The House at 758

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The House at 758 Page 11

by Kathryn Berla


  The hill on the way back is intense, and I have to walk some of it. A well-meaning neighbor slows down and offers me a ride but I shake my head and smile in between gasps of breath. By the time I get to my house I’m so exhausted, it’s an effort to walk. I think my plan has worked. All those things tumbling around in my head are still tumbling around. I’m not exactly happy, but I’m not sad either.

  Traffic on the bridge was worse than I expected for early afternoon and I was already running a little late to begin with—not exactly a promising start to the first day of my “job.” When I pull up to the Passenger Arrival area at the airport, Grandpa’s already cleared customs and is waiting at the curb. We’re in fog country now so, although there’s nothing but sunshine where I live, here in San Francisco it’s cold, gray, and windy.

  It’s been several years, but Grandpa looks the same to me. He’s on the short side and I’m pretty sure I’m at least two or three inches taller than him now. He’s bald, but has grown the right side of his hair long enough to comb over to the left side in order to cover the bald spot. But with the wind blowing the way it is, that plan has backfired and I see him put a hand up to his head to force the hair back into place. He seems a little less round than I remember him, but that’s still his general shape.

  When I catch my first glimpse of him, it reminds me of something I’ve lost, and I realize that he and I are starting all over with each other now—almost like we’re meeting for the first time. He’s seriously underdressed in a Hawaiian short-sleeved shirt and dark blue slacks. His head is down and he’s sort of marching in place like he’s trying to keep himself warm. I feel guilty for being late. Everyone should feel welcomed when they arrive in a new place. Someone should be waiting for them with open arms, a meaningless greeting like “how was your flight?”, and maybe even some kind of present—or at least an offer to carry your bag. I haven’t done any of these things for Grandpa.

  I tap on the horn as I pull to the curb and Grandpa looks up surprised. I hop out of the car and walk around to greet him, and I’m suddenly feeling very shy of this man who’s only a few degrees away from being a complete stranger. Neither of us is comfortable enough to embrace but we take a clumsy stab at it.

  “Hi, Grandpa.” I feel like a giantess standing next to him.

  He looks me up and down. “You’ve grown up.” His strong Hungarian accent is just as I remember it.

  “Let me take your bag.”

  But his masculine pride won’t allow it, and he grapples with his bag, struggling to lift it into the Hornet’s cramped back seat.

  “So you will be my driver?” he says once we’re strapped in and on our way.

  I’m a little embarrassed by that question but I just smile and nod my head.

  “At your service.” I’m trying to be flippant and funny, but I don’t do either of those very well.

  “It’s summer here, or winter?” His eyebrows raise at the sight of the thick fog that surrounds us.

  “Don’t worry, it’s hot where we live. San Francisco is always like this in the summer.”

  “Yes, I remember this.”

  It’s a long drive back to my house and I scramble for what to say next. “Dad told me . . .” I start to say just as he starts talking. “I’m sorry. What were you going to say?”

  “No, no, you,” he waves me on.

  “Oh. I was just going to say that Dad told me you aren’t feeling well. What’s wrong?”

  “I’m very tired all the time,” he says in a voice that’s very tired. “And my friends tell me that I look peel.”

  I try to puzzle this one out. I don’t want to offend him by not understanding.

  “Your friends tell you that you’re looking . . .”

  “Peel!” he says with emphasis as though he’s just proved a point. When I realize he means pale, I take a quick sideways glance to see if it’s true—and it is.

  “Oh.” I’m not sure how to respond. “Well, Dad is a good doctor and he’ll be able to find out if anything’s wrong, but hopefully it’s nothing.” I sound stupid even to myself. My grandfather wouldn’t fly to another continent if his symptoms were just nothing.

  “I’ve gotten too used to good weather,” he says.

  “Is that why you and Grandma moved back to Venezuela—the nice weather?”

  “That and also some other things. It’s where your grandmother and I met each other and started our life together, you understand? There were many good memories. Cheap to live and beautiful country. This country took me in when I had nowhere else to go.”

  I look at him from the corner of my eye. He stares out the window as we’re crossing the bridge high above the San Francisco Bay. The water is dark gray and choppy, but we’ve left the thickest of the fog behind and there are scattered patches of blue sky in front of us.

  Unless I’m with Lyla or someone else I’m totally comfortable with, I’m not the greatest conversationalist. So, at some point, I learned that asking questions is a way to fill the silent gaps and people usually appreciate the attention. With Grandpa though, I’m not sure how much he’ll like it. I remember my grandmother stepping in to wave off Mom when the interview went too long. So I begin with mundane things.

  “Why did you leave Venezuela in the first place?”

  “We applied for visas to the United States. Everyone wanted to go there. We thought it would be a good thing for your mother to be an American.”

  I kind of already knew this but it fills in a few blanks. He looks over at me—a little suspiciously, or is that my imagination?

  “I think you must be hungry,” he projects onto me. “Let’s stop before we get home and I buy you some dinner.”

  I don’t think Dad and Marie will mind if I text and let them know. They were just going to pick something up on the way home anyway.

  “What kind of food do you like?” I ask.

  “Do you have Chinese restaurant? I like Chinese food—you?”

  “Me too.” Well, at least we have one thing in common beyond our DNA.

  Grandpa’s a lot more comfortable now that we’re beyond the hills that trap the fog, turning the bay into a giant bowl full of mist. At last he’s wearing the right clothes for the right weather. He even wants to sit outside in the back patio of the restaurant. A little creek runs behind us. It’s almost dry this time of year, but in the winter, it swells and muddy brown water tears through its banks.

  There’s a banquet of plates set before us—Grandpa has seriously over-ordered but we can take it home and have it for lunch tomorrow.

  “You’re too tinny,” he announces after studying me carefully. “Eat some more . . . please.”

  It hasn’t taken long for me to pick up on the accent I remember from my childhood, so I know that tinny is thin. I also recall stories my mother told of my grandfather’s obsession with food and making sure everyone got enough of it . . . something left over from his childhood. My father is so different. He’s lean and athletic and encourages me to eat light and healthy and to push away from the table as soon as I’m satisfied. But he’s never had to go without food like my grandpa.

  “I don’t think I can, Grandpa. My stomach’s not big enough.”

  “No, it’s not,” he states sadly. “That’s no good for a girl. You want to find a husband one day, no?”

  I let that one pass with an awkward smile. Agree to disagree and all.

  “Your father tells me you have some problems,” he says out of the blue, catching me completely off-guard.

  “Like what kind of problems did he tell you I’m having?” I had counted on Dad’s phone conversations with Grandpa to revolve around health issues. I thought I’d have an opportunity to reinvent myself for someone who hadn’t been around and seen me these last few years.

  “He says you’ve been going to the Afghan boy’s house—this Omar.” Apparently, my grand
father has no difficulty in speaking his name out loud. “He’s out of prison, no?”

  “No. I mean yes. Yes, he’s out of prison and yes I’ve gone by his house a few times.”

  “Why you go there?”

  How do I answer? Because I can’t pry him out of my mind? Because I think about him every day running around free—doing whatever he wants? Because I want to make him suffer, and if my presence outside his house makes him suffer even a fraction of what he’s made me suffer then it will be worth it? Because I need to see him, I need to put a real face to the name—a face that I can pin all my hate on.

  But how can I say all that and still come across as a rational human being?

  I shrug my shoulders. “Just curious, I guess.”

  My grandfather chews slowly and swallows. Then he sips his iced tea. The red plastic cup is sweating from condensation and a few drops of water fall onto his shirt. He puts the cup down on the table and looks directly into my eyes.

  “Let’s go there right now—you and me.” He waves at the waitress and motions for a check. “Are you ready?”

  “No, Grandpa, we can’t do that. I’ll be arrested if I go there again. You probably would be too if you were with me.”

  “You think I’m afraid to be arrested?” He speaks slowly and raises his eyebrows as if he’s unable to believe I would think something as simple as threat of arrest could stop him. “You think your grandfather is afraid of a policeman in America? You should come see what the police do in Venezuela!”

  I suppress a laugh, trying hard not to think about my plump little grandpa fighting off the cops.

  “It’s not a good idea,” I say as seriously as I can.

  “So then it’s your decision. We just forget about that place and that young man.”

  “It’s my decision not to go there. But I can’t forget about him.” I don’t want my grandfather to think that I’ve caved. I just want him to know I’m being practical.

  “No, you can’t forget.” Grandpa pulls some caramels out of his pocket and offers me one. When I shake my head ‘no’, he proceeds to unwrap the clear cellophane from the candy. It’s a complicated procedure and takes him a while. He’s totally focused on it.

  “Never forget,” he says in a way that makes it seem like he’s talking to himself. The wrapper is fully removed and he pops the caramel in his mouth. He chews with a thoughtful look in his eye. “You’re a good cook?”

  “No, I don’t know how to cook.” I’m a little embarrassed by this admission. “Maybe some scrambled eggs or French toast . . .”

  “You have never made a soup?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Pity your mother never taught you to cook. She was a good cook.”

  “Yeah. She was.”

  “If you take a small cup of water and add a few spoons of salt, you wouldn’t drink this. It would be too much salt.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “But if you add juices from carrots and tomatoes and some other vegetables, then you stir in the broth of the chicken, and maybe some cream, and some more water.” He has a faraway look in his eyes as though he’s in the kitchen adding the ingredients as he speaks. “And then you taste it and now it tastes good. You can drink a whole bowl of it.”

  I’m watching my grandpa carefully because I know this is not about soup.

  “So don’t forget—never forget. But you add. Keep adding to your life—a little bit this, a little bit that. The salt is still there, but one day you won’t notice.”

  Chapter | 17

  Armed with enough leftovers to feed my father and Marie, we walk down the street toward the meter where the Hornet is parked. It’s a gentle day, quickly giving way to a dreamy night and the sidewalks are crowded with moviegoers and early diners. It’s always like this in the summer, no matter what day of the week. I feel like walking some more but I can tell my grandpa is tired and I don’t want to push him. He’s come a long way today and would probably like to climb into a comfortable bed.

  Walking in the same direction across the street is a group of about ten kids and I recognize a few of them. The shiny-haired girls with the perfect lip gloss color to match their perfectly manicured nails. There are guys with them too—the usual ones they hang out with. They’re not in my world and I’m not in theirs either, but our orbits sometimes intersect in school, just like a Venn diagram.

  Today, I have to look at them. An aura surrounds them like a glistening, protective bubble. They glide down the sidewalk impervious to loneliness, shyness, and misfortune. Their smiles are shields and their laughter is a barrier against imposters. I envy their ability to free themselves within the group. Their effortlessness at belonging.

  A girl breaks away from her friends and takes the arm of a boy in a black and orange baseball cap. She lowers her head and one shoulder in a submissive posture of flirtation as she looks up at him and beams. She’s inviting his attention but he keeps his shoulders squared and strong. He tilts his ear politely toward her words and then, smiling, returns his attention to the friend at his side. Sensing her pull on him wasn’t strong enough, she surrenders her position by his side and melts back into the inner circle of girls.

  My grandfather and I have arrived at the Hornet, and I remotely unlock the door. Across the street the group of kids waits for the light to turn green and the boy in the black and orange cap looks over at my car. Then he looks at me and I can see it’s Jake. The only sign of recognition he makes is the instant he holds my gaze. Then he looks away and my grandpa and I climb into the car and drive away.

  Dad and Marie are waiting by the time we get home. Polite introductions are made because my grandfather has never known Marie as my father’s lover. Perhaps he met her in the past as my father’s nurse but I don’t want to ask. This must be awkwardly painful for him.

  I take him to the guest room and ask if he needs anything. I point out the phone by his bed and show him how to use the remote control for the TV. I remind him that his appointment with my father is at eleven the following morning. We purposely scheduled it a little late so he can sleep in if he needs to adjust to the time change.

  Just as I’m about to leave, my grandfather remembers the bird.

  “Charlie,” he says. “Can I see him please?” He remembers how much my mother loved her bird.

  But when he gets a look at Charlie, a mask of concern comes over his face. I explain how we’re working on returning him to good health but my grandfather’s first instinct is to ask if he’s being properly fed. I assure him Charlie gets a variety of fruits, vegetables, vitamins, and seed.

  “It’s a mental thing,” I explain. I stick my finger into the cage but Charlie looks away scornfully. “My goal is to get him on my finger.”

  “We will do this together.” My grandpa has certainty in his voice. “Let me think about it tonight. Now, please show me your room.”

  I’m embarrassed. It was inevitable that he’d find out where I sleep, but it’s difficult to tell this eighty-two-year-old man from Venezuela that I’ve pitched a tent on the roof of the garage. But since I have to tell him, I do.

  “What?” His expression is horrified. “You could walk while you’re sleeping and fall and be killed! Your father allows this?”

  “It’s okay, Grandpa. I don’t sleepwalk. I’m fine. I like it up there.”

  I think he gets it right away though, because he doesn’t ask any more questions.

  “How do I talk to you if I need to?”

  “This is my cell phone number.” I jot it down on a slip of paper. “Call me anytime, and I’ll be down in thirty seconds.”

  “Pity I can’t visit you. But I’m too old to climb to the roof.”

  Still he wants to walk outside with me and see how I get up there. He examines the ladder carefully and gives it a good shake to make sure it’s sturdy.

  “M
y father had a contractor secure both ends of the ladder. It won’t slip.”

  “Tanks God for that.” He lingers like there’s something more he wants to say. “I see you in the morning, Kicsi.”

  His arms raise up slightly as if to embrace me, but only one arm comes all the way up, and he uses it to pat me on the back. I think I detect a sheen of moisture on the surface of his eyes, but maybe it’s just the reflection of the moon. I breathe deeply to melt away the lump in my throat. Kicsi was the special nickname my grandfather used to call Mom.

  __________

  My phone is ringing and it’s only eight o’clock. It’s Grandpa and he’s wondering when I’ll be down. He’s worried that three hours isn’t long enough for me to get ready and get him to my dad’s office on time. I imagine he’s nervous. He also wants to tell me about his morning so far.

  “I have eaten a good breakfast prepared for me by Marie,” he begins. “And I have shaved and taken my shower and washed the breakfast dishes. After your father and Marie left, the doorbell rang and a beautiful lady with her baby bring a plate of cookies for me!” I can hear the smile in his voice over the phone. “I will share with you if you come right now.”

  Then he adds slyly, “I have surprise for you, but you should come quickly to see it before you get ready.”

  When we finish talking, a text comes in from Chad:

  Can I stop by for a few minutes tonight? I have something to show you.

  Everyone with the surprises today.

  When I walk into the house, Grandpa is waiting anxiously. He hands me one of Rachel’s home-baked cookies and takes me by the hand, leading me to his room. The door of his bedroom is closed and he opens it very slowly and cautiously. He has moved Charlie’s cage from the study to the top of the desk in his room. The cage door is wide open and Charlie is standing on top of the dresser pecking away at one of Rachel’s cookies. There’s a terrible mess of crumbs all around him, but neither Charlie nor my grandfather seem to be concerned.

 

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