A Figure of Speech

by Norma Fox Mazer

  She turned to Jenny’s parents, smiling. “Yesterday, the bad old thing tried to kiss Mrs. Ellias. Can you imagine? They’re like children. Naughty, naughty. We gave him a tranquilizer and calmed him right down.” She gave her stiff white nurse’s cap a pat and set it a bit straighter. “Notice we have a piano here, and we have games and books, and a tropical fish tank—that’s the gift of one of the lovely families who have their mother here. We think this is one of the best-equipped community rooms in a rest home this size in the entire state. There’s something here for everyone, and we’re proud of that! Did you notice the large, clear picture on our color television? A lot of our residents have some eye trouble, fading eyesight, cataracts, and so forth and they couldn’t see a small or dim picture.”

  “It’s certainly a fine picture,” Mr. Pennoyer said.

  “I suppose you’d like to see the bedrooms,” Mrs. McCarthy said. Mr. Pennoyer nodded. “Well, we are just as proud of them as we are of everything else in our home. They’re on the second and third floors. We do have two bedrooms with several beds downstairs here for residents who can’t make the climb, but generally we feel the climb is good for them. Keeps the circulation working and gives them exercise every day.”

  One of the women who’d been sitting on a couch quietly watching the TV suddenly bent over and began moaning. “Oh! Oh! Oh!”

  Mrs. McCarthy went to her and patted her back. “What is it, Bertha? Tell me what’s bothering you.”

  The woman looked up at Mrs. McCarthy. She had high cheekbones and a prominent nose. “Get me out of here,” she said. “Get me out of here!”

  “Now, dear, you just calm down, you just be quiet and calm, honey. I’ll send Miss Bird to give you something to help you relax.”

  “I don’t want anything. Get me out of here. Get me out of here.”

  Mrs. McCarthy motioned the Pennoyers to leave and closed the double wooden doors.

  “Bertha’s been with us for, oh, ten years now,” Mrs. McCarthy said. “She’s a lovely lady. She was a school-teacher, very refined, but she has her good days and her bad days like all of us. On her good days, I like to draw her out, get her to converse. Now let’s go upstairs.”

  As Jenny started up after her parents and Mrs. McCarthy, Bertha began moaning once more. The sound came clearly through the wooden doors. The back of Jenny’s neck went cold. She felt sick, sick. She hated this place and pitied every old person here. Her heart beat wildly and her leaden legs refused to carry her any farther up the stairs. She didn’t want to see the bedrooms, to stare at any more inhabitants as if they were on display in a zoo, or hear Mrs. Burr McCarthy going on in her calm, sensible way about the “lovely” residents.

  She turned and ran down the stairs, through the hall, past the numbered coat hooks and through the smell of creamed corn. Outside, Gail was playing with Ethel near the maple tree. She’d made a pile of leaves, and Ethel was sitting in the middle of it, crowing as Gail brushed leaves onto her. “Where’s Mom and Dad,” Gail called.

  “Still inside.”

  “Is it nice there? It looks awfully nice.”

  There was a suffocating weight in Jenny’s chest. After the days of gloom and rain, the sun seemed dazzlingly bright. Jenny threw herself down on the ground, pushing her face into the stiffness and crackle of grass and leaves. She had never felt so helpless in her life. She wanted to kick and scream as she had when she was a little girl, but she lay there, rigid and miserable, knowing the futility of it.

  There was nothing she could do. Her parents would bring Grandpa here: they would say, We’re not forcing you, just see how you like it, and then they would leave him. This was the way they had gotten him out of his apartment, and this was the way they would get him into the old people’s home.

  Chapter 15

  The old man walked slowly through the house, telling himself that he mustn’t blame Jenny. Why expect her to be tied down, to stay home on a beautiful Sunday with him? He wasn’t unreasonable. He understood. But all the same—the way she had rushed out without a word of goodbye, or “See you later, Grandpa.”

  He went into the kitchen, where Frankie was making himself a sandwich, spreading peanut butter on bread with his fingers. The old man thought about making himself a cup of tea. “What’s the matter, Grandpa?” Frankie said. He sucked a gob of peanut butter off his finger. “You okay?” He came close to the old man, breathing peanut butter smells into his face. “What are you mumbling to yourself for? That’s the way you do at night. You talk in your sleep all the time. Do you know that?”

  Carl stiffened. Mumbling to himself! He pressed his lips firmly together, locking them against any more vagrant words, then walked out, trying to remember to stand straight, not to fumble at a chair for support through the dining room. Ever since the night of the grease fire, his faults and weaknesses had been exposed, probed, mercilessly discussed, and commented upon by everyone. It seemed that he had been living in a fool’s paradise for years.

  He had thought of himself as a strong, firm, intelligent, and clever man. He had imagined that his son felt reassured with him living in the house; his son could leave his family every morning knowing they were safe because Carl George Pennoyer was there. A strange gurgle escaped the old man, half-laugh, half-sob. He looked around quickly, afraid that Frankie might have heard him. Downstairs in his own home, he had been able to fumble, groan, talk out loud, make noises of all kinds, and there was no one around to hear or stare or laugh; no one to make it clear to him that he was an old, old nuisance of a man.

  Nuisance. He said it aloud. “You’re an old nuisance, Carl Pennoyer.”

  “You say something, Grandpa?” Frankie came to the door.

  “Nothing.” Nuisance. He said it again in his mind. The bitterness got no easier. He had sometimes in the past called himself an old fool, but he’d never really believed it. Now he was no longer sure of anything. Old fool, he accused himself. Old nuisance. Mumbler. Disturber of sleep. Clumsy old man. Useless creature!

  His chest tightened, and he was shaken by a spasm of coughing that left him bent over, whistling for breath. His throat burned and he sat down in a chair, forgetting that he had planned to comb his hair and shine his shoes. He sat by the window, pretending to watch the TV show that Frankie had turned on. His thoughts drifted to the farm, where his grandfather had worked until the day he died. A curious feeling came over him, remembering that old man and then himself as a boy. He seemed to be at the narrow end of a very long tunnel, looking backward. There he was! Little Carl Pennoyer, big as life! And there was his grandfather, the old man, George Pennoyer, with his one good eye.

  He felt curiously lightheaded and moved in the chair, only half aware that he was mumbling to himself again. He closed his eyes, snorting and sucking in his lips, a string of saliva dripping from the corner of his mouth. He was absorbed in remembering that golden, warm time of his childhood. Taking the trip upstate … going to visit Grandpa, going to visit Grandpa … It was a shrill childish cadence that brought a smile to his thin lips. He must have sung that himself, happy in the dusty train … going to visit Grandpa …

  The old man, his grandfather, had had a dusty beard that smelled of hay, and a glass eye that had fascinated little Carl. Sitting in the wagon next to his grandfather, he had studied that glass eye … Gee-up! … A whip cracked, the big gray work horses, shoulder muscles bunched, moved forward, pulling little Carl and his grandfather, and in the wagon behind them, a load of coal for the winter months … the creaking wagon, the hot, good stink of fresh manure, the sun streaming down on them …

  A car door slammed and voices rose. Carl’s eyes opened. They were back. He groaned and groaned again. His neck ached. He must have fallen asleep. He pushed himself up from the chair.

  In Frankie’s room he lay down on the bed, his hands folded across his chest. He heard the family come in. Let Jenny look for him. Let her see that he was lying there on the bed peacefully, indifferent and uncaring that she had left him all afternoo
n to go on a drive with her mother and father.

  “Grandpa?” Jenny came to the door. “Grandpa, are you sleeping?”

  He didn’t answer. Have some pride, he told himself, and he lay there, mouth sucked in, saying nothing, having his pride. Jenny left, and he fumbled a blanket from the foot of the bed over his shoulders.

  An hour later Jenny was at the door again. “Grandpa, I’m eating supper with you tonight.”

  The old man opened his eyes. “That so?” (Every night now he fixed his own supper, put it on a tray, brought it into Frankie’s room—he’d never call it his room, never—and sat in the Boston rocker, eating alone.) He wondered at Jenny’s being given permission to eat with him. Frank was a fanatic about his family being present at the table with him.

  “Sit up, Grandpa,” Jenny said, putting a tray down on the bureau. “I fixed everything myself.” Her voice was muffled, and the old man thought she was suffering pangs of conscience for having left him that afternoon. Graciously, he decided to forgive her. They shared toast, tea, buttered noodles, pears, and slices of American cheese. With Jenny to keep him company, the food tasted sweet. His sweet Jenny. He frowned. He’d forgiven her for deserting him that afternoon, but maybe he should have said something. Maybe she didn’t realize. She was eating almost as little as he, poking at her food. And her eyes—red, swollen, blinking continually, as if irritated by sand.

  “Jenny.” He reached to touch her hand, but didn’t. He wasn’t a touching person. “Jenny, child, tell Grandpa,” he said, echoing all the times when she’d been four or five or six and had come crying to him. “Tell Grandpa.” Grandpa would fix. Grandpa would make better.

  She looked up, gulped for air, pushed away the tray. Her eyes filled with tears and she rushed out of the room. He sat still, defeated again, sour, puzzled, and helpless. Grandpa couldn’t fix anything. He sat there for a long time, unmoving. And then she was back. She came in, closed the door, and knelt in front of him, her head on his knees.

  “Grandpa. I must tell you. They’re going to send you to a Home. That’s where they went today. They said they’ll talk to you about it, and take you to visit. But I know they’ll leave you there. They’ll say, ‘Just see how you like it, Grandpa,’ and they’ll leave you there.” It all came out in a choking rush, half-whispered, fearful, pleading.

  The old man felt his strength draining as she spoke, felt himself going weak with fear. “Go away,” he said. He pushed her aside and stumbled to the bed.

  He lay there a long time—all that night, the next day, and the next night, and he thought of nothing else but what Jenny had told him. The family came to the door—his son, his daughter-in-law, the children. Grandpa, they said, what’s the matter? Are you sick again? Grandpa, don’t you want to get up?

  He didn’t answer. He thought he would die. They were sending him to a Home … one of those places … putting him away … into the garbage heap … useless old fool … old horses go for glue … old men aren’t even good for that …

  He thought of the day when he was told not to cross streets alone. That day, he ought to have gone out and, like Moses parting the Red Sea, walked into the middle of the worst traffic on Pittmann Street. (Once he’d seen a man, an accident victim, lying at the edge of the road, covered with a sheet, bare feet sticking out. Down the road a bit were his shoes, neatly side by side, as if waiting for the owner to step into them.)

  Why had he listened to them? Why had he let them lead him upstairs? Why had he taken those first steps? Slept on the couch. Agreed to move into his grandson’s bedroom while they painted and cleaned. Didn’t he know, even then, that they’d never let him move back down? Ah, Grandpa, they’d said, it’s better this way, up here we can help you, be with you …

  And that was when the real weakness began, the awful weakness, the feeling of bones turned to liquid, legs barely able to support his large, useless body. Overnight he had become sick and old. Had made their prophecies come true. And now this.

  His mind reeled away from the thought of a home for old people. He had wanted to die like his grandfather! On his feet and busy to the last day.

  He got up to go to the bathroom, clinging to the walls as he made his way through the house. His ears rang and in the bathroom he wanted to weep as he made his water. Even his water was feeble. Oh, he was old, so old and helpless, and no one cared.

  That night, worn out by fears and thoughts and self-pity, he slept very deeply. When he woke Wednesday morning with the sun shining in through the window, his mind felt calm as a pool of water. He sat up, thinking, I will go away. The idea came to him complete—where he would go, what he would do, how he would do it. The farm, of course. He tested the thought, turning it around and around in his mind, then tested himself, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, groaning automatically, but feeling the blood moving through his body, feeling himself coming alive. I will go away! He closed the window with a vigorous bang.

  “Grandpa!” Frankie yelped from the top bunk and buried his head under the pillow.

  He went to the bathroom and washed briskly in cold water, snuffling and snorting with enjoyment. In his excitement he thought at first that he would go that very day, put on his old black coat and walk away. But, as he’d always been sensible, he told himself that Saturday would be time enough. He would spend a few days preparing.

  Chapter 16

  Jenny woke to hear Ethel rattling the bars of her crib. “Ja!” she cried. “Ja! Up!” There was the sound of water running, a toilet flushing, and then her father yelling that he couldn’t find his blue shirt.

  Jenny dressed slowly, her fingers clumsy on the buttons. Ever since she had told Grandpa about the Home, she had felt this way, frightened and despairing, heavy with clumsiness and fear. Had she thought he would rise up and find a way to defy them? She had been wrong, terribly totally wrong.

  In the bathroom she splashed water on her face, combed her hair, scratched a scab off her knee, putting off the moment when she had to join the family for breakfast. None of them knew how she felt—alone, separate, apart from them. The day before she had tried to talk to her parents. You can’t do this to Grandpa. What do you mean, can’t her father had said. His neck reddened. Dad, please, a Home—it’s, it’s monstrous. Monstrous, he said. Jenny, what a fine way you have of talking. A fine way to call your parents monsters. No, we’re not monsters, he said, but there are some things in life that have to be faced. You’ll know when you get older. You wait and see, it’s going to be a good thing for him. No, she’d said, no, no. And her mother had put her hand out toward Jenny, saying, You’ll be able to visit him weekends, every weekend, spend time with him, it’ll be better all around …

  Jenny slowly hung the towel over the rod. Gail was banging on the door. “What are you DOING in there?” she cried. “Jenny, answer me! Will you get out, please?”

  Jenny opened the door, and Gail pushed past her. “You’ll make me late for school!”

  Jenny went back to their room and took Ethel out of her crib. The child’s damp, warm weight was comforting. She pushed her nose into the milky smelling hair and jiggled her as she carried her into the kitchen. Her mother was at the stove, wearing house slippers and a blue apron over her nightgown. And Grandpa, shaved and fully dressed, was standing by the sink drinking a cup of steaming tea.

  “Grandpa!” Jenny said in pure astonished joy to find him looking just as he’d looked so many mornings of her life. As if he’d never been sick, never lain in the bunk bed, shrunken and yellow, looking as frail as if a gust of wind would blow his bones to the corners of the earth.

  “Morning, Jenny,” he said.

  Her father entered, unwrapping the newspaper and folding it first to the full-page ad for the Big K Supermarket. On his heels came Frankie, sleepy-eyed, then Gail, with Coke cans in her hair. With all of them there, Jenny couldn’t ask Grandpa what had happened, how the miracle had occurred: he was himself again!

  That afternoon when she got home from school, anxi
ous to see Grandpa, he wasn’t sitting in the chair by the window or lying on the bottom bunk, or even shuffling up and down in front of the house. “He’s been gone all afternoon,” her mother said. “Said he was going out for a little walk, and it’s three hours! I’ve been worrying all that time. The man has no thought for anyone! I went around the block with Ethel, looking for him, and he’s nowhere in sight. No doubt he’s got himself lost or worse. He’s been so confused lately. If your father comes home and has to go out in the car and look for Grandpa, he’s not going to like that one bit at the end of a hard day.”

  “I’ll look for him,” Jenny said. Her mother had her worried. She stepped out on the front porch. Cars were massed in both directions, horns blasting, exhausts panting. Had Grandpa really looked like himself this morning? She could easily have been mistaken and seen what she wanted to see. As she walked toward the Rimbauds she couldn’t help looking at the spot on the street where Nicky had been killed. Was that oily smear of blood still there? A shudder passed through her. Confused, her mother said. Lost. What if he’d done the thing her mother had worried about—stepped out into traffic?

  She looked down Catherine Street. He wasn’t there. He could be anywhere in the city. He’d been gone three hours. Right now he might be lying on the side of a road. She hurried toward Fifth, shaded her eyes, and saw him. He was walking toward her, hands in the pockets of his limp-hemmed black coat. “Grandpa!” she called, waving her hands. She ran toward him. He stopped and waited for her. “Where were you? Where’ve you been?” she said. There were two high spots of color on his bony cheeks.