by Kelly Utt
“Sara, my dear, you’re exactly right. We are your family,” John Wendell assures. “You’re Nicky’s daughter. And Nicky is Ali’s brother. That’s why you call her Aunt Ali, yes?” Sara nods as she looks over at her aunt and smiles. “And Ali is married to George, which makes him your Uncle George. So your Uncle George’s family is your family, too. That includes Linette, Alec, me, and my late wife Eleanor. You’re ours, kid. If you’ll have us.”
“Don’t forget Liam in that list,” I add. “He’ll want to be counted as an uncle and his wife Estella as an aunt.” I sure wish he and Estella could have been here tonight. He had a prior commitment and couldn’t get away. They’re planning a visit soon though. Sara smiles big and leans on Luis’ shoulder. It looks like she feels loved. I hope so. She’s our girl, for sure.
“You guys are such a nice family,” Jen says from the end of the table. “Can you adopt me?”
“I thought we already did that,” Roddy says, winking at Jen.
“Yeah, didn’t you receive the paperwork?” Ali jokes. “You spent so much time at our place when we were kids. I thought for sure the paperwork was signed a long, long time ago.”
Ethan decides to speak up now, feeling confident. “And Jenny, that means everybody at this table is your family. Right, Mommy?”
“I’d say so, baby,” Ali replies. “I like that.”
“Family doesn’t only come from being blood relatives,” John Wendell says. “It’s about much more. Family finds each other all kinds of different ways. But one thing is for sure: family always, always, always finds each other. I miss my sweet Eleanor tonight. And we miss Alec. I know Sara misses her mom, and Luis misses her, too. There should be three more chairs at this table with those folks seated here with us. It’s heartbreaking when the ones we love move on without us. Like Marjorie, I, too, believe they’re still around. Or at least I think they pop in from time to time to check on us and to reconnect. Who knows how all the logistics work? But I feel like they’re not gone. They’re just in another realm. In another form.” After a pause, he looks around the table at us and continues, “I’m grateful to have each and every one of you with me right here and right now. During this beautiful, snowy January. In my beloved Ithaca. On the spectacular Cayuga Lake. At one of my favorite restaurants. You people make this old man’s heart swell with happiness. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
I don’t think there’s a dry eye in our group as we smile at John Wendell and each other.
“To family,” Roddy says, placing a hand over his heart just like Ali does and lifting his wine glass in the air for a toast. We raise our water and wine glasses to join in. They clank together and make a happy sound.
“To family,” we say in unison.
Same as the earlier part of our Saturday, this evening is shaping up to be one we won’t soon forget. Ali and I envisioned this type of scene from our old house in D.C., but I don’t think our visions did the reality justice. I’m so glad we moved home. My wife and boys look relaxed and content.
Roddy kicks the dinner off by ordering a sampling of egg rolls, calamari, and coconut shrimp for the table. It’s kind of nice to watch Roddy spend his money because he seems to legitimately have fun doing so. Once the appetizers are eaten, we order our main courses. John Wendell’s long-time favorite pick is the Georgia Peach Grilled Chicken with sweet potato mash, peach chutney, and fresh vegetables on the side. He doesn’t even have to tell the waiter. I’m not sure this particular guy would have known because he seems new, but apparently, the hostesses filled him in.
“The usual, Mr. Wendell?” the server asks.
“Yes, sir.”
“Wow, John Wendell, how does he know what you want to eat?” Ethan asks.
“He knows because I’ve been here a lot of times, E-boy,” John Wendell responds. “A whole lot of times. And I always order the exact same thing. I’m predictable.” Ethan smiles, satisfied.
Roddy, Luis, Jen, and Duke all order the same Georgia Peach chicken, inspired by John Wendell. He swears you can’t go wrong with the choice. Marjorie’s a vegetarian, so she orders an eggplant dish. Ali, on the other hand, is usually in the mood for steak when she’s pregnant. She orders a filet mignon, and Nicky and I follow her lead with similar cuts of beef. Mom chooses salad and crab cakes, and the kids pick flatbread pizzas. It’s all delicious.
We’re finished with our main meal and are leisurely chatting over cheesecake and crème brûlée when the band begins to play the original Frank Sinatra version of The Way You Look Tonight.
“Awe, Georgie, wasn’t this their song?” Ali asks me as she leans in close.
Before I can answer, John Wendell is up out of his seat and heading towards the musicians. We all watch him go, surprised. No one says anything for a minute as we survey the scene. He’s slow but steady on his feet. He looks down as he walks, taking care with each step as he weaves around tables and chairs filled with restaurant patrons. The crowd begins to grow curious as they watch him pass by. His body language is strong and determined.
“What’s he doing?” Roddy asks. “Is he…”
“He’s dancing,” I say. “My grandfather is dancing.” I look back at Ali and she nods in agreement.
There’s a small tiled area in front of the band where I’ve seen couples dance in the past. I hadn’t noticed anyone dancing there this evening, but I’ve seen John Wendell and Grandma do it before. Ali and I have even joined them a few times.
When John Wendell reaches the band members, he whispers something to the saxophone player who nods approvingly then turns to the others and motions with his hand for them to start the song over. These guys probably all know him, too, same as the restaurant staff and the majority of people in Ithaca. The keyboard player lays down a soft background rhythm as John Wendell swivels around to face the dining room and picks up a microphone. He takes his time, carefully removing the mic from the stand and breathing deeply in and out before he begins.
“Hello there, fine people. I hope you’re enjoying this beautiful evening so far.”
The crowd erupts into enthusiastic applause. They’re a peppy bunch.
“My name is John Edgar Wendell,” he continues. “People usually call me just John Wendell. I’m a long time Ithaca resident, and Yellow Cob is one of my favorite restaurants. Oh, and I’m ninety-five years old.” This time the applause is thunderous. John Wendell seems to appreciate the response. He smiles broadly and waves, sort of as if he’s a movie star on the red carpet. Again, he waits for quiet and then continues. “I’m here celebrating with my family tonight because my grandson and his beautiful wife and their wonderful little boys have just moved back home. You may have seen the article about my grandson in this morning’s Ithaca Journal. I’m so proud of him. He’s Ithaca’s very own soldier, recently retired from the Air Force after a decorated military career. He’s an Aerospace Engineer. A real-life rocket scientist! He’ll be working over in Cornell’s Engineering Department once he gets his family settled into their new house. His name is George Hartmann. He’s right over there,” he says, pointing towards our table. I blush at the attention and the mention of the newspaper article. So much for keeping a low profile. Ali turns and kisses me slow on the lips while the rest of the group cheers. A surge goes through my body when I feel my wife’s mouth on mine. She had better not get me too wound up in here or I might have to take her out to our SUV and have my way with her. There’s room in the back seat. It’s happened before.
John Wendell waits for the crowd to quiet down then goes on. “My amazing daughter Linette is here tonight, too. You may have seen us together around town. She and I have taken care of each other in recent years. But George is home now. He’s going to take care of his Mom.” The room claps politely, unsure where this is going. I’m unsure where this is going. A quick glance at Mom’s face tells me she’s unsure where this is going as well. “There’s more, and it’s the reason I’m up here telling you all of this. My lovely wife of sixty-two years
, Eleanor Wendell, isn’t with us tonight. Sadly, she passed away nine years ago. I miss her every day.” Several audible gasps and a few groans of pity rise above a low murmur. “I know, I know,” John Wendell says, working the crowd. He is surprisingly comfortable in front of a microphone. I guess there’s a lot I still don’t know about him. “But what I’m about to tell you is a good and a happy thing,” he says, pausing for dramatic effect. “This is our song.”
The crowd goes wild as John Wendell cues the band then begins snapping the fingers on his free hand along with the beat while gently shifting his weight back and forth to sway from side to side.
“He’s still holding the microphone,” Roddy says. “Is he going to sing?”
“I think he is,” I reply.
“Yes, he sure is,” Ali says. “This is remarkable. And so John Wendell.”
Right on time along with the music, John Wendell stops snapping and raises both hands up towards the heavens as if to tell Grandma this one's for her. He straightens his free arm out at an angle towards the floor, palm forward, and readies himself for the melody ahead by leaning backward.
“Someday,” he begins singing with his eyes closed while turning his free hand upward and taking a deep breath. “When I’m awfully low, when the world is cold, I will feel a glow just thinking of you, and the way you look tonight.” A seriousness settles over the crowd as they start to realize just how much this song means to him. I’m with them. His comment about me being here to watch over Mom takes my breath away. Has he been waiting for me to return home to take care of her so he can move on and be with Grandma?
“Yes, you're lovely, with your smile so warm,” he croons. His voice is deep and rich. “And your cheeks so soft, there is nothing for me but to love you, and the way you look tonight.” He snaps his fingers again during the break in lyrics while the band continues to play. He walks slowly across the floor in front of the musicians, every step precisely on the beat. The crowd lets out another round of cheers and applause when they see him move.
“With each word your tenderness grows, tearing my fear apart,” he sings, eyes open now and taking it all in. The restaurant patrons love him. He’s a natural performer. “And that laugh that wrinkles your nose, it touches my foolish heart. Lovely. Never, ever change. Keep that breathless charm. Won't you please arrange it? 'Cause I love you, just the way you look tonight.”
Slowly and deliberately, John Wendell places the microphone back on its stand as the string bass amps up the volume for an instrumental solo. He takes another long, deep breath. He straightens himself, back arched, then raises his left arm up and to the side of his body while moving his right arm up and into a semicircle in front of him. We instantly recognize what he’s doing. He’s holding his position just like he would if he were dancing with a partner. Just like he did countless times when dancing with Grandma. As the music plays on, John Edgar Wendell dances with the grace and precision of an old pro. He moves forward, then turns, then forward again in a slow Foxtrot. He knows all the steps by heart. When it’s time to twirl his imaginary partner, he holds his arm out and waits, then steps from side to side in time before dipping her on cue. The crowd looks on, deeply moved. Many people are in tears.
This is something of a surreal experience. John Wendell’s rousing speech and his song and dance are communicating things that a regular old sit-down conversation never could. To an outside observer, John Wendell is happy, and positive, and pleasant to be around. But underneath all of that, his heart is broken. It has been ever since the day Grandma left him. Have I underestimated the depths of his pain? I was busy building my career and my own family. I know John Wendell would never have asked me to give any of that up. But he needs me now. My mind is flooded with new understanding, and I feel a little dizzy. I look around at the adults in our group, and they all seem to get it, too. Mom must have been trying to break it to me gently during our conversation this afternoon. Her eyes are filled with tears. I suddenly see the complexity of what she’s facing.
“Georgie,” Ali says as she leans her head onto my shoulder. “This is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. This is what life’s all about.”
“I know,” I say. “I’d twirl an imaginary you if I were in his position. True love never dies.” She nods and burrows into me as I wrap my arms tightly around her. Our family members are just as moved. They hug and hold and pat each other as they watch John Wendell’s routine. I’m awestruck by the man that he is. I’m incredibly proud to be his grandson.
“Hey,” I say. “Let’s go and join him.”
“Good idea, Georgie, I’m right behind you,” Ali replies.
“Anybody else?” I ask.
“Yes, sir,” Duke says. “You read my mind. Shall we, Jen?”
“I’m in,” Roddy says to us, then to Marjorie, “May I have this dance, my darling?” She curtsies, and they follow us towards the little dance floor.
“Us too,” Nicky says, grabbing Luis’ hand.
“Sara, dear,” Mom says, “How about you and I each get one of these handsome little boys and go dance?”
“I’d like that,” Sara replies as she helps Ethan out of his chair and towards the dance floor. Mom picks Leo up out of his booster seat and follows closely behind.
And there we are, the entire baker’s dozen of us, on the little dance floor moving together to Frank Sinatra’s timeless tune.
We stay at Yellow Cob dancing, talking, and drinking wine right up until they close down at eleven o’clock. We even watch the musicians pack up and leave. If it weren’t so cold outside, we would probably hang around even longer talking in the parking lot. We have a tendency to stay out late when we get together to celebrate. The boys are used to it. Of course, the strategically packed toy bags help get them through the evening. Leo sleeps on my shoulder and Ethan sleeps on Roddy’s. They’ll catch up tomorrow. Maybe they’ll take a long nap.
When we arrive home, we’re tired, but positively glowing from our fun evening. Mom and John Wendell get in their car and head for their house without even coming inside ours. I’ll bet John Wendell is exhausted after our big time. Ali and I wave goodbye to them, then head into the house to make sure everyone has what they need to settle in for a good night’s rest. I don’t think any of us will take long to conk out. Ethan and Leo again seem fine with sleeping in their own room, so we go with it. Marjorie and Roddy are right next door for the next few nights anyway.
I do a couple of miscellaneous chores while I wait for the house to be quiet. I want to be sure I’m available if anybody needs an extra pillow or blanket. Once it sounds like everyone is settled, I wash up, put on some flannel pajama pants and climb into bed with my wife. I have thoughts of lovemaking, because, well, when do I not? But Ali doesn’t look like she has the energy for it right now. It’s been a long day. I scoot up tight behind her and envelope her in my arms, and everything is right in our world. I fall asleep fast and hard.
Part II
Ancient History
5
Things Worth Fighting For
I’m not sure how long I sleep. It’s one of those periods of sleep that’s almost frighteningly deep. I dream of my dad, which is strange because there’s no storyline to go along with the dream. It doesn’t feel like a dream at all, really, but more like I’m actually seeing Dad in person. Except I know I’m asleep, and I know he’s dead. I have no idea what to make of this. It’s never happened to me before. We’re in the kitchen of our old apartment in Brooklyn. Dad has his arms folded across his chest, his muscular forearms settled down on top of each other like old familiar friends. He stood like that a lot. He’s in his usual spot between the stove and the refrigerator and is leaning back against the oak cabinets and the white tile countertop. We had countless talks in this kitchen when I was a kid. Dad always stood in the same spot. Sometimes he ate Cheez Whiz on Ritz Crackers while we talked. Other times, a bowl of cereal. We often waited until Mom was asleep and then met up in the kitchen for some spec
ial time together. I’d go to my bed in my room, but then I’d stay awake and listen for the sound of the cracker sleeve or a clank in the silverware drawer. Those were my cues. Dad sees me now, and a huge smile appears on his face. I always did bring a smile to his face. No matter how busy or tired or stressed he became, he was always happy to see me.
“Hey, Kid!” he says enthusiastically. He called me Kid.
It feels like no time has passed since he left us. So often I’ve wished I could hear that voice again, and here it is. It’s deep and husky and warm. He unfolds his arms and extends them towards me, an invitation to go in for an embrace. After all these years, I still remember what it felt like to hug my dad. I was smaller and shorter then, so his arms always wrapped around me. He used to wrap me tight and hug me hard. When I was little enough to be held and carried, he held me just as tight. I remember being carried in his arms and leaning my head down softly on his big, strong shoulders. He might as well have been Superman as far as I was concerned. In those days, I thought my Daddy was invincible. I always figured he held me tight because he loved me so much that he couldn’t help but squeeze me and keep me close. He would have done anything to keep me safe and happy. I know that for sure. He was a good man. A good dad.
I hesitate for a moment as I work to process what I’m experiencing. I wonder if we’re really in our Brooklyn kitchen. Surely not. Maybe my mind needed to create a familiar backdrop. Deciding I have nothing to lose, I move forward towards my Dad. He places his arms around me, and he feels real. He feels warm and very much alive. He hugs me tight and his embrace feels just like it always did. I’m overwhelmed. I love my dad so much. I miss him more than I let myself acknowledge. And here he is. It sure seems like I’m really hugging him right now. I don’t know how or why this is happening, but I’m incredibly grateful that it is. We hold each other for awhile. There are no words exchanged between us, but there is communication. Come to think of it, Dad didn’t actually open his mouth to say hello to me. It was as if he sent me the message somehow. I received it, telepathically, I guess. I’m so flooded with emotion that I begin to weep. Wet tears stream down my cheeks. It feels like Dad understands every thought, without me having to speak. Images and feelings come in waves. Happy and sad are intertwined in a strange and beautiful mix. One minute, I remember being a little child with my dad holding my hand as I step onto a subway car. The next, I remember standing alone at the entrance to the emergency room when the ambulance transporting him pulls up and my legs fail me. I hold Dad close and give in to the flood of emotions. My thoughts advance to everything he’s missed. I remember walking into the wedding garden and looking at my bride, my heart simultaneously bursting with happiness and aching because my dad isn’t there with me. I remember the same when Ethan was born, then Leo. I remember ceremonies and holidays where other dads were in attendance. I remember times I’ve cried for him. Times I’ve yelled up at the cosmos in anger because it isn’t fair.