by Iain Reid
“Sure,” she says, “why not.”
Her bowl looks pressure-washed clean. At the stove I turn away and sneeze twice before half-filling her bowl.
“Someone must be thinking about you,” Grandma says as I set the bowl down in front of her.
“Pardon?”
“You sneezed,” she says. “That’s what we used to say after a sneeze, someone is thinking about you. That was a long time ago. But maybe it’s still true. And you did it twice.” She picks up her spoon. “So you never know.”
I watch as Grandma peppers and then blows on her second bowl of soup. I have my doubts, but she’s right — you never do know.
2:31 p.m.
AFTER LUNCH I helped Grandma back to the comfortable chair so she could continue reading while I “cleaned up.” I piled our dishes into the sink, adding to our medley from breakfast, and wiped the crumbs off the table with one hand into the other.
“Well, how’s everything going?” I announce, carrying in a bubbly Aero bar I found in the cupboard. I open it and snap it into pieces on the wrapper. I lick the melted chocolate off my thumb and finger and set it on the coffee table. “Thought you might like a little dessert.”
Grandma looks up from her book. It takes her a second to mentally escape its pages. She doesn’t quite recognize me, and when she does, her reaction indicates she hasn’t seen me in years. “Ahhhh . . . well, helllllo there.” She’s been holding her bookmark up on her shoulder and now puts it back to work, placing it between the pages. “I think you’re getting taller. Is that possible?”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Yes, I really think so. And skinnier. You look leaner than you used to.”
“Maybe, I’m not sure.” I don’t think my height or weight has changed in eight or so years. I take another step closer. “So, it’s still raining pretty hard. Maybe harder.”
“It does sound miserable out there.”
We listen to the rain and I hold the wrapper up in front of her. “How ’bout a little chocolate?” I ask.
“Oh, sure,” she says, taking two pieces of the candy. “What is it?”
“Just an Aero bar.”
She eats her first piece. I watch her hardly shaky hand break off a small piece. She’s very unfussy, I think. I don’t think she’s said no to anything I’ve offered. I suppose she would have declined chocolate-covered heart.
“I’m just loving this book,” she says. “It’s so interesting and different.” She licks the melted chocolate off her fingers.
“What’s it about?”
“It takes place in New Orleans. And I didn’t know all that much about New Orleans and the criminal element there. It’s all quite graphic and awful.”
“Well, you could take a break from it and we could always watch a movie or something.”
“Oh, okay. I don’t get the chance to do that very often. I’d like that.”
I’m not sure which movies I have lying around. I don’t own many, but I always have a few out on loan from the library or video store. The only one I can find that I own is Trey Parker and Matt Stone’s BASEketball. I’m not certain their target audience is Grandma.
I find a stack of rentals. There are two possibilities. Woody Allen’s Broadway Danny Rose and an animated film, Coraline. I’m sure Grandma hasn’t seen either, so I flip a coin in my head.
Coraline wins.
My impromptu movie plan affords me the chance to make a batch of popcorn. Like the brewed coffee, it’s without a shadow of doubt one of my best creations. I’ve invented this spice mixture that puts the traditional salt and butter to absolute shame. I can’t reveal everything I put into this dry rub, but included are paprika, cumin, and cayenne.
I leave Grandma to contemplate the previews while I pop our corn. It fills my apartment with a philharmonic pinging as the hard yellow kernels erupt into white puffy clouds. I pour them into two wooden bowls and toss them liberally with my spice mix.
For one noisy moment, I am great, and so is this trip.
“It smells so good,” she says as I walk in. It looks like Grandma may have fallen asleep while waiting. The DVD menu is up on the screen, and the film’s musical score is playing in a fifteen-second loop.
I hand her a bowl and a napkin. “Are you ready to start?” I say.
“Yes,” she says.
“Okay, sorry, just let me run to the bathroom first.”
Half an hour later I’ve made another trip to the bathroom, have put on and taken off my sweater, have polished off my bowl, and am using my tongue to pick at the kernel skins wedged between my teeth. I’m enjoying the film, but I’m concerned Grandma can’t hear it. I also don’t want to turn it up too loud and make her think I think she’s deaf and thus old. So I’m trying to raise the volume subtly. This is tricky because every time I turn it up a notch I have to walk to the TV, and with each increment a graphic appears on the screen showing the new, higher volume. It’s all profoundly unsubtle.
“Are you sure you can hear it, Grandma?” I ask for the fourth or fifth time.
“Oh, yes, dear, of course.”
I’m not so sure. It’s pretty damn loud, though. So I leave it. On my way back to my seat I notice Grandma’s complexion looking unmistakably flushed. She looks sweaty and flustered. I ask her if everything’s all right. What would make her suddenly hot and bothered? An age thing? I hope it’s not serious. What if it’s her thyroid?
“I’m fine, dear, maybe a little warm.”
“Warm?”
“Yes, I think perhaps from that popcorn. It’s good, but was it a spicy flavour?”
Fuck! I spiced both bowls evenly. And I was heavy-handed. Each kernel was wearing a heavy parka of cayenne. Maybe this is serious. Maybe this kind of thing can really do her some damage.
“Do you feel light-headed or faint, Grandma?” Should I get her to lie down? Maybe she needs to stand up. I’m above her now, fanning her with the open DVD case.
She looks over at me, raising that one eyebrow again. “Oh, heavens, no. I’m fine. I’d love a glass of water but that’s it.” She waves me away and coughs savagely.
I run back into the kitchen. I’m sweating now, too. I’m finding it hard to steady my hand as I hold a finger under the running water, waiting for it to cool.
THE PHONE CALL that disrupted the last scene of the movie was worth it. I left Grandma to watch (or sleep) and jogged into the kitchen to answer it. It was the fellow from the water tank place. He’s coming tomorrow. We’ll have hot water starting then. Finally, some good news. The credits are scrolling upward when I return.
I don’t think she enjoyed the film. I don’t think she hated it. I don’t think she heard very much of it. She may have been asleep for a large chunk.
Her reaction: “That was just so different.” She’s been saying this a lot. She’s said it about food and books we’ve talked about and now an animated movie. It’s just so different — a purposefully neutral comment delivered with a positive inflection.
It’s dark when I switch off the television. I hadn’t detected it was the TV lighting the room. I’m famished. “I don’t think you should have to cook again,” Grandma says when I mention supper.
I replay my day of “cooking” in my head: toasted some frozen bread, opened some cheese, warmed up some canned soup in a pot, opened a chocolate bar, made some borderline–catastrophically infused popcorn.
“You know, I don’t mind actually cooking some supper.”
“Well, I think we should go out, dear. My treat. This week is a celebration, after all.”
“No, no way, Grandma. Not a chance. I’m supposed to be treating you. This is a trip for you!”
“Why don’t you pick where we go, then. That’s fair.”
“Hardly.” But there’s no use arguing. Trust me. Grandma’s made up her mind. That eyebrow
of hers is twitching wildly.
8:49 p.m.
THE ONLY PARKING spot I can find near the restaurant is a ridiculously tight fit. It’s directly in front of a generic sports bar with groups of baseball-hatted lads loitering in front. A crowd never makes parking any easier. I choose to go for it because it’s late, I’m hungry, and we’ve driven around in a circle twice now looking for something better. Grandma is humming. She wonders if the bar is a new one. “It looks new to me,” she says.
“I’m not sure, Grandma,” I say, looking over my left shoulder, then my right, as we inch backward. “I think it’s been here for a while.” It’s a very old bar, but I don’t have the heart to say anything.
I have to verbally wrangle a smoker outside the pub to stand behind my car and direct me as I parallel into place. It’s an embarrassing question made worse when he asks me to repeat my request twice. “I . . . need your help guiding me into the space,” I say again. He’s finding the situation more comical than embarrassing. Grandma is offering her sincere encouragement.
“It’s such a tricky spot, you’re doing great,” she’s saying.
My wheels — or the steering column, or whatever it is — are squeaking piercingly. I’m moving very slowly. The smoker is unimpressed. “Your left tire is right up on the friggin’ curb, man,” I hear through my open window.
“Right,” I say. “Thanks.”
“This might be the best parking job I’ve ever seen,” Grandma adds.
“Right,” I say. “Thanks.”
Grandma can’t hear him. He can’t hear Grandma. There is a mere five or six feet separating them. Perspective is everything.
Out on the sidewalk I take a moment and admire my handiwork while I wait for Grandma to make her way around the car. We both thank the smoker for his friggin’ help.
The rain has let up but is still keeping non-smokers indoors. Kingston is not a big city like Toronto or Montreal, where regardless of weather, the streets are continually busy. The earlier rain has chased everyone away, or inside. On these nights Kingston feels hollow, like the set of a film that’s done shooting for the day.
It’s a short walk, a couple of blocks to the restaurant. We stroll slowly. No cars pass us. I ask Grandma if she wants me to carry her purse. She smiles but says no, almost defensively, slinging the strap up higher on her shoulder.
“AND THE ONLY thing we had was an icebox.”
“Sorry, Grandma?”
“An icebox. That was all.”
“You mean in your house?”
“Yup, that was it.”
“How did that work?”
The restaurant feels empty enough to make me feel guilty for taking us here. I know it’s raining, but people still have to eat, right? Before the parking circus, we had driven farther out of the city, toward the suburbs, but the restaurant I had in mind there was already closed. So we got back in my car and returned downtown.
The young hostess seemed surprised we wanted a table. She was standing at her post, wiping down the laminated floor plan in front of her. She was using a white paper towel, which was stained with blue marker. She regarded me incriminatingly, leading the way without a word. Grandma doesn’t appear concerned.
“It was just what it sounds like. A wooden box, and we would put a large chunk of ice in the back.”
“To keep your food from spoiling?”
“Yup, obviously we didn’t have a fridge or freezer in those days, just the icebox.”
“Imagine trying to live without a fridge or freezer now. Or imagine trying to run this restaurant with a bloody icebox!”
After scanning the large room I realize only one other table is occupied. It’s a large group. There are a few bottles of wine on the tables, which have been pushed together. By the way they sit, and their messy table full of crumpled napkins, I assume they’re on the back nine of their meal. Probably graduate students on one of their weekly celebrations. In grad school, unlike life, it’s always someone’s birthday. The hostess drops off some water and our menus, and tells us our server will be by shortly.
“Nothing was ever wasted. I can’t remember ever throwing anything away because it had spoiled.” A wooden chair is tipped over at the table of students. “Never, not once.” No one is in the chair, but the empty thud and the resulting laughter cause Grandma to look over.
I’m categorically leery of refrigerated leftovers older than forty-eight hours. That’s typically my cutoff. I find them intimidating. Conversely, this morning I watched in sheer disgust as Grandma plunged her face into a Tupperware of week-old spaghetti sauce for a whiff. Later she dipped a finger into some antediluvian ranch salad dressing. Food age is irrelevant to her. She judges strictly with her senses.
When it comes to aging food, I avoid reason and rely on imagination. Once I ate a crumb of green mould the size of a sunflower seed that was growing on a piece of mildly stale bread. I was living in Toronto at the time and was alone when it happened. I’d been famished and had eaten half a slice before doing my standard physical examination of the loaf to ensure no signs of discolouration. I saw the mould, post-swallow, on the rest of the loaf that I had put down on the counter. I remember immediately calling my Aunt Charlotte, an emergency physician.
“What should I do now?” I asked. “Just wait out the storm, or toss a finger down my throat?”
“What? No, no, you’re fine.”
“Fine? Didn’t you hear what I said?”
“I think I did.”
“I ate mould.”
She laughed at me — directly at me — and eventually talked me off the ledge. I woke up once or twice in the night with belly cramps.
“You know, I could eat a steak tonight,” Grandma says. I hadn’t noticed her pick up her menu. She’s not looking at it, just holding it.
“Yeah, that does sound pretty good.”
I’m not sure if it’s because we’re here so late, or if this is just a restaurant that purposefully keeps its lighting dim. It’s dark. We have two tea lights on our table. They aren’t lit. It’s dark enough that even the light provided by two small candles would help. I don’t mind it, but it can’t be easy for Grandma’s eyes.
“Can you see steak anywhere on the menu?” Grandma is holding her menu with both hands. She’s still not looking at it.
“There’s a steak sandwich here,” I point out, “with onion rings and horseradish mayo.”
“That’s what I’m getting,” she says, closing her menu determinedly. “I don’t even have to look at anything else.”
“And it comes with blackened potato salad.”
“With what?”
“Oh, blackened potato salad.”
“Sorry, dear, I didn’t hear that . . .” She leans closer.
“It’s POTATO SALAD . . . BLACKENED . . .”
“Potato . . . sala’blacken . . . I’ve never had that.”
“Yeah, well, it’s very good.”
“It sounds pretty good.”
We order our sandwiches. I ask for well done. Grandma does the same, an unexpected surprise. I hate when I’m with people (usually my dad) who tell me how I’m ruining my meat by asking for well done. A steak has to be rare, they say. I say meat should be cooked through. How does the presence of blood on your plate increase the level of enjoyment? I feel like me, Stonewall Jackson, and now Grandma are the only people in history who appreciate grey, dry steak.
I also ask for a half-litre of house red, first confirming Grandma will share. “Oh, why not,” she says. “I’m not driving.”
When the wine arrives, our indifferent server pours Grandma’s first. Isn’t she curious why I’m here with an old lady? Doesn’t she want to ask why Grandma is up so late? We “cheers” and touch glasses. I sip mine. Grandma sniffs hers. The server’s already gone.
“I can still remember when slacks came into
style for women. Before, it was all dresses and skirts.” I didn’t see this topic coming. Our server is wearing a pair of blue pants that somehow look tighter than her skin. “Imagine that, only wearing dresses every day.”
“No, I can’t.”
“What I think I’ll always remember is my very first pair of slacks. My mom bought them for me. I loved them. They were called whoopie pants.”
I rise in my chair, shifting my weight to the opposite buttock. “Whoopie pants, okay.”
“Yes, they were great. I can still remember them vividly. You see, I was just lucky, no one else I knew had whoopies. I was the only one.”
“I’d like to see a pair of these whoopie pants, Grandma. I can’t picture them.” I look up toward the ceiling as if a replica of the pants has been stencilled there. Instead, in the dim light I can make out what appears to be a large yellow stain in the shape of a chubby wiener dog.
Grandma takes a few minutes to explain the nuts and bolts, the structural makeup of the pants. I’m finding it difficult to imagine the unusual garment. I’ve cobbled together a murky image. I’m seeing a pair of trousers that are essentially the opposite of bell-bottoms; tight near the bottom and loose from the knees up, almost MC Hammer–ish or Elizabethan.
“What are the women your age wearing, dear? I try, but it’s hard for me to keep up.”
I sip my wine, more generously this time, and cross my legs. “Styles seem to come and go so quickly, don’t they?” I say expertly. I realize I don’t have any authority when it comes to fashion, especially women’s fashion. I still wear the grey toque I wore in middle school, and trousers cut into shorts with white tube socks in the summer. “I guess I usually just try to predict to myself which trends will become reviled the quickest.”
“That will what?” Grandma leans in again over the table.
“Like, I mean, which styles will be out of fashion the soonest.”
“Oh,” she says.
“For example, Grandma, have you noticed those gladiator-style sandals that a lot of women are wearing these days?” Our server is currently sporting a pair. Grandma doesn’t say anything but looks at me and smiles. “Well, there are several different styles of these sandals but I find them all unbecoming. I don’t know why. Too many straps and buckles and leather. Especially because flats, like the ballet slipper style” — which our hostess is wearing — “are still popular and, I think, much more flattering.” I look up from my plate to see Grandma smoothing out her napkin over her legs, which I’ve noticed she likes to do. Over and over. I’ve lost her. “Anyway, getting back to the whoopies, I would love to see them.”
