I gathered myself and crept back to the opening above the hall closet. Granddaddy was waiting below, and he pushed the coats aside when I shined my light on them.
“Don’t worry, it’s not loaded. Hand it down. I’ll take the barrels, you hold the stock.”
After passing him the shotgun, I climbed down the ladder and brushed myself off. As I came out of the closet, I looked around. “Where is everybody?” Susan, Kit, and Louise were nowhere to be seen.
“Went to the store, probably South Shore. Be a while.” He was casually sitting in his chair, cradling the shotgun, wiping it with an oil rag.
“Come over here. Take a look. I want to show you this.”
I came closer, and he continued, “Time to take this home. Been here too long.”
He wiped the carved steel plate over the trigger guard, admiring what he held. “Here, let me show you something special, Hersch, look at this.”
The sight of the shotgun, now standing upright next to him, grabbed my heart. Still, I ran my fingers over the carving in the steel. A hunting scene—a dog, a hunter, reeds next to water, and ducks. I managed to say, “I remember, Granddaddy.”
I had startled him. “You what?”
“I remember. The Snake River. The duck hunt.” My voice quavered.
“You remember?” He looked at me sharply.
“Yes, Granddaddy.”
“Your father?”
“Uh-huh.” I couldn’t form a real word.
“You remember? You were so little.” His disbelief faded, and he said repentantly, “Your father, he didn’t mean to . . . I’m sorry . . .” He stopped as I shook my head.
“Granddaddy.” It was the only thing I could think to say to make him stop.
“Hersch, your father, he . . .” He paused, trying to find his way. “Hersch, it was my fault. It was my fault. I—”
“Granddaddy, no!” I didn’t want more.
“He didn’t mean to . . .” His eyes searched my face. “If I’d been more . . .”
“Granddaddy!” I was certain I didn’t want to hear any more from him.
The expression on my face must have said everything. Yet I was not going to melt. I reached for the strength inside of me that I’d seen in him, determined as I’d never felt before. I was not going to talk about the duck-hunting trip on the Snake River or the terrors I survived at 223 Pierce Street or my father’s brutality and death. I would not stand for Granddaddy trying to carry the blame for my father. That would have forever changed everything between us. I’d lost my father; I was not going to lose my grandfather.
I quickly leaned down, put my face next to his, so he couldn’t see me, so he wouldn’t say anything more, and held him as tightly as I could. He wasn’t sure what I was doing at first, but gradually his hand found its way around my back and I felt his grip, strong and reassuring, the one I remembered from the Snake River.
When we let go, our conversation was over. The last rays of sunlight against the knotty pine walls and ceiling gave the large room a honeyed glow. My grandfather had the sense to choke back all his explanations about what could never be forgiven.
I pulled the ottoman close to his chair. He wiped his shotgun again, put it on my lap, and leaned slightly back as I read. I ran my fingers over the inscription: “To Ty Cobb from the City of Detroit. World’s Greatest Baseball Player.” The date was 1926. I smiled, not at the commemorative shotgun, but at how my grandfather had listened to me. He knew that our bond grew from the trust that had developed between us, and knew I needed the same trust now. He could not take any blame. Only I could excise the scars my father left behind.
CHAPTER NINE
“So, You Met Mr. Al Stump!”
Early one Saturday, Aunt Shirley and I were the only ones stirring except, of course, for Grandma, who always was up at 5:00, tending her garden in the coolness of early morning. I sat at the breakfast room table at my grandmother’s house in Portola Valley, and Aunt Shirley stood at the Wedgewood stove, patiently watching the blue flame on the burner lick the bottom and sides of the old aluminum coffee pot. Shirley and her husband, Dixie Beckworth, and my grandmother built the home in Portola Valley together, each with their own separate wing. By now the pink-orange of dawn had already faded. As long as I could remember, Shirley used the same kind of inexpensive drip pot, even though every year Grandma bought her a new shiny automatic coffee maker of some kind. It consisted of two pots, one on top of the other, made of cheap, lightweight aluminum. The top pot held the grounds and received steaming hot water, while the bottom pot held the finished coffee. Shirley poured the steaming water over the grounds and waited.
“Want some?” she asked, engagingly, but not really expecting me to say yes.
“Sure, I’ll try.” I responded in as firm a voice as I could muster, since she knew I didn’t drink coffee. She brought me a cup and returned to the stove to watch my reaction.
I sipped from the cup and felt my mouth revolt. “That tastes awful. What’s in it?” I put the cup down and wiped the bitterness inside my mouth with my tongue and my puckered lips with the back of my hand.
“A little salt. Started drinking it this way when I was in the Red Cross in Italy during the war. Got rid of the taste of foul water. Now it keeps people away from my coffee.” She flashed a sly grin, showing her wry, pointed humor. Her grin was just like her father’s, filling her face to the edges.
Aunt Shirley’s similarities to my grandfather ran wide and deep. Like him, she was fiercely independent, determined, intellectually active and probing, and stubborn. She had owned Shirley Cobb Books, a bookstore in Palo Alto, since she was a young woman, and was both very confident and respectful of her role in the community. She was proud of having started her own business, of knowing exactly what her customers liked. She appreciated good writing and preferred being around bright people, especially in the publishing industry. Like her father, she had a knack for knowing what people were like and what they might do. Also like her father, her temperament did not have patience with shallowness. So, in my view, which I never directly shared with her, they were so much alike, they “bumped against each other” instead of “shaking hands.”
While I wiped the bitterness off my lips, she asked in an incisive tone, “How was your visit with the Old Man?”
She moved from the stove to the sink and started fussing with some dishes as she waited for me to answer. The day before I’d spent at Granddaddy’s house by myself. Grandma had dropped me off early in the morning while she ran errands.
Shirley repeated her question, only this time with more force. “Well, how was it? Did the Old Man behave himself?” She viewed her father harshly, but referring to him as “The Old Man” wasn’t meant to convey that he was old or feeble, but rather described someone who sat on top of a mountain, defying any and all to come up and knock him off. That’s how she saw him, defiant and stubborn. She was always more than curious about Susan’s or my experience with Granddaddy, for what we reported to her never fit the lens she used to view him.
“It was okay. He seemed a little tired. Maybe he didn’t feel too well,” I answered.
Then she said, with a point-blank inflection I’d heard before, “So, you met Mr. Al Stump!” When Shirley did not think much of somebody, she used a tone of voice that had the same effect as realizing you just stepped in dog doo with your best shoes on. It was more than disgust; it was the utter dismissal of a wretched person.
I glanced out the window, recalling the previous day with a vividness that put a grin on my face. I’d gotten up early and wandered into the kitchen. Finding nobody there, I poured myself some orange juice and sat at the kitchen table, which was painted red and had black iron legs. The clock said 7:15. The house was quiet, so I guessed that Aunt Shirley and Uncle Dixie had already left for work. Susan and Kit were asleep. I was watching some birds feeding on the ground in the flowerbed just outside the window when the back door opened. Grandma sailed in, smiling and waving to me.
She wore a smock, covered in dirt, a long-sleeve blouse, flowing skirt, rubber boots, a big hat, and rubber gloves that she took off and left on the clothes washer in the back porch. “Good morning, Hersch,” she said, still smiling at me. “Hungry?” This was not really a question. She already knew I was hungry. She was just announcing her intention to fix me something good to eat. There was hardly a break in her movements from taking off her hat, removing her gloves and smock, shuffling out of her muddy boots into house slippers, moving to the stove, lighting a burner at full blast, putting a pan on it, and reaching into the refrigerator for butter, bacon, and some eggs. The pan got hot real fast, sizzled the bacon, and filled the kitchen with the familiar smell of cooking bacon. She whipped up the eggs with a little milk and poured them into a second pan on top of melted butter. Bread went into the toaster. In between moving the pans, I saw her smile, and heard the shuffle of house slippers, and a soft whistling sound.
Soon, a plate of food was set in front of me with a mound of strawberry jam on the side. The strawberries came from her garden, and the toast came from bread baked in her stove. At least three scrambled eggs, with butter oozing at the edges, six strips of bacon, a glass of milk, and biscuits left over from dinner were ready to tempt me. Grandma sat down, holding a cup about half-filled with tea. The cup was so thin, I could see light through it. She didn’t drink coffee.
“I’m going to town later this morning. Want to come with me?”
I stuck a big bite into my mouth and thought for a second. “Can I go to Granddaddy’s?”
“I don’t know, it’s kind of short notice. He might have something planned. I don’t know how he’s doing.” Her tone of voice was warm, but quickly firming on the side of saying no.
“He said it’s okay to come anytime. Besides, I’ll play outside in the jungle.” I was slightly pleading, sensing I had to work my way to her saying yes.
“Jungle?” Her face showed her amusement.
“That’s what we call the backyard. It’s a mess of bushes and old stuff. And the pool is only half filled, has a big branch in it, so that’s the swamp.” My grandmother’s smile widened. She smiled easily, and for her, life was like her gardens: all that was needed was good soil, water, and nurturing. So, for her grandchildren, good food, love and affection, and play were always abundant. Then she watched things grow and develop. She continued to smile as I described more of Granddaddy’s backyard, playing there, and I knew I was making progress. She finally said she’d call and see if it was okay. This meant she would call Louise and make her usual inquires about Granddaddy’s health, mood, and condition.
The phone was on the wall, next to the table where we were sitting; Grandma held the hand-piece two or three inches from her ear. I knew if Granddaddy answered, she would hang up. She would never talk to him. She wasn’t mad, or anything I could see in that way, so I didn’t understand completely. But I knew she hadn’t spoken to him in years, and probably never would.
We, the grandchildren, and especially my sister, had asked Aunt Shirley to tell us why Grandma and Granddaddy never spoke to each other now. One night we were sitting in Aunt Shirley’s room, talking and putting off going to bed. Susan asked what Grandma and Granddaddy were like when they were young, and what happened to cause the separation.
Shirley took a breath and started slowly, “She still loves that old . . .” Then her voice trailed off to silence in front of her small audience.
“But if she loves him, why won’t she talk to him?” Susan’s voice was a mixture of questioning and bewilderment.
“Your grandmother still loves him and . . .” She caught her breath, changed the subject, picked up a book, and started reading. I watched the expression on her face drift as if returning to her youth. No pages in her book turned for several minutes. She finally said, “I think it’s time for you two to hit the sack. Now, scoot out of here. And brush your teeth.” There was hardly any breath in her voice. We sat for a moment, but the door had closed on the past, and we had no way of pushing it open that night. I kissed Aunt Shirley and left. Susan remained, but I don’t know if they talked anymore.
My reverie was broken as Grandma said firmly into the phone, “Oh, Louise. Hello, this is Mrs. Cobb. Yes, nice to hear your voice too. Just fine, everything’s just fine. Louise, please ask him if Hersch can visit him today. In about an hour, maybe a little sooner. I know it’s early, but just check with him. Yes, just Hersch, the others are still asleep. Yes, he’s had breakfast, but will need lunch, if he can stay that long. For as long as is okay. Yes, all day is fine. Yes, yes, just ask him. Thank you.”
I knew it was very awkward for Grandma to phone, but once Louise answered, the request would be made, and I hoped it was okay. I waited along with Grandma as she held the receiver a few inches from her ear, and leaned on the countertop, waiting. Finally, she became alert, listening to the voice coming from the phone.
“Oh, really. That’s just what he wants to hear. No, no. I’ll pack some things for him. I think I know what he’ll need. Thank you, Louise. Yes, I’ll drop him off in about an hour. Thank you. Good-bye.”
She winked at me. “Well, Mr. Lucky, seems your grandfather doesn’t have anything planned today and would love to see you. But not until after 9:00. Want to wake up Susan and Kit and ask them to go with you?”
“Not really,” I answered, struggling to hide my excitement and trying to remain nonchalant.
“All right, then. Go and put on some nice long pants—and take your shorts, just in case you fall into the ‘swamp.’ I’ll go and change, and we’ll leave in a few minutes. It’s early, so I hope you don’t mind running some errands with me.” She rubbed her hands on a dishtowel and walked out of the kitchen.
All the pans and cooking stuff would have to sit in the sink and on the stove until later. I knew that if we cleaned up, the noise would wake Susan and Kit and they would want to come with me. Grandma always understood more than she let us know.
Grandma stopped at Bing’s Nursery on the way into town and bought two flats of colorful flowers. She took a little while to choose just which colors she wanted around her patio, so 9:00 had already passed when we turned into the driveway at 48 Spencer Lane. Grandma pulled slowly into the driveway, and I saw Granddaddy’s black Chrysler parked in front of the garage, which was past the house on the right-hand side. There was another car, a blue sedan, parked just at the corner of the house, before the drive curved in front. I didn’t recognize this car, but Grandma did.
“It looks like you have company. Louise didn’t mention anybody to me.” Her voice carried more worrisome concern than pleasant surprise.
She pulled around the curve to the front patio just as the large front door opened. Louise came out of the house and hurried to Grandma’s side of the car. I heard, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Cobb.” She was expecting a reproach, and she quickly explained. “Mr. Stump arrived a little while ago, after you called. I didn’t know he was coming today. I don’t think Mr. Cobb expected him either. They’re in the living room, talking. I don’t think he’ll stay long, so I expect everything’s okay for Hersch to visit.”
The engine was running, and Grandma turned and looked at me. I had never met Mr. Stump, but I’d heard his name before and knew Grandma was deciding whether to let me stay or not.
Finally she said to Louise, “You call me if anything is amiss. Understand? I don’t want Hersch talking with Mr. Stump. Is that clear?” Her voice was not loud, but firmly set in this instruction.
Louise answered quickly, “Yes, Mrs. Cobb. I understand. If Mr. Stump doesn’t leave soon, I’ll call you.”
Both Grandma’s hands were on the steering wheel, and I watched her fingers massage the wheel through her white gloves as she said, “Now, Hersch, go on in and see your grandfather, but I don’t want you talking to Mr. Stump. Be polite, but don’t sit and talk with him. Understand?”
I didn’t know quite what to say, but I nodded my head, bundled my extra clothes in my arms, reached over, and kissed
Grandma on her cheek. “I’ll be okay, Grandma.” That was easy to say, but I sure didn’t know what to expect.
I slid out, closed the car door, and watched Grandma drive away. She waved her small hand, as she passed through the gate. I felt excited and smiled. Something was going on, and I was the only one here to see it. No brother, sister, aunts, or cousins. I thought, “Granddaddy must be in a snit or something.” I’d always wanted to see what Aunt Shirley was forever hinting at. “Granddaddy must be mad . . . This is going to be great.” All this and more occurred in a flash as Grandma drove off. I turned toward the front door with my bundle of extra clothes, took a quick step, and bumped into Louise.
“Hold on, Herschel, what have you got there, extra clothes?” Her drawl was slow and low and startled me back to the present. It didn’t seem to bother her that I had absently walked right into her. She was five feet nine or ten inches tall and pretty big.
I straightened up as best I could and mumbled. “Yes, ma’am, clothes, just in case I fall in the mud.”
“Mud?” she asked.
“Out in the back, in the swamp. The pool, I mean. You know, if I’m playing back there.” I stumbled through my sentence, getting my balance, and pulling my clothes close to my chest.
“Oh, I see. Well, let me take those, and you go on in. Mr. Cobb is expecting you. Now, go on!” She took my bundle, put her hand on my left shoulder, and guided me toward the front door. I walked off, feeling awkward and puzzled because Louise’s voice didn’t sound like there was a wild scene going on. In fact, she was calm as the slight breeze blowing across the yard. I picked up my stride, hit the front door step in three big leaps, and burst into the living room. When I saw Granddaddy, I stopped in my tracks.
Heart of a Tiger: Growing Up With My Grandfather, Ty Cobb Page 24