Bill Warrington's Last Chance

by James King

  “He’s never asked me to come over before,” her mother said. “I think he’s lonely. And I’m sure he’d love to see his granddaughter.”

  Never did before, April wanted to say. On the other visits, she usually just watched TV while her mother cleaned and talked the old guy’s ear off in the kitchen. In fact, now that she thought about it, April didn’t think her grandfather had ever been especially interested, one way or the other, in seeing anyone—even his own daughter.

  She felt a sharp jab on her thigh.

  “Jesus!” April yanked the white earbuds out of her ears and glared at her mother. “What was that for?”

  “Don’t ‘Jesus’ me. I’m trying to ask you a question. And if you couldn’t hear me, you’ve got that damned thing cranked up too high. You want to be wearing hearing aids when you’re thirty?”

  “I hope I’m not alive when I’m that old,” April said. She continued to rub her leg. “What did you do that for, anyway?”

  “I don’t want to scrape the tires. Am I getting too close?”

  April exhaled and shifted in her seat, slowly, to take a look. “No,” she said.

  Her mother put the car in park and the two of them got out. April put her notebook in her pocket and waited. Sometimes it took longer to actually get out of the car than to park it.

  “Hey!” Her mother was pointing to the space between the car and curb. “It’s at least a foot and a half away.”

  April shrugged. “You asked if you were too close,” she said slowly, happily selecting the condescending tone that she knew drove the woman bonkers. “I said you weren’t. And you aren’t.”

  Her mother climbed back into the car, slammed the door behind her as if it were April’s fault her parking skills sucked, and made a few dozen more attempts to get closer to the curb. April almost burst out laughing at the back-and-forth lurching of the car and the frequent, not-so-muffled cussing emanating from within.

  “You want some clown to come along and scrape it?” her mother demanded as she emerged from the car, pushing back her hair and, in so doing, revealing a most unattractive moon of underarm perspiration.

  “Our thirdhand Camry?” April said, looking away. “How tragic would that be.”

  “Secondhand, barely, and I need that car for my clients, Miss Wisebutt. That car helps put bread on our table.”

  April stuffed her iPod into the front pocket of her jeans, looking down for a covert roll of the eyes.

  “And don’t forget,” her mother said in the suddenly lighter tone that April recognized as the to-keep-the-peace-I’m-going-to-ignore-that-one voice, “you’ll be driving that thirdhand Camry in a year.”

  April shrugged. “Then I hope someone totals it. Maybe we’ll get a car built in this century.” She put the earbuds in her other pocket, with the notebook. “Can we just get this over with? Grandpa’s watching us from the window. It’s creeping me out.”

  April couldn’t actually tell if her grandfather was looking at them or just staring off into the distance. He was framed in the middle of the pane, dressed in a red and green flannel shirt and jeans. He looked shorter and a little skinnier than she remembered. Maybe it had been longer than six months since she’d seen him. She had always thought of him, whenever she thought of him, which was pretty much next to never, as being bigger and gruffer-looking. From here, he just looked old.

  Her mother waved, but her grandfather didn’t respond. Her mother waved again.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to just go ring the doorbell like normal people?” April asked. “We’re standing here waving at him like a couple of dorks.”

  As they made their way to the front door, April noticed other things about the house that you couldn’t see from the street. More of the gutter at the front of the house hung away from the roofline, and patches of peeling paint were visible around the front picture window and door.

  “You didn’t tell me Grandpa’s gone ghetto,” April said.

  She saw that her mother was looking at the gutter. “You probably won’t believe this, but this place was once immaculate. Did I ever tell you that your grandfather actually built this house for your grandmother?”

  “Right after he got back from Korea and then proposed to Grandma Clare in the front yard the day he finished it and Grandma Clare said no at first as a joke? No, Mom, you never told me.”

  “It’s starting to look like what we’d call a fixer-upper.”

  The “we,” April knew, had to mean Hank Johnson, her mother’s creepy new boss at the realty office. An unpleasant memory of Hank’s hearty hi-how-are-ya handshake and let-me-sell-you-something smile when he picked her mother up for an open house made April cringe. How could her mother not see that Hank was a complete phony and most likely a letch?

  Since Hank was on the brain, April thought at first that the voice calling out to her and her mother now was somehow his. But it was her grandfather’s. He was holding the front door open.

  “Don’t own the stock, you know. Move it or lose it.”

  He closed the door and walked away.

  “That was random,” April said. They started up the front steps, which were covered, like the front walk, in leaves. “What’s he talking about?”

  “Stock in the electric company,” her mother answered. “He always said it when one of your uncles left a door open or if it took us more than half a second to get something out of the refrigerator. Been a while since I’ve heard that one.”

  Her mother pushed the front door open.

  “Hey, Billy Boy,” she called out, “you’d better clear those leaves off the walk or someone’s going to trip and sue your bony little—”

  She stopped so suddenly that April bumped into her. Newspapers were strewn all over the floor, the couch, the piano bench, on top of the television—everywhere, it seemed, except on the faded brown recliner in front of the television. April saw that her grandfather had returned to the spot by the front window. The newspapers under his heavy work boots crinkled as he turned.

  “What?” he asked.

  Her mother was looking at the mess, and then at the old man, and then back again. April figured she’d better do something before her mother got whiplash. She stepped up next to her mother and gave her grandfather a small wave.

  “Hi, Grandpa.”

  Her grandfather stared at her.

  Excuse me for being polite, April thought.

  “Hi, April. Hi, Marcy,” her mother said, a statue no more. “How nice of you two to come so soon after I called.”

  He broke his death-ray stare on April and turned to his daughter. There was a trace of the start of a small smile. “Still the smart-ass, I see,” he said.

  Her mother put her hands on her hips. “Falling behind on your housework?”

  April’s grandfather looked around as if he didn’t see anything out of place in covering your living room with yellowing newspaper. She was dying to break the silence with a nice long Okaaaaay.

  “Let me put some coffee on,” her mother said, finally. “Then we can talk.” She walked toward the kitchen without another look.

  April realized she had never seen the two of them hug or kiss. Her grandfather, meanwhile, refocused his death-ray gaze on her. Was he trying to freak her out? She noticed black and gray hairs sticking out of his ears.

  “How have you been, Grandpa?”

  He kept up the eye-lock for another moment.

  “Haven’t seen you in a while,” he said.

  Looks like you haven’t seen anyone in a while. Or a razor and comb, for that matter.

  “Yeah, well,” April said.

  “Startin’ to develop, I see.”

  April felt the blush rush up from her neck to her face. What was she supposed to say to that?

  “You look just like she did at your age,” he said.

  April frowned. “You mean, my mom?”

  “Who do you think I mean? Jayne Mansfield?”

  “Who’s Jayne Mansfield?”

  Her gr
andfather cocked his head. “You’re kidding me.”

  They both jumped when they heard the shout, but April was the first to rush through the dining room to the kitchen, where her mother stood in the doorway. A sharp rustle of newspapers and footsteps followed behind, and a moment later April heard—and felt, thank you very much—the wheezy breathing of her grandfather on the back of her neck.

  “Jesus,” April said as she looked over her mother’s shoulder.

  Dirty dishes filled the sink and lined the adjacent counter space. The cupboards were open and empty, save for a mug and a couple of plates. One of the drawers was upside down on top of another counter, the contents scattered beneath and around it. On the small kitchen table was a teetering mountain of aluminum TV-dinner trays reaching halfway to the ceiling, encrusted with the dried remains of whatever entrée each had held.

  Her mother turned. “What in holy hell is going on here?”

  April’s grandfather sidled past them to the counter.

  “I was looking for something,” he said. He angled the drawer back into its groove. “Haven’t had a chance to put everything back.” He swept some of the stuff on the counter back into the drawer.

  “I’m not talking about that.” Her mother’s voice was rising in that way April knew could lead, if left unchecked, to wall-shaking decibels. “At least that mess doesn’t attract flies!” She pointed at the stack of TV-dinner trays. “That goddamned mess does!”

  “Mom,” April said quietly, warning.

  “You’re going to attract mice. Rats, even! How can you live like this?”

  Her grandfather continued putting the items back in the drawer. “Just haven’t gotten to it yet,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.” He closed the drawer and turned. “That and the leaves. No sweat. I can handle it.”

  He winked, then started toward the sink.

  For the record-setting second time in a single day, her mother seemed uncertain of what to say or do. She stared at his back as he turned on the faucet. But then she rallied. “Hold on, old man.” She turned to April. “You go straighten up the living room. Put the papers in piles. I’ll start on the dishes.”

  April nodded but didn’t move. She fought the temptation to click her heels and yell, Jawohl, Herr Kommandant!

  Her mother shut off the water and pointed at her grandfather. “You—get a big garbage bag and start clearing the table of those disgusting trays. When this place is halfway cleaned up, you can tell me why you wanted to have a little chat.”

  “You mean those black garbage bags, like for trash cans?” he asked.

  “Yeah, those.” April was embarrassed by the way her mother stuck her butt out as she hunched over to open the cabinet, stretching her pants for the world to see every line of her mom-style underwear.

  “Don’t think I have any,” her grandfather said.

  “What a surprise. Where do you keep your cleanser?”

  “Should be there.”

  Her mother shook her head. “Where else might you keep it? And some plastic gloves?”

  “You usually have that stuff in your car, don’t you?”

  “Why would I? Clients would think I’m a cleaning woman.”

  “What clients?”

  Her mother straightened and turned. “I told you. I’m a real estate agent now. Don’t you remember?”

  “Of course I remember,” he said, after a moment. “I just thought you might have—”

  “You old bastard.”

  “What?”

  “So that’s the reason you called? The important reason you wanted to see me? You need someone to do your goddamn housework!”

  Her father put his hand up. “Hold on, Marcy. Not true.”

  “I’ve told you several times I’ve been studying for my real estate exam and I might not be able to make it over as often. Not that you ever seemed to care one way or the other. But now you do, apparently, now that the house is so filthy you can’t take it anymore.” Her mother pushed one of the chairs up against the table, nearly upsetting the tray tower. “This is unbelievable. Even for you.”

  “I just wanted to talk with you, Marcy.” His voice sounded suddenly strained, almost feeble. “That’s all. I have a favor to ask. And it isn’t this.” He waved his arm to indicate the dirty dishes, the TV-DINNER trays, the house. “Please.”

  “No more bull,” Marcy said to her father. “Every other time I come here I end up cleaning, so I know you were hoping I’d do exactly that today. Deny it and I’m out of here.”

  He raised both hands this time, surrendering, and with that her mother faced the sink and began to fill one of the filthy pots with hot water. Without turning, she called out, “April, isn’t there something you need to do?”

  Now April did click her heels, but since she was wearing sneakers, there was no sound.

  She went to the living room and began picking up the newspapers, starting with a pile near the small brick fireplace. All the papers were the Ledger, as if there were any news to report from Woodlake. After she had created four neat stacks, she stopped to check out the row of photographs on the fireplace mantel. Three of them were high school graduation pictures of her uncle Nick, her uncle Mike, and her mother, all of them sporting the Big Hair look. Jesus, what were they thinking?

  The rest of the pictures were of Grandma Clare. Most of them were informal: one standing beside a Christmas tree; another with Grandpa at a restaurant. The next one was one that April knew well. Her mother had a copy of it on a bookshelf in their living room. Grandma Clare was standing outside the front door of the house, teenaged Nick and Mike on either side, with her arms draped around her daughter’s shoulder, pulling her close. April guessed her mother was about ten years old at the time. She’d never really paid attention to it before, but now April recognized in the picture the familiar shape of her mother’s smile. It’d been a while since she’d seen that smile so wide and—April searched for the word—free?

  Another picture was one she was sure she’d never seen before: her grandmother in a more formal, studio-style pose. April was struck at how young she looked. In all the photographs she’d ever seen—in her mother’s photo album, on the mantel here at her grandfather’s house—Grandma Clare looked, well, grandmotherly. Not here.

  She picked the picture up by its frame to examine it more closely. Black dress—or maybe not, since it was a black- and-white picture—and a simple, single string of pearls. Pretty, shoulder-length hair. Could have been a model. Or the subject of a song. She pulled her notepad out of her pocket, sat in her grandfather’s chair, and started writing.

  Betcha didn’t think

  When you had your picture took

  Someday you’d be a grandma

  Married to a . . . kook?

  She returned to the mantel to look at the picture again. Like the others, it was covered by a thin layer of dust. But unlike the others, this one had a large thumbprint in the lower corners of the frame. Her grandfather’s, she realized. She imagined him standing by the fireplace, holding the picture in his hand, staring at it for a while before replacing it, as April did now.

  She’d have to find a word to replace “kook,” she decided.

  The only papers left were strewn around the easy chair, so April started gathering those up. As she did, she uncovered a huge overflowing ashtray on the floor and a pipe next to it. April picked up the pipe. It was old-fashioned, one you might see a dad on Nick at Nite smoking at the dinner table, dispensing wisdom to his attentive and appreciative children. April picked up the ashtray and pipe and took them to the kitchen, where her grandfather was now sitting at the table.

  “Not a good idea to keep a pipe and ashtray under newspapers, Grandpa. Might start a fire.”

  He looked at her for a long second. “You must be in those advanced classes.”

  “Since when did you start smoking a pipe?” her mother asked without so much as a glance at them. Her grandfather took the pipe from April and turned it over in his ha
nd. April thought he looked younger now.

  “Used to smoke it before you kids came along,” he said. “Your mother made me stop, though, when Mike was born. She was way ahead of all these secondhand-smoke crackpots today. I used to enjoy it, so I thought I’d take it up again.”

  “You used to enjoy drinking, too, but that doesn’t mean it’s a good idea to take it up again.”

  “I haven’t had a drop in—”

  “I’m only saying about bad habits.”

  He snorted. “Bad habits? Hell, wish I’d had more. Give me more stuff to think about, since my kids don’t seem to want to visit.”

  Her mother turned off the water and turned to face him. “You’re kidding, right? About not having enough bad habits? And do you really want me to tell you why your children—your other children, at least—don’t visit?”

  He stared out the window. April was beginning to wonder if his sudden silent staring poses were some sort of defense posture, like what those ugly possums do on the nature channel.

  “I didn’t think so.” Marcy turned back to her scrubbing.

  “I don’t think I’ve seen anyone smoke a pipe except in old movies,” April said. “I thought that kind of went out, like . . . in the Stone Age?”

  There was that twinkle again. “Funny you should say that. Because pipes were pretty popular not all that long ago. Like when your mom was your age.”

  Marcy shut off the water. “That’s enough,” she said.

  April’s eyes went wide. “Are you saying—?”

  “April, go finish cleaning up,” Marcy said.

  “Why?”

  “Go finish,” her mother repeated.

  “I am finished. Nice, neat piles, as you commanded.”

  “Then take them out to the garage. I want to talk to your grandfather.”

  April stomped back into the living room, picked up one of the stacks she’d formed, and started toward the garage door. To get there, she had to cross through the kitchen. Her mother had joined her grandfather at the table. Her grandfather had lit his pipe. Her mother seemed about to say something, waiting until April went through the door.

  It wasn’t until after she’d dropped the newspapers by the trash cans that she noticed the car. It wasn’t quite as boring as a Camry, but it wasn’t exactly what you’d call a sports car, either. It might have been cool a long time ago. But now it was just, like her grandfather, old.