52stories

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John heard the door close, then the footsteps. His grandmother
approached, and he turned his head daring to look upon her face. Her
eyes betrayed what her other features would not. She paused in front
of John, spending a moment in her memories, and despite her efforts,
a single tear formed, and blinked away, rolled down her cheek.

“You can go in. He’ll be so glad you’re here.”

John stood, hugged this wonderful woman, then pulled away. The walk
down this small hall seemed longer now than when he was a child.
Sunlight spilled in unmercifully through each window, when it should
have been raining. How dare cheeriness intrude into this solemn,
final day? The door knob turned, the hinges groaned slightly, and
then John was inside, alone with his Grandfather.

Even under the blankets and sheets, John’s grandfather’s bulk was
visible. Fed a diet of red meat and potatoes for seventy some odd
years will do that. The slow up and down, up and down, of the covers
showed John there wasn’t much time left. The labored breathing, the
fluid gurgle, it all meant somewhere in this room death was waiting
silently ready to claim another victim.

“Hello Grand Pa.” John found it took great courage to grab the man’s
hand. The hand felt cold, stiff, foreign. These were the hands that
helped build so much of America. The local lake was scooped out with
his own tractors, the pit needed to contain the water. These hands
cradled babies, built companies, held lovers. They, he, deserved so
much better.

Grand Pa didn’t answer back, other than a long slow blink. The
sicknesses inside him claimed so much more than his body, but also
chiseled away at his mind. Recollection came and went, at first it
was a nuisance, a danger. As time went on, he was too weak to hurt
anyone, or damage anything. For months now he simply lay in bed, two
heartbeats away from being a vegetable.

Pictures were taped to the wall, dozens of them, taken over the
decades of his life. The connection to them was long since gone from
his mind, but Grand Ma insisted he was calmer when he had something
to look at. Television became too much of a strain, so instead he
could gaze upon the photos of the life he’d forged. Slowly, painfully
slowly, Grand Pa lifted his free hand, and touched a sepia, faded
photo. John pulled it from the wall, a little paint coming off with
the scotch tape.

“You want to hear about this one?” John felt his voice ready to crack
as he spoke, but he was willing to distract himself and his
grandfather for a moment, recalling a past that would likely be
forgotten before sunset anyway.

“You took this picture, oh, about two, three years ago. I just bought
you a digital camera. It had different modes, you liked this brownish
tint because it reminded you of a camera you used to use. You said we
should go find something to test it out on. The zoo was too far, and
I had heard about a car show. You always told me some story about any
car from the fifties and sixties. I soaked them up like a sponge. Um,
I think when I got a little older I calculated you must have owned
two hundred cars, but Grand Ma says you’ve only had five your whole
life. I don’t know where you got those stories.”

“This one was a Chevrolet Bel Air. You said you had one, hard-top,
but wanted a convertible so bad that you and your friends striped the
chrome, then made it into your own convertible.” John stopped,
swallowing the emotion threatening to overwhelm him, “You said,
whenever it rained it leaked ever since that day, and for the life of
you, you couldn’t find the source. You also said if given the chance
you’d do it again, no question.”

“What was that? A laugh?”, John smiled, “Are you laughing?” His
grandfather was contorting his face, apparently he was enjoying the
memory in some shape or fashion. “Grandpa, do you want to go for a ride?”

“Yes.” The old man managed.

It took nearly a full hour to get Grandpa out of bed, in the
wheelchair, then in the car. Grand Ma didn’t protest, but her face
showed plenty of concern. She feared he’d get a ‘chill’ or something,
but all things considered, what more could be done to the man?
Reluctantly she got in the back seat of the four door, mid-size
sedan, and buckled in.

John picked the route and stops. First was McDonalds, the local one
they used to take him to whenever he had to visit the doctor, or
dentist. John bought a large order of fries, and while Grand Pa
couldn’t stomach such things, John held the golden sticks up close to
his Grandfather’s nose and let him inhale the alluring, rich,
goodness wafting into his nostrils. They visited the nearby park,
slowly cruising around the play field, watching families run around.
Children played Frisbee, or tag, or on the swings built in the shade
of massive oak trees. They turned off into the rose gardens, far less
populated, but as beautiful as anything. John dared park, jump out,
and steal a rose for his grandmother who sternly shook her finger and
scowled at such miscreant behavior.

“I can put it back.” John offered.

“Well, no point in that. Just don’t do it again.”

The trip ended in front of a large, five story building, with too
many windows to count. “Do you know what that is Grand Pa?” John knew
the answer of course, but how else could he bring this up. “That’s
the building I lived in for five years. Morganton Home For Boys. It’s
where I lived before you and Grand Ma rescued me, took me in. I run
the place now, and next week we’re naming it after you Grand Pa.”

Grand Pa smiled, his attention turned toward the kids playing in the
adjacent lot. “This is where it all began.” Grand Pa said, a brief
flash of clarity breaking through. “So long ago. Good job son.”

Grandpa fell asleep on the way home that day, and he never woke up.