He was silent a moment, deep in thought.
“Yer great-granny weren’t much of a woman far as size goes, but what she lacked in stature she made up for in spunk.” He chuckled. It seemed strange to hear him laugh and see tears layin’ on his tanned and weathered cheeks.
“I was ’bout five at the time. There was an old tree in a vacant lot near our house, and it was my favorite climbin’ tree. I was up there livin’ in my own world of make-believe when the neighborhood dogs came around and started playin’ around the tree. I didn’t pay ’em any mind until I was hot and thirsty and decided I’d had enough play. I started to crawl down, but a big black mutt I’d never seen before spotted me and wouldn’t let me out of that tree.
“I yelled and bawled until I was hoarse, but I was too far away to be heard at the house. Mama—” when that one word slipped out so easily I knew that Grandpa was truly back relivin’ the boyhood experience again—“she waited my dinner fer me and fussed that I was late again. But as time went on and I still didn’t come, her worry drove her out lookin’ fer me.
“When she caught sight of the tree, she spied the mutt –standin’ guard at that tree and figured out jest what was goin’ on. She grabbed a baseball bat lyin’ in a neighbor’s yard and came a-marchin’ down. I can see her yet—that little bit of a woman with her club fairly blazin’, she was so mad! Well, that mutt soon learned that he was no match fer my mama. Never did see that dog again.”
Grandpa chuckled again.
“Funny how a woman can be bold as an army when there’s a need fer it, and yet so gentle. Yer great-granny was one of the kindest, gentlest people I ever knew. Jest the touch of her hand brushed the fever from ya. And when she gathered ya into her arms in her old rockin’ chair after she had washed ya all up fer bed, and held ya close against her, and rocked back and forth hummin’ an old hymn and kissin’ yer hair . . .”
Grandpa stopped and swallowed and another tear slid down his cheek.
“Shucks,” he said, “I knew that I was too old fer that, but as long as the neighbor kids didn’t catch me at it . . . Funny how loved I felt.”
“Then one day I knew that I was jest too big to be hugged and rocked anymore—but I missed it, and I think Mama did, too. I often caught that longin’ look in her eye. She’d reach fer me, and I thought that she was goin’ to pull me into her lap again. Then instead, her hand would scoot to my head and she’d tousle my hair and scold me fer my dirty feet or torn overalls.”
Grandpa had forgotten all about the team that he was supposed to be drivin’, and the horses were takin’ every advantage given them. No horse could have gone any slower and still have been puttin’ one foot in front of the other. Old Bell, who always insisted on havin’ her own way, drew as far to her side of the road—which happened to be the wrong side—as she dared. Every now and then she would reach down and steal a mouthful of grass without really stoppin’ to graze. Nellie didn’t particularly seem to mind goin’ slowly either.
I watched the horses and glanced back at Grandpa, wondering jest how long he was going to put up with the situation. I think he had even forgotten
me.
He stopped talkin’ but I could tell by the different expressions on his face that his mind was still mullin’ over old memories. Many of them had been happy memories, but they brought sadness now that they were never to be again.
Suddenly Grandpa roused himself and turned to me.
“Memories are beautiful things, Boy. When the person that ya loved is gone, when the happy time is over, then ya’ve still got yer memories. Thank God fer this special gift of His that lets ya sorta live yer experiences again and again. S’pose there ain’t no price one would settle on fer the worth of memories.”
A new thought washed over me, makin’ me feel all at once cheated, frustrated, and angry. I was sure that Grandpa was right. I had never thought about memories much before; but deep down inside me there would sometimes awaken a some-thin’ that seemed groping, looking, reaching out for feelings or answers that were beyond me. It seemed to me now that Grandpa had somehow put his finger on it for me. He had said when he read his letter that he and I shared the loss of our mothers. That was true. But even as he said it I knew somehow there was a difference. As I heard him talk, it suddenly hit me what the difference was; it was the memories—or for me, the lack of them. Grandpa could go on and on about things he recalled from his childhood: his mother’s face, her smile, her smell, her touch. Me, all I had was a great big blank spot—only a name—“You had a mother, Boy, her name was Agatha. Pretty name, Agatha.”
Sometimes I laid awake at night tryin’ to put a face to that name, but I never could. When I was younger I’d watch the faces of ladies, and when I found one that I liked, I’d pretend that was the way my mother’s face had looked. One time I went for almost two years pretendin’ about the banker’s wife in town; then I realized how foolish I was and made myself stop playin’ the silly game. And now Grandpa sat there thankin’ God for memories.
A sick feelin’ began to knot up my stomach and I felt a little angry with God. Why did He think it fair to take my parents when I was only a baby and not even leave me with memories like other folks? Wasn’t it bad enough to be a kid without a mom to hug him or a pa to go fishin’ with him?
I didn’t dare look at Grandpa. I was afraid that he’d look right through me and see the ugly feelings inside. I looked instead at the horses. Old Bell grabbed another mouthful of grass, but this time she made the mistake of stoppin’ to snatch a second bite from the same clump. Nellie sort of jerked the harness because she was still movin’—if you could call it that. Anyway, the whole thing brought Grandpa out of his remembering, and his attention swung back to the horses. He could hardly believe his eyes. He’d never allowed a team such liberties. His hands yanked the slack from the reins, and Bell felt a smack on her round gray rump, which startled her so that she dropped her last mouthful of grass. Soon the team was back on its proper side of the road and hustling along at a trot.
Grandpa turned to me with a foolish-lookin’ grin.
“If we don’t hurry some, we’ll be late fer dinner and Lou will have both of our heads.”
I grinned back rather weakly, for I was still feelin’ sort of mad that I’d been badly cheated in life. Besides, we both knew that what he’d said wasn’t true. Auntie Lou didn’t make much fuss at all when we were late for a meal. Maybe that’s why all three of us—Grandpa, Uncle Charlie, and me—always tried not to keep her waitin’. I guess we all counted Auntie Lou as someone pretty special. And without really thinkin’ about it, we each tried hard to keep things from being any tougher for her than they needed to be.
A
S WAS OFTEN
his habit after our evening meal, Grandpa had me fetch his Bible so’s we could have what he called “family worship time.” I generally found it sort of borin’, listenin’ to all that stuff about “The Lord is my shepherd,” and other things that people wrote way back in ancient times.
Grandpa’s mood seemed to be a little different that night while he read. I guess it was because of the letter from his pa. Anyway, it made me feel a bit strange, too, to see him feelin’ that way.
The letter that Grandpa received was jest the first of the things to start causin’ me to feel a little uneasiness about life—the life of one Joshua Chadwick Jones in particular. The next upsetting thing happened that night after I had been sent to bed.
Now I knew that my bedtime was s’posed to be at nine, but I never did go up when the clock said the time had arrived. I’d wait first to hear Grandpa say, “Bedtime, Boy,” then I’d wash myself in the basin by the door and slowly climb the stairs to my room.
I always kinda figured that maybe some night Grandpa would become occupied with something and forget to watch the clock, but it never happened.
Tonight Grandpa’s mind was busy elsewhere, I could tell that. He had read the letter to Auntie Lou and Uncle Charlie. Auntie Lou had put her arms around each of them and given them a warm hug as the tears formed in her eyes. Uncle Charlie hadn’t said much, but I was sure that he was busy sortin’ memories jest as Grandpa had done, and I felt a tug at my stomach again.
As the hands of the clock crawled toward nine, I waited. If ever Grandpa was goin’ to miss his cue, tonight would be the night. But he didn’t. Promptly at nine he said, “Boy, it’s yer bedtime.” I let out a long sigh. I had been prepared to steal a little extra time like Bell had stolen the extra mouthfuls of summer grass—but it hadn’t worked.
I went through my usual routine. As I headed for the stairs I heard Auntie Lou say, “I think I’ll go up now, too, Pa.” She leaned over and kissed Grandpa on the cheek. “Good-night, Uncle Charlie.” He nodded at her and Lou and I climbed the stairs together. As we climbed she let her hand rest on my shoulder.
“Won’t be long,” she said, “until I’ll have to reach
up
to put my hand on yer shoulder. Yer really growin’, Josh. Look at those overalls—short again!”
Auntie Lou made it sound like a real accomplishment to outgrow overalls, and I jest grinned.
“ ’Night, Josh.”
“ ’Night.”
I settled into bed but I couldn’t get to sleep. I lay there twistin’ and turnin’, and inside I seemed to be twistin’ and turnin’, too. Finally I decided that a drink of water might help. Grandpa didn’t take too kindly to a boy using the drink excuse too often, but I reckoned that jest this once I oughta be able to get away with it.
My room was the first one at the top of the stairs that came up from the kitchen. I knew that Grandpa and Uncle Charlie would be sitting at the kitchen table having a last cup of coffee before bed and talking over anything that needed talking over, or jest sitting there in companionable silence. I put on my most innocent little-boy expression and started down the stairs. A voice from below stopped me short.
“ . . . it’s the only thing that can be done as fer as I can see.” It was Grandpa talkin’.
I heard a sucking noise. I knew what it was. Folks ’round about said that Uncle Charlie could down a cup of coffee hotter and quicker than any other man they knew. Not too much distinction for a man, but at least it was something, and I often took to watchin’ Uncle Charlie empty his cup, mentally figurin’ if he might have broken his own record. Before Uncle Charlie would take a swallow of the scalding liquid, he would sorta suck in air with a funny whistlin’ sound. I s’pose the mouthful of air served to cool the coffee some on its way down, I don’t know.
I heard that sound now and I could almost see the steaming cup leaning against Uncle Charlie’s lips. He’d be sittin’ there with his chair tilted back slightly, restin’ on only the back two legs. This was hard on chairs, I was told when I tried to copy Uncle Charlie, but nobody ever scolded Uncle Charlie for it.
There came the sound of the cup being replaced on the table and then the gentle thump of the two front legs of the chair joinin’ the back two on the hardwood kitchen floor.
“Do ya think he’ll agree to it?”
“I don’t know. He’s so stubborn ’n’ independent. You remember that as well as I do. But now, maybe he’d welcome the change. He’s gonna be powerful lonely. Ya know what she was to him.”
By now I had changed my mind about the drink of water and settled myself quietly on the step. I could feel a shiver go through my whole body. Things were changin’. I didn’t know why and I didn’t know how it was going to affect me, but I wasn’t welcomin’ it.
“Well, we’ve at least gotta try. We can’t jest let him stay there alone. I’ll go to town tomorrow and call him on Kirk’s tellyphone. It’ll take him awhile to sort things out, but I really would like him to come and stay. Lots of room here. No reason at all that he can’t move right in.”
“S’pose.”
I knew that they must be talking about Great-grandpa. Why, he was an old man. I had watched the old men in town shufflin’ their way down the street, lookin’ weak-kneed and watery-eyed. Sometimes three or four of them gathered on the bench outside the livery stable and jest sat and talked and chewed tobacco that dribbled down their old quivery chins and stained their shirt fronts. I don’t suppose I could have put it into words, but I didn’t like the idea of an old man coming here—even if he was my great-grandpa. I didn’t want to hear anymore, but I couldn’t pull myself away.
“Something seems to bother ya,” Grandpa said to Uncle Charlie. “Don’t ya agree that Pa should come?”
Uncle Charlie stirred himself.
“Well, he’s got to be looked after, that’s fer sure, and I’m— well, I’d be right happy to see him. It’s been a long time, but I was wonderin’—maybe—maybe I should go on back East and sorta care fer him there.”
Grandpa seemed surprised at Uncle Charlie’s suggestion; I knew that I was. I jest couldn’t imagine life without Uncle Charlie.
“You wantin’ to go back East?” Grandpa exclaimed.
“Lan’ sakes no.” Uncle Charlie’s reply was rather loud, as though Grandpa was kinda dull to even think that such a thing could be possible.
“Ya thinkin’ Pa couldn’t make the trip?”
“By the way his letter reads he’s still sound enough.”
“Then what—”
“Lou.”
“Lou?”
“Yeah, Lou.”
“Lou wouldn’t object.”
“No, she wouldn’t. That’s jest the point—she should.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
“Daniel, how many other seventeen-year-old girls do ya know who care fer a big house, a garden, chickens, two old men, and a boy?”
There was silence for a while and then Uncle Charlie spoke again.
“And now we want to saddle her with another old man. Ain’t fair—jest ain’t fair. She should be out partyin’ and—”
Grandpa cut in. “Lou ain’t much fer partyin’.”
“ ’Course she ain’t. She’s never had a chance. We’ve kept her bakin’ bread and scrubbin’ floors ever since she laid her dolls aside.”
Silence again. Grandpa broke it.
“Ya think Lou’s unhappy?”
“ ’Course she’s happy!” snorted Uncle Charlie. “She’s too unselfish
not
to be happy. She knows if she wasn’t happy we’d all be miser’ble. Lou wouldn’t do that to anyone.”