by James King
“Well, look here,” he said, his voice deep and friendly. “Bill has a pretty young visitor.”
The woman he began pushing forward was apparently too busy scowling to have heard him. She stared off to her left. She, too, was nicely dressed. April had a feeling the man was responsible for that, although he wasn’t dressed like the other orderlies. Maybe he was a volunteer.
“Hello, young lady.”
April squeaked out a “Hi” as the man wheeled the woman past her. When he reached her grandfather, the gentleman—which was how April was already starting to think of him—turned the chair so that the woman and April’s grandfather were sitting side by side.
“Here we are,” he said, his voice a gentle roll of thunder, like after a storm.
April lost her breath when she saw her grandfather reach over, take the woman’s hand, and hold it between his own.
“Where have you been, Clare?” he asked, in a voice April had never heard. “I’ve been waiting so long.”
The woman’s scowl disappeared. She relaxed visibly, as if shedding a winter coat. She smiled. April thought she was watching some sort of miracle cure, proof of something she might hear on television or the radio, a quick medical tip: The simple act of holding hands can add years to your life, turn sour frowns into glowing smiles, release tension from your back and shoulders, help you feel human again.
April realized that she herself had been transformed for a moment. The gentleman was watching her, a small smile on his lips. He offered a small bow.
“My name is Mitchell,” he said.
She was caught in one of those strange adult situations where she knew she was supposed to say something simple, like—duh!—“I’m April.” But she also knew she was supposed to call the man by his name, but he was too old to call him by his first name. Or was Mitchell his last name? Adults did that, too, sometimes.
Unable to do anything else, she extended her hand. The man smiled, walked to her, and shook it. “Pleased to meet you,” he said.
“Keep your goddamn hands off my granddaughter.”
April saw that her grandfather was still holding hands with the woman. But he was looking at Mitchell as if he might jump out of the wheelchair and attempt a kung fu kick or something.
“Grandpa!”
Mitchell lifted a hand, his index finger slightly extended, as if to calm her. Or maybe he meant to calm her grandfather. In any case, he addressed him. “Just getting acquainted,” he said. “I see you’ve taught your granddaughter her manners.”
“Damn straight,” Bill said, glancing sideways at the woman, as if to make sure she’d heard the compliment. She was still smiling at something off in the distance. April thought she saw a squeeze of the hand.
Mitchell smiled and, with a gentle wave of his own hand, motioned for April to follow him. He pulled back a chair for her near a table by a stack of books. As they settled, April whispered, “I’m sorry. He’s not like that at all.”
“I’m sure he’s not, April,” he said. “Don’t worry.”
April looked up.
“How did you know my name?”
The man smiled. He had perfect white teeth to go along with his perfect clothes and perfect manners. “Your grandfather talks a lot about his children. I imagine one of those children is your mother or father?”
April nodded. “Marcy.”
Mitchell nodded back knowingly. “But his favorite stories seem to be about his granddaughter. Oh, you should hear him: April this and April that. I figured you were her. You sound like quite a young lady. I’m so pleased to meet you.”
“Same here,” April said, wishing she were more polite and polished. “Same here” sounded like she was also pleased to make her own acquaintance. How would she ever get comfortable with this stuff?
“Is it true you told a state trooper to go to hell?” Mitchell asked.
He laughed when April could only shake her head.
“He likes his stories, doesn’t he?”
“Tell me about it,” April said.
“Oh, I enjoy them,” Mitchell said. “Of course, he’s not telling them to me. After a while, if I just sit here quietly, he’ll start talking. It seems to calm him. More importantly, if you’ll forgive me for being selfish . . . they calm my wife.”
His wife? April looked at the woman holding her grandfather’s hand. What was God trying to do to her? She had come in, fully in control of the day, and now it’s just one thing after another knocking her off track. Next thing you knew, Mitchell would reveal that he’s her great-uncle.
April couldn’t think of a thing to say. Her grandfather was whispering to the woman. The woman was smiling, nodding, staring off. April wondered if she understood the words or if she was just responding to something in her grandfather’s voice, something that reminded her of a moment half a century ago or more.
Finally, she spoke up.
“It doesn’t bother you? The two of them . . . you know . . . holding hands?”
Mitchell smiled. “As I said, it seems to calm her. At this point, that’s all that matters.”
April wondered if there was anything she could ever do—would ever do—to match the generosity of this man’s willingness to sit and watch his wife of fifty years holding hands with another man, all but unaware that her real husband was in the room, unaware, perhaps, that he had ever even been her husband. Who could bear it?
“I’m never getting married,” April muttered. She blushed when she realized how that might sound to Mitchell.
But Mitchell only chuckled. “I suppose I felt the same way when I was your age,” he said. “Then I met Clare.”
April took this in calmly.
“Her name is Clare? I thought my grandpa was just confused. I mean, sometimes he even calls me Clare.”
Mitchell smiled and nodded. “I’ve been taking Clare to as many of the group events as possible. I kept hoping that being around other people might bring her back out of her . . . distance. So we went to this crossword party they have each week. Your grandfather heard me say her name. After that, there was no silencing him. He had to be with her.” Mitchell grew quiet for a few moments. “I knew he was confused, but I have to admit that I was ready to punch him in the nose. But then I noticed that Clare was looking up. She was smiling at your grandfather, just the way she’s smiling now.”
April looked over to see that Mitchell was right. Clare was smiling like a girl on a first date. Her grandfather was smiling, too. He had stopped whispering, although April was listening so carefully to Mitchell that she had no idea what story her grandfather might be telling now. Mitchell took the perfectly positioned handkerchief from the pocket of his jacket and dabbed at his forehead. He put the handkerchief back carefully, and folded his large hands together on the table.
“I’m grateful to him,” he said, simply.
April looked at his hands. It was another of those situations where she knew what to do but there simply wasn’t any way to do it without feeling like a doofus. She knew she should reach over and place her hand on top of his, maybe give it a squeeze, and say something profound. If her mother was here—where was she, anyway?—that’s what she would do. Mitchell’s hands themselves seemed to invite this kind of reaction, folded as they were so calmly and peacefully, even though the knobby knuckles and twisted digits and veins embossed against his dark skin warned that the story wasn’t that simple.
They both turned when they heard the doors behind them open. Nick, Mike, April’s mother, and Hank Johnson. Hank was carrying the cake; her mother and uncles each held a box covered in bright happy-birthday wrap.
“What in holy hell?” her mother called out. April saw the line, like a laser, from her mother’s eyeballs to her grandfather’s hand. And Clare’s.
April looked at Mitchell. Mitchell gave her a tight, knowing smile.
“We’re grateful to him, too,” she said.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am extremely grateful to Penguin Group USA and Am
azon for helping make this writer’s lifelong dream come true. Special thanks to Tim McCall, Stephanie Sorenson, Jeffrey Belle, Aaron Martin, Kyle Sparks, and Amanda Wilson.
I hit the jackpot a second time when my book landed in the incredibly capable editorial hands of Liz Van Hoose and Molly Stern. Liz, thank you for all those fields of green. I’m also fortunate to have a wonderful literary agent, Rebecca Gradinger, looking out for me.
Much of the book was written while I was enrolled in the Masters of Writing program at Manhattanville College. I benefitted greatly from the insights of both professors and fellow students. Special thanks to John Herman, whose course on novels was the springboard for this one.
I am blessed to have family and friends whose encouragement and support also made this possible. Huge thanks to Sheila O’Brien, John Kennedy, Tom Bingle, John Corcoran, and Liz Corcoran.
To Bob King—brother, mentor, friend—here ’tis. Thanks for everything.
Finally, my thanks and love to my first readers: My daughter Katie and son Daniel, both of whom read several drafts of the novel and provided oft-needed reality slaps whenever my prose veered toward the corny or unlikely; and my wife Joanne who, through all the earlier attempts and rejections, never once so much as hinted that maybe it was time to pick a different dream.
