by Iain Reid
“Still nice to get away.”
“And I often did the driving.”
“Neat.” Shit. I knew it. She thinks I’m a bad driver. Maybe she wants to take over?
“Your grandpa liked to navigate and I liked doing the driving.”
“I can believe that. So do you want to drive now?”
“What? No, no, dear. I’m happy to just sit here and look out there.”
She sounds genuine. I guess I should just keep driving.
“Once, I remember it very well, George told me to pack up, that we were going somewhere as a surprise. I had no idea what to pack. We ended up driving five minutes away, to a motel in Bells Corners.”
Bells Corners is really only a short stretch of road in western Ottawa. There are a few restaurants, some shops, and (apparently) a motel or two.
“So is that where you stayed?”
“Yup, for the whole weekend. Ten minutes from home. You used to have to sign in, in an actual book in those days, when you checked in.”
“Like in Psycho.”
“And after we signed in, the guy gave us a room way at the back even though it wasn’t busy.” I’m not quite sure what Grandma’s implying, and she must sense my momentary daze. “He read the address on the sign-in sheet and knew it wasn’t far.” My face is still blank, my wheels turning faster than the car’s. “He assumed we were having an affair.”
“Oh, right, yes, yes.”
“I told my friends I’d gone to B.C. — as in Bells Corners — for the weekend, which was true.” She leans toward me, grabbing my elbow. “You see, doing something like that, that was typical George.”
WE’VE BEEN BEHIND the same car since our coffee stop. I think I’m following too closely. There is a small sticker of Calvin (from Calvin and Hobbes) above the bumper. Calvin is grimacing while urinating on an indecipherable shape, which is smaller. Both the urine spray and the secondary shape are part of the same sticker. It might just be a car logo I’m unfamiliar with. But he’s definitely peeing. The car was in the Tim Hortons parking lot with us.
There are several other bumper stickers plastered around the licence plate. I can read most of them. One sticker has a sentence containing either the word BEAST or BREAST written in large, bold lettering. I can’t quite make it out. I wonder if Grandma can.
I’m definitely tailgating.
I can’t tell if it’s a man or woman or teenager driving. I didn’t see them in the lot. Now I can see only the inert head of a short figure extending a few inches above their seat. They are either alone or have a very short passenger.
I’m unfamiliar with this hamlet we’re driving through. It seems like a fine place. Although maybe just a touch isolated. I don’t know its inhabitants or its edicts or if they play lots of banjo music here. Just to be safe, I drop my speed down to about 75 kph, extending the asphalt void between us and the BEAST/BREAST.
TURNS OUT I didn’t need to stock up at Lilac Hill. I’m glad I did, it saved me some money, but it wasn’t necessary. The grocery store is open. It’s Grandma who comments on the full parking lot as we cruise by. “Look at all the cars,” she says. “I’d hate to be in there.”
“Yeah, me too.” And then I remember. I slam on the brakes, veering right into the lot. Grandma slides against her door. “Sorry, Grandma, I just have to run in and grab . . . something.”
“Of course, no problem. I’ll just wait here.”
It takes a minute to find a spot.
“Do you want me to put the radio on . . . or another tape?” I’m pretty sure the only other tape I currently have in the glovebox is Digital Underground.
“No, dear. I’m fine just as is.”
The parking lot wasn’t lying. The store is bustling. I don’t want to be here. But I need to be. Grandma’s comment about people stocking up somehow brought to mind my lack of toilet paper. I’m fresh out. I believe I have a couple rolls of paper towel around, but with Grandma staying over, battling this congested store is a must.
I canter past the carts, through the produce aisles, the deli, the bakery, and on toward the row of tissues. People are milling about obtusely. The mood is tense. The impression is that this store, and all others, has been closed for a month or so. I’m finding it tricky to repel this stress stew.
I grab an eight-pack in front of an indecisive woman leaning in close to read the price per weight. I’m assuming Grandma is fine with mere two-ply. Three just seems overkill; four is borderline unethical. Also, two is the cheapest.
When I walk through a checkout with broccoli florets, no definitive assumption can be made. Maybe I’m making soup or will be stuffing a chicken breast. Both are likely possibilities. Even an omelet or a salad are in play. I make a broccoli and walnut salad that would bring you to your knees. But with these rolls of white TP wrapped in plastic, there’s no uncertainty. Everyone I pass can see and judge my motivation as easily as my brand of shoes.
There’s also an uncomfortable intimacy when handing it to the cashier. It’s mildly worse when it’s a female. “Do you want me to bag this?” she’ll ask. She’ll handle the package reluctantly, like it’s infected. She’ll be asking about how I want to pay but will be thinking, My God, you revolt me . . . I know what you’re planning on doing with these rolls when you get home. You’re a disgusting, sick man!
The guy in front of me in line can’t see what I’m holding. Nor does he care. I’ve intuited that he’s selfish. I haven’t officially counted, but he has at least twelve items with him. Make it thirteen. This is THE EXPRESS LANE!! Eight to ten items max! Three bell peppers are three items. Not one!
All the other lines look gracefully aerodynamic. They’re flowing efficiently. People in those lines are smiling. I’m never lucky with picking the fastest queue. The guy in front of me is just standing there, one hand in his pocket, bouncing on the balls of his feet, as if this is his first time taking too much food through this line. He needs to be told, taught a lesson.
“Shit!” I say loudly, like I’m talking to the cashier two or three rows over. My voice is aimed squarely at his freckled bald spot. “That’s my phone.”
I fish my phone out of my pocket and pretend to read a number from the blank display. The battery has been dead for more than a day. I consider the fake number and hold it up to my ear. “Hey, man. No, no, not yet. I’m still at the grocery store. I know, eh. Yes, Grandma is with me. Yes. Grandma. Yeah, she’s with me, all right. Yeah, but she’s STILL IN THE CAR, so. Well, I thought it was going to be a very quick stop, but . . .”
No reaction.
“Uh, well, she’s ninety-two.”
Nothing, not even a look over his shoulder.
“Yeah, she’s ninety-two, getting close to ninety-three. I know, eh. Yeah, she’s ALONE out there. Oh, well, I cracked the window a bit.”
My eyes are locked on his foul head. All I want is a look of reparation, that’s it. I don’t even care anymore if he stays in the line. A glance is all. Just look at me!
But it never happens. His food is swiped and bagged. He pays with his credit card. He walks away pushing his cart, oblivious, good mood intact. I drop my dead phone back into my pocket without saying goodbye. I think my lower back is getting sore.
“WELL, THAT WAS quick,” says Grandma, looking up at me.
I sit with the package of toilet paper on my lap. “Sorry about that, Grandma.”
“Why? It was so interesting out here.”
“In the car?”
“I’ve been watching people and that thing.” I follow her eyes to the other side of the parking lot. “Whatever that is over there? A seagull, I think.” I have to squint to see the gull. It doesn’t look entirely gull-like. “He’s been walking around in little circles. There must be some food for him.”
“I’m not sure why people still feed those birds. It attracts more, and it’s not even good f
or them.” I’m content to continue talking about the hungry fowl that might actually be a plastic bag. I’m stalling. I have good news and bad news for Grandma. I better tell her the bad news first. “So, Grandma, I should tell you now.” I inhale through my nose. “This is the trip.” I look out the windshield.
“Of course it is, I’m so excited. I’ve been telling my friends for weeks. They can’t believe it.”
“No,” I say, pushing the package between us into the backseat. “I mean, like, this is as far as we’re going.”
“You mean here in Kingston?”
I hear myself clearing my throat. “Yeah.”
“Oh.” She looks out her window, back toward the grocery store, and then back to me.
“We’re just going to stay here . . . in Kingston . . . at my place.”
“We are? Well, I think that’s wonderful, dear.”
No, it’s not.
“But I promise we’ll still do stuff. I just couldn’t really think of anywhere to go and I thought or, you know, I hope it might be relaxing for you. And it’s going to be my treat.” And most importantly: I’m a terrible, terrible grandson and person. I’d promised you a trip. A real trip.
“Of course it will. It’ll be great, better than going away somewhere far. This will be great. Isn’t it called a ‘staycation’?”
“I think so.”
“It’s going to be so relaxing for me,” she says. “I’m feeling less tired already. And it’s a change of scene for me. That’s always a good thing.”
I sag over the wheel and turn on the engine. I’ve decided I don’t need to bother with the good news; she’s already seen the new package of toilet paper.
5:11 p.m.
IN MY GRAVEL driveway, I help Grandma out of the car and collect her bags from the trunk. I’m discouraged to see that the tape on my licence plate hasn’t held. I also don’t see any point in re-taping.
It feels a degree or two warmer in Kingston than it did in Ottawa. Grandma walks over to the front stairs gingerly, her knee stiff from the drive. “Do you need a hand? You look stiff.”
It’s Grandma who asks the question over her shoulder. To me.
“No, no, I’m fine. But what about you?”
“No, dear, I’m fine.”
I follow behind, step by step, bags in my left hand. At the door I drop the cases and root around in my pockets for the key. The outside steps could use a fresh paint job, I think. Grandma puts a hand out and instinctively tries the metal handle. The door slips open. “Here we are,” she says, stepping through the unlocked door. The key is presumably on my desk somewhere. I hope.
Inside there’s a tiny, frayed blue carpet sitting atop blue tile. We both stand on the mat like it’s an island. There’s a bench built into the wall to our right. Further ahead is the kitchen. It has the most windows of any room, so it’s where I hope we can spend the bulk of our time. In the other direction, the sitting area and bedrooms.
I leave Grandma on the mat and squeeze out of my tied shoes, stepping on each heel. Grandma removes hers conscientiously, one at a time. They are laced Hush Puppies, and I’m amazed to see she remains standing, bending down to undo and remove them. I push both pairs under the bench.
I walk Grandma to her room in our sock feet. She comments on any art or photos she sees on the walls, stopping to look at each one. I put her bags on the wicker chair beside her single bed. I leave her in her room to unpack. I tell her there’s no rush, I’ll be in the kitchen.
When Grandma returns to the kitchen about a half-hour later, she’s wearing a pair of soft slippers that look like ballerina shoes. I’m finishing up the dishes I’d left in the sink.
“It’s so nice to be here,” she says. “I couldn’t resist trying out the bed. It’s very comfy.”
“It is? Well” — I dry my hands on the tea towel and sling it over my shoulder — “good. Now, how about a glass of something?”
“Oh, well, I can’t say no to that. Not when I’m on a trip.”
“Me neither. And I happen to have some sherry.”
I tell Grandma I have the good stuff and fish my water bottle out of the cooler. I don’t have any proper sherry glasses, but in their place I use some Milwaukee Brewers coffee mugs. I pour us each a few fingers. I think this is my very first sherry. We touch mugs.
As we sip, I’m picturing the face of Abraham Lincoln. I just finished reading a biography of Lincoln last night. I can see the deep lines, creases, and dark circles under his famously tired eyes. It’s a long, bony face. And hairy: no mustache, but an untrimmed chinstrap. Maybe more than anyone’s, I’m thinking, Grandma’s face is diametrically disparate to Lincoln’s. She doesn’t have any wrinkles. She’s ninety-two!! Where he has lines, she has brown freckles. Where his cheeks sink in, hers lie straight. His complexion is dark, hers fair. Where Lincoln’s mane is a dishevelled brown and falls in unkempt waves, Grandma’s is blank-page white, washed, and neatly combed up off her forehead. Lincoln was six four and rake thin. Grandma can’t be over five feet and is healthily plump.
The sherry has done its job, converting her to talkative mode. I was hoping she would be chatty, since we’re going to have lots of time for it. But I’ve had to ask her directly about her own memories. She’s started telling me a little about her birthplace in northern Scotland, just before the 1920s.
“It was my grandmother who inherited a store on the main street in Wick.”
“I didn’t know your grandma owned her own store.”
“Yes, but not at first. In those days in Scotland she wasn’t legally permitted to own property.”
“Really?”
“No, women couldn’t own property. But in her mind it was her store regardless.”
“What did she do?”
“She got her brother to sign the paperwork. But she was going to run it.” Grandma brings her sherry up to her mouth but speaks again before drinking. “That’s the whole thing, it was rightfully hers.”
“That’s pretty cool.” It’s hard to imagine something like that. It seems absurd to someone my age. But that actually happened in her lifetime, or just before it, anyway. Women were not allowed to own property. Also hard to imagine: that I’m drinking and enjoying a glass of sherry.
“And that’s where I was born.”
“In Wick?”
“Yes, but I mean in her store.”
“You were born in the store?”
“In the apartment upstairs.” She finally draws her overdue sip. “That’s where we lived. My father worked at a local bakery. He was the baker. But my mother worked, too. She took over the store after my grandmother died. She ran it.”
“That must have been rare in those days, for a mother to be working.”
“It was, I suppose, yes,” she says thoughtfully.
I’M BACK OVER at the cooler, pawing around like a raccoon. I should have put the food away already. The bag of ice cubes is a bag of cold water. I’m getting hungry again. “So what do you feel like for supper, Grandma?”
“I was thinking maybe we should go out. Since it’s the first night of the trip. It should be something special, I think.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, exhibiting a room-temperature ball of semi-thawed lamb meat from the cooler. “We could always stay here.”
“I’d be happy to go out. What do you think?”
“Sure, why not? But I should probably put this stuff away first.”
“Okay, I’ll just wait here.”
But before I even reach the fridge, Grandma is up from her chair. “Actually, I’ll be right back.” She walks over to her purse, which she’s left sitting by the door, and slings it over her shoulder. “Just give me a minute.”
The cooler is empty when she walks back into the kitchen five minutes later. I’m flipping through the last section of the newspaper. I look up. Grandma has ch
anged.
She’s wearing different slacks (her word) and a different, fancier blouse. She’s pinned a silver brooch to the left lapel. She has a soft silk scarf tied around her neck. Her hair has been retouched in the front. It’s pushed back, higher, and looks airier. She’s readied herself to dine out. It’s all intensely endearing.
“We’re going out,” she says, “and it’s a silly habit I can’t break. I just had to put on a little lipstick.”
It’s true. She’s also wearing a fresh coat of maroon lipstick.
7:53 p.m.
IT’S BEEN A day of extremes. Either it’s been just the two of us — in the car, at my place — or it’s been busy: the Tim Hortons, the grocery store, and now the restaurant. The hostess shows us to a table set for three, next to a window with a view of Ontario Street. Grandma hangs her purse on the back of her chair as the hostess clears the third setting.
“This is nice,” says Grandma. “It smells so good in here. I’m hungrier than I thought. I shouldn’t have been talking so much before dinner; it made us late.”
“We’re not late. I always eat around this time.” With the music and background chatter, it’s loud. I’m concerned it’s too loud for Grandma. “Are you sure this is okay?”
“It’s lovely,” she says. “Great atmosphere in here. Nice to see all the young people.”
The hostess has been supplanted by an older waitress who introduces herself, drops two glasses of water on the table, along with two menus, and asks if we want anything to drink.
“Maybe just give us a second or two,” I say.
“Aren’t you going to get some wine?” wonders Grandma.
The waitress, a step away, freezes and then looks back over her shoulder.
“Oh, well, yes, I could probably have a glass. Are you going to have any?”
“No, dear, I’m fine.” She turns to the waitress. “One glass of . . .” and then back to me.
“Red, I think. House red is fine.”
The waitress nods and retreats. We can see the exposed kitchen from our table, a wood-burning oven and the tall chef tossing his pizza dough into the air. With a quick pan, I discern that the uniform for this place is tight and black. The majority of servers are stereotypically attractive females: lots of exposed tanned flesh and tight blond ponytails.