened."
"We'll work it out," the old man said reassuringly. "I don't want you to worry."
They sat again for a moment of silence.
"Are you hungry?" he finally asked.
"I am kind of hungry," she admitted. "I could use a piece of toast or something."
He got up from the table and went about fixing her some breakfast.
"You going to let me take you home this morning?" he asked, kind of matter of factly, as he pushed down the toaster.
She glanced over at him with a look of defiance starting to spread across her face.
"Come, now," he said, "you're going to have to go home. What's going to happen to you?"
"I don't know," she answered. "I was kind of hoping I could stay here for a few days before deciding what to do."
"You're better to face up to this thing right now," he said. "If you let it get too far, there might not be any getting it back under control."
"It's going to be hard, grandpa," she said, and there was a look of pain in her eyes.
The toast popped up, interrupting their conversation, as he prepared it.
"It might be hard," he said, as he placed a plate in front of her, "but I think I've got an idea."
She looked up at him as she took a bite of the breakfast. "What would you think if I came home with you?" he asked, telling her what his thoughts had been during the fitful night.
"You mean to explain to Daddy?" she asked.
"No, what if I really came home with you?" the old man asked. "Your Dad's been after me to move in since your grandmother died, and I was thinking if the offer was still open, I might just take him up on it."
"Really, grampa," she said.
"Yes," he answered. "I don't know if I could help with the situation between you and your father or not......I might just make it worse......but I'd like to get to know all of you again. Maybe you can try harder to understand your Dad a bit, and maybe I can help him to understand you a little bit better." He paused for a second. "Anyway, your Dad's going through some tough times right now, and I might be able to help him out with that. I thought it might be a good idea."
She looked over at him, obviously thinking the situation over.
"I might like it," she finally said, finishing the toast. "It might be kind of neat. Maybe you could help."
"Well, I don't know," he answered, "but I think it might be worth a shot. We're all of us wandering right now. Listen, though, young lady, a big part of the load on whether this works still falls on you. You're going to have to really give it a try. Back to doing a little schoolwork, and away from the arcade, and listening to what your father and mother say. If I can get your Dad to say he'll give it a try, you've got to be willing to make the effort too. Otherwise, it won't work. And the next time, I might not be here. No one might." He finished and looked over at her.
"I know," she answered, and her face wore a look of sincerity.
They went about getting ready, each using the tiny shower stall, and standing for a few moments in front of the water-marked mirror.
"I wish I had my make-up," she'd remarked at one point.
"You look a lot better without it," he'd answered.
"Oh, grampa!" she had said with a trace of exasperation.
"Just kidding," he'd chuckled, as he finished shaving.
And later, as the two of them were out walking the few blocks back to her house, and after the old man had called his son to arrange the peace talks, they passed by one of the many parks that dotted the town where they lived.
"Come on, grampa, let's cut through the park," she suddenly said, taking his old, time-worn hand in hers.
And so they walked, hand in hand, through the park, and again he was reminded of the little girl he had once done this with.
And he thought of his Mary, and thought that for the first time since she'd died, she might possibly be smiling, knowing that he had perhaps found a place for himself.
He gripped the girl's hand a little more tightly. Tried to pass some of the positive energy he felt over to her. Wanted things to work. Hoped things would work. Knew that at least he would have tried. And there was something even to that.