The Summer Experiment (11 page)

Our Great Loss

I was just biking into my front yard, following Johnny's rear bumper, when it hit me who that silhouette looked like. I got a sick feeling in my stomach, but I was still telling myself it was just a feeling, not a fact. But then I saw Mom standing on the front porch waiting for us, and I knew it wasn't just a feeling anymore. Her face was the kind of white I rarely saw, the color human beings keep for the real big and sad stuff that life has to offer. Deathly white. She had a hand up to her mouth. Her other hand held the remote phone to her ear. Then she lowered the phone and looked at us, her eyes shiny with big tears.

“Your grandpa just had a heart attack,” she said. It was
Grandma's
silhouette I saw in the ambulance. I knew it. “Uncle Horace is driving up from Bangor as fast as he can. Marilee's mom has taken your sister over to her house. You kids stay here and wait until Daddy gets home.”

And then, before we could even beg to go with her and just sit in the waiting room, as if maybe we could help by being there, she went running toward her car. It backed out of our drive and up onto the road. Mom gave us one last quick look, as if to say she loved us and please stay safe until she got back from the hospital. And then she sped off down the road.

***

Johnny and I had microwaved a pizza, which was my specialty since how many science geeks do you know who are great cooks? And we had eaten it while we watched
Top
Gear
, which is his favorite show about cars, and I sort of like it too. But nothing could take our minds off Grandpa and what might be going on at the hospital. I imagined him getting up from the bed, smiling and happy, and saying stuff like maybe Loring Air Force Base was behind them making him wear a hospital gown and stuff like that. I thought if I pictured him being well and happy, maybe he would be. But then Dad drove in the yard really fast and we heard his door slam. By the time he came in the front door, he was pretending he was all calm and that he hadn't driven fast at all. We both knew he was putting on a face for us so we wouldn't get upset. A kid can tell a lot from what parents
don't
say.

“Your mom wants to know if you'd like to come and visit your grandpa,” he said, his voice soft and steady. I almost got excited about seeing my grandfather, but I could tell by Dad's eyes that it wasn't good. Johnny grabbed his jacket and I grabbed my sweater.

***

Mom was in the waiting room, peering up at the clock when we got there. She smiled at me, a sad smile, as she wrapped her arms around me and squeezed me tight. Then she did the same to Johnny. There was a peace about her now, as if she had accepted whatever was to come.

“Your grandpa is probably not going to make it,” she said. She pushed hair behind both of my ears, and ordinarily I'd have told her, “Mom, pleeeeezzze don't do that. You know how I hate it!” But I said nothing. Let her push all the hair she wanted to. She wasn't even aware that she was doing it anyway. “But I have a feeling he can hear us. And I knew you two would want to say good-bye.”

I felt my head nodding and then my dad took my hand just as if I were still a little girl. That was okay too, because I felt like a baby just then. I needed my father and my mother and my big brother. We followed Mom down the long hallway, passing rooms where faces peered out at us. When we reached a door that said No Visitors, she looked back at Johnny and me.

“Ready?” she asked.

“We're ready, Mom,” Johnny said, and I was glad because I really didn't feel like talking, even if I could. Mom opened the door, and Johnny, Dad, and I followed her into Grandpa's room. I saw Grandma sitting at the bedside, her hand holding her husband's hand. When she saw us, she smiled as if she really meant it.

Johnny went first to Grandpa and reached for his other hand. I saw a tube in Grandpa's nose, giving him oxygen, I guess. He was hooked up to an IV as well. His hair looked more gray in that room, as if maybe he had aged in the time it had taken the ambulance to get him to the emergency room. Usually, when he was sitting in our backyard by the fireplace, he looked almost as young as my dad. Well, not really, but I wanted to think thoughts right then that would make Grandpa happy.

“It's me, Grandpa,” my brother said. “It's Johnny.” He squeezed Grandpa's hand and then stepped back for me to take my turn. My knees felt all rubbery, but I stepped forward and reached for my grandfather's hand. It felt too cold for a hand to feel in the summertime, even in an air-conditioned room. I wanted to say something smart-alecky, knowing it would make him smile. But somehow I just couldn't find it in my heart right then to say, “So, any pretty nurses around here? Better not let Grandma find out.”

Instead, I squeezed his hand tight and then leaned close and whispered in his ear. “Grandpa?” I said, so softly no one else could hear me. “It's me. Your favorite blond granddaughter. Thank you for showing me the robin's nest. I'll never forget it.”

“I think his eyelids just moved,” I heard Mom say. I hope she was right, and that my grandfather heard me. It was our little joke since I'm his
only
blond granddaughter. Tina is dark-haired, like our dad. So at least I put some humor into saying good-bye, especially since I got my sense of humor from him. Everyone always said so.

We sat in the waiting room then, Johnny and Dad and I, since Mom thought it would be best for us. Uncle Horace finally arrived, having driven up from Bangor where he'd gone on business. Aunt Betty was with him. They disappeared down the hall and into Grandpa's room. That was at 4:45 p.m.

At 7:34 p.m., Mom and Grandma came into the waiting room to find us. Grandma had a handkerchief and was blowing her nose. Her eyes were red and swollen. Mom looked as pale as ever. But she smiled at us again, and I knew she would come and hug us tight and tell us how much she loved us. And that Grandpa had loved us too, but that now he was gone. And that's just what she did.

***

On the morning of the funeral, three days later, I got on my bike and went riding down the path that led to Frog Pond. I leaned my bike against a birch tree and then walked in under the leaves and branches. On weekends, Grandpa always cut our firewood for winter there, rock maple and birch and poplar. When he was working, I'd sometimes bring him a thermos of hot tea. Then we'd sit and talk about anything and everything.

“Cut your wood in the spring, and it'll season well enough for autumn and winter,” Grandpa said. “Rock maple burns longest.” It was just that spring while we were having our tea that he showed me the robin's nest. It was wedged into the branch of a poplar. “Robins have been building a nest there every year that I've been cutting my firewood here,” Grandpa said. “You watch, Robbie. Any day now, that nest will have sky-blue eggs and then babies.”

I counted five baby birds, their red mouths open and begging their mama for food, before I biked back home and put on a dress for Grandpa's funeral.

***

Grandpa Bob's funeral was one of the biggest ones Allagash had ever seen. It took Harold Hopkins, our temporary sheriff, and two men he had deputized just to direct the traffic out to Woodlawn Acres, the biggest of the three small cemeteries in Allagash. Johnny and I rode with Grandma and my parents in the car behind the hearse. Uncle Horace and Aunt Betty followed in their own car. I tried to imagine the jokes Grandpa would be telling, such as, “Well, I always knew I'd own a long, black, fancy car one day.” Thinking of him that way gave me some comfort, even if I knew he was never coming back. Grandma was being
brave
for
the
children
, or so I heard her telling my mother before the service at the church. Mom was doing the same.

“I never saw so many flowers before inside that church,” Grandma said as Mom squeezed her hand. “Bob would be so proud of that.”

“He had a lot of good friends,” said my father.

The hearse put on its blinker and then just sat there in the middle of the road, blinking. Cars pulled up behind us and stopped. Everyone was too polite, given the event, to do any honking. So we waited, wondering what was happening that the procession had come to a halt. Then we saw two skinny hands waving like flags in front of the gate to the cemetery.

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” said Grandma. “That poor simpleton Harold Hopkins is trying to direct traffic with the sense God gave a goose.”

“He probably doesn't know his left from his right,” said my dad.

And then we were all laughing and saying how it sounded just like the things Grandpa might say. It was a nice way to say good-bye. Finally, when Harold Hopkins figured out which was left and which was right, the hearse started moving again and soon pulled up alongside the grave site. Our car parked next to it. My dad got out and helped Grandma and my mom out. Then Johnny and I followed. We met up with Uncle Horace and Aunt Betty, and as a family unit we stood and listened to the minister talk about my grandfather's good life. Grandma threw some gravel onto the top of his coffin as it was being lowered. Then the rest of us did the same.

My grandfather, Robert Allen Carter, disappeared from our lives that day.

Mending Our Hearts

After Grandpa's death, life seemed dreamlike for a time, slow motion, as if we were living underwater. I put all plans to contact aliens aside since my heart just wasn't in it. Mom said we wouldn't have any more cookouts that summer at the backyard fireplace, since it would only make Grandma sad. Instead, we found a huge rock by the river and Dad brought it to our backyard in his pickup truck. We all took our turns writing messages on it to Grandpa. Even Grandma did it. It was like a little memorial in our backyard. I was the last one to take the Magic Marker.
All
the
baby
robins
have
flown
from
the
nest, Grandpa
, I wrote. It was true. I had walked down to count them just that morning.

Marilee continued to call and e-mail and instant message and just be a soft shoulder when I needed one to cry on. But I think she was grateful that I'd stopped talking about contacting aliens. And then, I'd grown up a lot in just the past month. Loss can do that to a person. For me, it was getting up at night to go to the bathroom and hearing my mom crying in her bedroom. Or seeing Grandma's sad face when her own birthday came, even though we took her to the River Café for the all-you-can-eat breakfast and Darlene brought out a cupcake with a big candle on it. Or seeing Uncle Horace sit alone to watch the Boston Red Sox, instead of next to Grandpa on the sofa, both of them wearing caps with a big red B, for Boston. Those were the things that hurt
me
the most, even though I missed Grandpa too.

On a sunny day, a month after Grandpa died, I decided to go visit his grave and also check on the geranium I'd given Mom to plant for me. I hoped it had made it through the last big thunderstorm. The seeds the funeral home planted had sprouted well, and now the grass was thick and green on his grave. And the geranium was all pink blossoms. I noticed other flowers and plants near the headstone and assumed Grandma and Mom had put them there. I didn't have to wonder who had left the Boston Red Sox cap. It had been pushed inside a plastic freezer bag and then placed next to my geranium.

As I was snipping dead leaves from the plants, I noticed a man standing in front of a tombstone near the back fence. When he saw me, he waved and I waved back.

“How are things going, young lady?” he asked.

It was Mr. Mallory, our former sheriff. I stood and brushed the dirt from my jeans. Then I said a quick good-bye to Grandpa, with a promise to visit him again the next week. I made my way past other headstones, pausing now and then to pay my respects when it was someone I remembered, such as Mrs. Ethel O'Leary. Mrs. O'Leary had been my babysitter from the time I was born until I got old enough to stay home on my own.

“Hello, Mr. Mallory,” I said. “I guess things are going okay,” I added, finally answering his question. I looked at the writing on the stone he was visiting.
Simon
Joseph
Mallory. 1930–2001
.

“You probably don't remember my father,” he said, and nodded at the name.

“No, sir,” I said. “But I heard of him. Grandpa used to say he was a very fine lawman.”

“He was,” Mr. Mallory said, his eyes looking sad. “He was, and he taught me everything I know.”

“Why do people have to die?” I was surprised I asked this. But it just sort of popped out. I mean, I sort of know the answer. It's all a part of the Great Plan, whatever that is.

“Well,” said Mr. Mallory. “That's a tough one. And there are all kinds of answers to it. As many answers as there are religions in the world. And for those folks who don't believe in a religion or a god, I guess their answer would be that it's just nature's way.”

“It's a stupid way,” I said, “no matter how you answer it.”

“I couldn't agree with you more,” he said. “But all we can do while we're on the planet, Roberta, is our very best. My dad used to say we should leave Earth better off than when we found it. If we can do that, then we've done our part.”

“How can we leave it better?” I asked. “By recycling maybe?” I needed to get that Coke bottle out of the trash and put it in Mom's recycling barrel. What was I thinking by throwing it away?

“That's one way, for sure,” said our former sheriff, although it was still hard for me to think of him that way, especially now that Harold Hopkins seemed likely to become his replacement at the next town elections.

“Do you still miss your dad?” I asked. I was hoping someone would tell me that one day the sadness would go away.

“I do,” he said, “and I think of him every day. But our job as those left behind is to live and enjoy ourselves while we're here. Your grandpa would want you to do that, Roberta.”

“Grandpa told me not to spit into the wind,” I said then. “He told me to always keep the wind at my back.”

“Well, that's certainly good advice,” Mr. Mallory said. “Bob Carter was a fine man.”

“Grandpa was always giving me advice,” I said. It was true
. Never give the devil a ride 'cause he'll want to drive. Don't change horses in the middle of the stream. A whistling girl and a crowing hen always come to a bad end
. Although, I have to admit I never understood that last one.

“My father gave me good advice too,” Mr. Mallory said then. We both watched as a rabbit scooted out from behind a headstone and began munching the clover that grew nearby. “He always said, ‘To thine own self be true.' That's pretty good counsel.” I kicked the end of my Nike at a red plastic rose that had blown off one of the floral pieces and watched it roll a few inches and stop.

“Yup, Sheriff, I reckon it is and that's a dang fact,” I said. I don't really talk like that. I mean, I've never said the words “reckon” or “dang” in my life. But I had just watched an old black-and-white Western with Dad. In one scene, a cowboy pushes his hat back on his head and says that to the town sheriff. Then he kicks a tumbleweed with his boot. I thought it was the coolest line. And when was the last time you kicked a tumbleweed, which is really a hedgehog with no legs?

“Yup, I reckon it is,” I said again and kicked the plastic rose once more. I saw a slight smile play around Mr. Mallory's mouth.

“Well, I better be getting on home,” he said. “Mrs. Mallory has probably called Harold Hopkins by now and reported me missing.”

“I wouldn't worry about him finding you,” I said. “Not unless you stop at the River Café for a donut.”

Mr. Mallory smiled outwardly this time. But before he left, he looked again at his father's grave. Beneath the name and the date were these words that we read together silently:
Lord, who may dwell in your sanctuary? Who may live on your holy hill? He whose walk is blameless and who does what is righteous, and who speaks the truth from his heart. —Psalm 15:1–2.

“Now, that's a dang fact, Sheriff,” I said, when I'd finished reading.

***

About 3 p.m., while Stanley Mallory and I were visiting the cemetery, something interesting happened out on Highway 42, right at the turnoff to the Tom Leonard farm. Our mailman, Larry Fitz, saw a red jeep pulled off to the side of the road. A baseball cap lay near the front tire. It was Joey Wallace's jeep, the only red jeep in Allagash. It was his favorite cap, the one with a fly hook pinned just above the words “Gone Fishing.” The keys were still in the ignition, but there was no sign of Joey. Word of this went around town in minutes. Had anyone seen Joey Wallace? It was finally determined that he was last seen buying a hot dog and an orange pop at Cramer's Gas & Movie Rentals. Then, he'd driven off in the direction of Highway 42.

That Joey Wallace was our local clown didn't help matters, since almost everyone believed it was another of his foolish pranks. “Crazy Joey Wallace” is what Grandma had called him when he asked Sheriff Mallory if he'd been drinking beer that day of the press conference. Joey once took a sheet of white cardboard, four feet long and two feet wide. On the front, he drew a perfect check and made it out for a million dollars. Then he stuck on a fake mustache, put on a pair of eyeglasses, and dressed in a suit. He knocked on Mrs. Barton's front door and pretended to be the man from Publishers Clearing House. It took her neighbors twenty minutes to calm Phyllis Barton down long enough to tell her that she
hadn't
won a million dollars.

Another time, during a full moon, Joey climbed to the top of the Allagash water tower and spent the entire night up there on the walkway near the top. When we asked why he did it, he said, “I wanted to get a closer look at the moon.”

A month or two rarely passed without Joey Wallace playing some stupid trick on someone. So, while folks were concerned, everyone felt pretty sure that Joey was hiding out someplace, probably near a telephone so he could make crank calls. We figured he wanted us to think aliens had taken him. That would top all of his other jokes and maybe get him national attention, which he craved.

Whether Joey was joking or not was really none of my business. I was still disappointed in my fellow man, considering most of them were ostriches. But, mainly, I was brokenhearted over losing my grandfather.