“What can I do?”
“I don’t know. The funeral will probably have to be in a few days. I don’t think you can wait that long with that sort of thing. Is that going to cause you problems at the paper?”
“It shouldn’t. I have a little bit of vacation time saved up now that I’m working there full time, and I’ll just do some catch up work at school.”
“I need to call Peter,” she said almost startled by the realization. Then she rose up and dialed his number. There was no answer.
She dropped back down on the couch. “Oh momma,” she whispered and began crying again.
Sometime after midnight my mother assured me that she was going to be alright and I went home.
On the way into downtown I thought about all of our Minnesota summers, and how those days were over. Just. Like. That.
Three days later I found myself sitting in the front row of the Assemblies of God church in Fairbault Minnesota, one of the churches that my grandfather built half-a-century ago, and a portrait of my grandfather and my grandfather sat on a bronze colored casket framed with flowers. She wasn’t in the casket. She was cremated, but my aunt was always squeamish about the idea of burning the bodies of her mother and father so, as a strange sort of compromise, they were cremated and their urn placed inside of a casket that was buried. This way my aunt didn’t have to think about their bodies being reduced to dirt and ash all through the funeral, and I’ll be honest, having a casket at the funeral made me feel a little better too. It was more than a little disconcerting to think that my little grandmother, who I had talked to on the phone just a few weeks earlier, was now a grey pile of dust tucked away in a box locked in a casket in front of the church that she and her husband of 63 years built half a century earlier.
I tried not to let it bother me, but the idea of Peter sitting in the front row, nodding at everything the pastor said, inserting an amen here and there, like he had belonged all along, just made me remember how much my grandmother had told me that she never trusted him. As I looked at him I thought how maybe my grandmother and I were both wrong. He did some awful stuff, but maybe he had changed. My mother seemed happy now, and maybe that’s all that mattered.
I looked around the sanctuary.
There weren’t that many people in the pews. There was the pastor and his wife, me, my mother and Peter, my aunt Lauren and my cousin Sarah. Mike was still overseas and couldn’t make it home. There were two other pastors who took turns speaking and their wives and about forty people who I guessed were from her church. 83 years old and this was all who was left. Back in high school, one of the girls in my geography class had a brother who died in a car accident. Just about everyone I knew, including myself, went, not so much because I knew either of them, which I didn’t, but because it felt almost obligatory. His funeral was held in the largest church in Denver and it was packed. You would think that someone who had lived 83 years would know more people than someone who had lived only 16. There were three guest singers and a line to pay your respects to the family that went on for 45 minutes. My mother was the only one who sang at my grandmother’s, and even if everyone in here lined up to say goodbye, I couldn’t imagine it taking more than the time it would take for me to tie my shoes.
But, when I looked at the smiling face of that tiny woman who always made me my favorite chocolate chip date cookies, I knew a part of the safety of my childhood was gone forever.
After the funeral everyone went back to my grandmother’s house to share food and warm memories, and as I drove, I thought about my grandfather who died when I was ten. I remembered how his hands were so much bigger than mine, the thin white hair that crowned his otherwise bald head and the salt streaks from the tears that dried on his cheeks that I touched the day we visited him at the funeral home. He was a leader. A man of faith. A man of virtue. So many things I wish I could be; so many things that I did not see when I looked in the mirror.
For ten years after my grandfather died, my grandmother lived in her little house alone, with her peach trees and her pear trees, all bearing fruit every summer, which she turned into jams and pies for church. Hers was a house regularly cleaned with everything in its place. The china had its place, the forks and spoons had their place, her bills had their place, even the porcelain Dalmatian that I rode like a horse when I was five had its place, right beside the couch where she would fall asleep in the afternoons watching the news or some gospel program.
I came and lived with her for the summer when I was sixteen. She would hug me and tell me how my grandfather’s hugs were what she missed the most, that and his bristly cheeks. We would sit and she would show me photographs of my mother with blonde curly hair and tell me stories about my mother and my aunt when they were girls. She also told me secrets about my grandfather that only a wife could know. Secrets like how, when he was a boy in school, one summer his parents could not afford him shoes so he wore an old pair of his sisters and as a result, some of his school mates made fun of him and knocked his books into the snow and urinated on them. Or how, when they were first married, she was so scared of having sex with him that, out of respect for her, he waited three weeks before they consummated their marriage. I always thought that my grandfather was the strongest member of our little family, but now I wonder if that distinction belonged to my grandmother.
She said what she believed; she couldn’t be moved, but she wouldn’t fight about it either. My mother dating Peter was a good example. If my mother wanted to date Peter then that was up to her. My grandmother never minced words about how much she didn’t trust him, but ultimately it was my mother’s decision. There were a lot of things my mother did that my grandmother didn’t like, but she still loved her. I’m just not sure my mother ever realized it.
I parked in the front yard and could see that the house was already full of people. Then I walked through the front door. A set of dirty shoe prints on my grandmother’s white linoleum made me choke back tears. I knew how much the dirt would have bothered her. I went into the kitchen, got a bit of moist paper towel and wiped up the shoe prints.
I walked from room to room remembering.
In the office I swore I could still smell my grandfather’s cologne. I looked at the photographs hanging on the wall of moments never to be had again. I ran my fingers over the library of dusty books. The mint green couch. The gold lamp that turned on when you touched it. I could still see my grandfather sitting at the desk reading the Bible and ten years later my little grandmother hunched over a calculator paying some bills. The grandfather clock chimed half-past the hour. I walked into the little guest bedroom and remembered how the night I first came to stay with her I ran to the grocery store for some cereal and milk, and when I returned I found all of the clothes in my luggage folded and put away. In the guest bathroom I remembered how I had emptied a small container of cotton swabs one day, but when I came home that evening I found the container refilled. Then I walked into my grandmother’s bedroom. Peter’s muddy boots were lying on the floor at the foot of my grandmother’s bed.
I just stood there, feeling like I was watching a dog mark his territory, only this was not Peter’s home, it was my grandmother’s, and this was a private place–a sacred place. I picked up his boots and threw them out into the garage. Then I lay down on her bed and remembered how, once in a while, in the dark of the night, when she thought no one was listening, I could hear her crying. I always imagined it was for my grandfather.
When the grandfather clock in the office chimed again I rolled off the bed and joined everyone else in the living room. Then slowly everyone went home and I was left with my mother and Peter.
“I think I’m going to head out,” I said trying to rub some of my exhaustion from my face.
“Alex, Peter and I are staying here tonight. I just thought you should know.”
“Really? Where are you going to sleep?”
“In your grandmother’s room.”
“You can’t be serious. She’s only b
een gone two days, and your moving in tonight?”
“It doesn’t make any sense for us to pay for a hotel room for another night. We were going to stay here last night, but I thought it would be easier for you if we waited until after the funeral.”
“Can we talk about this outside?”
She rolled her eyes then rose from her chair, and I followed her out front.
“I don’t like the idea of him sleeping in grandma’s bed.”
“Alex, he’s my husband. You and I both know that your grandmother left this house to me, and that means that he’s going to be sleeping in that bed.”
“God, mom. Can’t you at least give it a few days! How do you think grandma would feel about this?”
“She’s DEAD Alex!”
I slapped the roof of my car, got in and slammed the door shut.
“I’m going to the bank tomorrow with Lauren to open the safety deposit box. I think you should be there,” she hollered through my window as I turned the car on, revved the engine to make a point and drove away.
When I got back to my hotel room I called Jo and let some of the sorrow of the day wash away while I talked to her.
Twenty-Nine
I wasn’t interested in going with her to rummage through some old papers, so I met my mother for lunch the next day. My grandmother had left her main house and a number of stocks to my mother, her rental house and more stocks to my aunt and a few thousand dollars and some knick-knacks to each of us grandkids. None of this really mattered to me. These were all details that my mother would have to deal with. All I wanted was a leather bound photo album that my grandfather had put together while he was still alive, then I would say goodbye, one last time, to my grandmother’s house, full of so many fond memories and make the long drive back home.
“We’ll be settling the estate in the next few days, but are you sure there isn’t anything else you want me to set aside for you?”
“No, just the photo album,” I told her.
“I’m pretty sure everyone knows you’ve wanted that album since you were little, but just to make sure there’s no upset, you better let me call all the cousins this afternoon then you can take it with you tonight.”
“That’s fine.”
I went back to my room and packed my luggage.
Four o’clock. Five o’clock. Six-thirty then seven. No call. It was starting to get dark. I was getting anxious to get on the road.
I picked up the phone and called her.
“Alex?” She choked my name through sobs.
“Hey? What’s up is everything okay?”
“Alex, he’s gone.”
“Who’s gone?”
“Peter. He’s gone and he took everything.”
“What? What do you mean he’s gone and he took everything?”
“I was at Lauren’s going over the list of who gets what, and when I got home Peter was pulling out of the drive. I waved at him to pull over so I could see what he was up to, see if he had had any dinner yet, but he just kept driving.” I’m barely able to understand her through the sobs. “He didn’t even look at me. I didn’t think anything of it, but when I got home, stuff was scattered all over the house. The bonds, the deed, the cash, your grandmother’s jewelry. It’s all gone. Alex, I’m so sorry. This was your inheritance. ALEX! What if he’s on his way back to Colorado? He has keys to the house!”
“Have you called the police?”
“Yes, I just got off the phone with them. They’re on their way.”
“Okay, I’ll be right over,” I said hanging up the phone and running down to my car.
I twisted the leather of my steering wheel and squealed the tires as the Cougar kissed the curb and sped down the narrow road.
I can’t believe that asshole has done it again. I KNEW mom shouldn’t have let him in the house. I should have kicked his ASS the night he showed up in Minnesota. I KNEW it wasn’t a coincidence that he was in Minnesota. He was stalking her. He probably ran out of money and knew that if he sang his sad little song she would take him right back. I swear to GOD if I ever see that piece of shit again, so help me.
I got on the highway and drove the ten minutes or so it took to get to the exit to my grandmother’s house. Then, like a gift from the heavens there he was, fueling his truck at a gas station on the opposite side of the road from me just half-a-mile from the highway back to Denver.
“Son of a bitch!” I said as I passed him. There was a median between us so I went to the light to turn around. It was red. I rang my mother.
“Mom.”
“Alex, the police are here. Are you close?”
“Tell them that I just found Peter,” I said watching him in my rearview mirror. He hadn’t seen me.
“What? Where? Where are you?”
“I’m at Duvil Road just about to get on the highway,” I said. Then Peter got in his truck and drove out onto the road heading in the opposite direction.
“Tell the police we are heading South. Shit! He’s heading out of town. I gotta go!”
“Alex, WAIT!”
Click. I hung up the phone, tossed it in the back seat and squealed a U-turn through the red light.
He was two-blocks ahead of me, picking up speed and getting on the highway.
My heart pumped adrenaline, and I pushed on the gas.
As I dropped it into fourth, the engine roared and the Cougar came to life like it had been bred for the chase. I pulled up next to him and gestured for him to pull over. He actually did a double take with a look like he had no idea how I was driving down the highway next to him. He slowly accelerated ahead of me. 90. 100. I felt like I was easily jogging next to a wheezing fat man. I put it in 5th and pulled up next to him again. Pull over, I gestured more emphatically, but he refused to look at me. I pulled in front of him and slowly applied the brakes. He started slowing down. Then around 65 miles-per-hour he changed lanes and tried to pull around me. There was a field next to us, so, not seeing this ending any time soon, I said to hell with it and side swiped his little piece of crap truck off the highway.
For a few seconds he kept some semblance of his speed, driving down the gravel roadside, until he started fishtailing and lost control of his truck. He slid sideways to a stop with the nose of his truck caught in a ditch. I followed along side him until he hit the ditch. Then I pulled off in front of him and backed up to where he was now stuck. I jumped out of the Cougar, not sure what was about to happen, hoping the cops were somewhere close behind us.
“Where the hell do you think your going?” I hollered as I nearly ran up to his truck.
He rubbed his head and got out of the truck. “Look, I think there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. I was just…” Then he swung and I felt a sharp pinch as his knuckles connected with my lip. I spun around and fell into the ditch.
“Do you have any idea how long I’ve been wantin’ to do that?” he said.
It felt like everything slowed way down as I took a few seconds to focus. I could hear the gravel crunching up behind me, and I spit out the red, iron taste building up in my mouth. I stood to my feet, driving clusters of tiny rocks into the palms of my hands. I dusted off my hands and felt my lip. It was bleeding. I punched him in the jaw, but it didn’t have the same affect. He just let it roll off and turned back to me with a smile. “Well shit. I could take those pussy punches all day.” He hit me in the stomach and put a left hook across my eye. The diamond in his wedding ring split my cheek open. I stumbled forward onto my hands and knees. The last hit was so right on target that it made both of my eyes water. He was kicking my ass.
I used the side of his truck bed to help me to my feet, trying to sort out my next move, and there it was. I grabbed the wooden handle and swung the shovel with a single motion hitting him square in the face with the flat of the blade. Taking two or three steps backwards, trying to catch himself he fell into the ditch unconscious.
I dropped the shovel, leaned against his truck and slid down onto the ground. Then I hea
rd the wail of two police cruisers that I hadn’t heard before as they pulled up next to us with their lights flashing. Since Peter was unconscious and I was half in shock, they arrested both of us.
It took them nearly three hours to roll my fingers in ink and snap a double portrait before the police decided that since Peter had stolen so much from my grandmother’s house, my use of the shovel was in self-defense. Around midnight, with an eye nearly swollen shut, I hobbled out of jail and into the arms of my waiting mother.
“Oh, Alex,” she said wincing at the sight of my eye.
“Did you get everything back?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said as I put my arm around her shoulder and we walked to her car. “Your Cougar is being impounded until tomorrow. We can pick it up then.”
“What’s going to happen to Peter?”
“Well, they said that since it was pretty clear that he was trying to cross the state line, they’ll probably be able to pin him with a federal offence. At the very least he’s violated probation.”
“Are you going to press charges?”
She didn’t say anything.
“Well, I guess you don’t have to, because I will.”
As I got into her car I looked at the stack of boxes in the backseat. On the top of one was my grandfather’s album. I took it out of the box and laid it on my lap.
“It’s MY album,” I whispered. Then I leaned my head back against the headrest and fell asleep.
Thirty
It was an early Saturday morning. I was caught somewhere between sleep and awake when I smelled the comforting smell of cooking butter. I reached beside me but the space next to me, still warm, was empty. Then I heard whistling coming from the kitchen. I lifted myself up onto my arms and looked across the apartment to the little corner with a stove laughably called my kitchen. In the hazy gold of the morning light I could see Jo fiddling with something on the stove.
“Hey you,” I said rubbing one eye. “What are you doing up so early?”
If I Lose Her Page 20