Enter a miracle. My grandfather petrified me for a minute with his eyes but then turned to my father and said, “She wants to, is all.”
A raging river of sweat ran down my temples, and as my father said, “Well, it’s about time someone did,” my grandfather looked back at me and I knew—he was not going to let me forget this. We’d just had another conversation, only this time I was definitely not dismissed.
After the dishes were cleared, I retreated to my room, but my grandfather came right in, closed the door behind him, and then sat on my bed. He did this all without making a sound. No squeaking, no clanking, no scraping, no breathing … I swear, the guy moved through my room like a ghost.
And of course I’m banging my knee and dropping my pencil and deteriorating into a pathetic pool of Jell-O. But I tried my best to sound cool as I said, “Hello, Granddad. Come to check out the digs?”
He pinched his lips together and looked at nothing but me.
I cracked. “Look, Granddad, I know I messed up. I should’ve just told her, but I couldn’t. And I kept thinking they’d stop. I mean, how long can a chicken lay eggs? Those things hatched in the fifth grade! That was like, three years ago! Don’t they eventually run out? And what was I supposed to do? Tell her Mom was afraid of salmonella poisoning? And Dad wanted me to tell her we were allergic—c’mon, who’s going to buy that? So I just kept, you know, throwing them out. I didn’t know she could’ve sold them. I thought they were just extras.”
He was nodding, but very slowly.
I sighed and said, “Thank you for not saying anything about it at dinner. I owe you.”
He pulled my curtain aside and looked across the street. “One’s character is set at an early age, son. The choices you make now will affect you for the rest of your life.” He was quiet for a minute, then dropped the curtain and said, “I hate to see you swim out so far you can’t swim back.”
“Yes, sir.”
He frowned and said, “Don’t yes-sir me, Bryce.” Then he stood and added, “Just think about what I’ve said, and the next time you’re faced with a choice, do the right thing. It hurts everyone less in the long run.”
With that, poof, he was gone.
The next day I went to shoot some hoops at Garrett’s after school, and when his mom dropped me off later that afternoon, my granddad didn’t even notice. He was too busy being Joe Carpenter in Juli’s front yard.
I tried to do my homework at the breakfast bar, but my mom came home from work and started being all chatty, and then Lynetta appeared and the two of them started fighting about whether Lynetta’s makeup made her look like a wounded raccoon.
Lynetta. I swear she’ll never learn.
I packed up my stuff and escaped to my room, which, of course, was a total waste. They’ve got a saw revving and wailing across the street, and in between cuts I can hear the whack, whack, whack! whack, whack, whack! of a hammer. I look out the window and there’s Juli, spitting out nails and slamming them in place. No kidding. She’s got nails lined up between her lips like steel cigarettes, and she’s swinging that hammer full-arc, way above her head, driving nails into pickets like they’re going into butter.
For a split second there, I saw my head as the recipient of her hammer, cracking open like Humpty Dumpty. I shuddered and dropped the curtain, ditched the homework, and headed for the TV.
They handymanned all week. And every night Granddad would come in with rosy cheeks and a huge appetite and compliment my mom on what a great cook she was. Then Saturday happened. And the last thing I wanted was to spend the day at home while my grandfather churned up dirt and helped plant Juli’s yard. Mom tried to get me to do our own yard, but I would have felt ridiculous micromowing our grass with Granddad and Juli making real changes right across the street.
So I locked myself in my room and called Garrett. He wasn’t home, and everybody else I called had stuff they had to do. And hitting up Mom or Dad for a ride to the movies or the mall was hopeless. They’d tell me I was supposed to be doing the yard.
What I was, was stuck.
And what I wound up doing was looking out the stupid window at Juli and my grandfather. It was a totally lame thing to do, but that’s what I did.
I got nailed doing it, too. By my grandfather. And he, of course, had to point me out to Juli, which made me feel another two inches shorter. I dropped the curtain and blasted out the back door and over the fence. I had to get out of there.
I swear I walked ten miles that day. And I don’t know who I was madder at — my grandfather, Juli, or me. What was wrong with me? If I wanted to make it up to Juli, why didn’t I just go over there and help? What was stopping me?
I wound up at Garrett’s house, and man, I’d never been so glad to see anyone in my life. Leave it to Garrett to get your mind off anything important. That dude’s the master. We went out back and shot hoops, watched the tube, and talked about hitting the water slides this summer.
And when I got home, there was Juli, sprinkling the yard.
She saw me, all right, but she didn’t wave or smile or anything. She just looked away.
Normally what I’d do in that situation is maybe pretend like I hadn’t seen her, or give a quick wave and charge inside. But she’d been mad at me for what seemed like ages. She hadn’t said word one to me since the morning of the eggs. She’d completely dissed me in math a couple days before when I’d smiled at her, trying to tell her I was sorry. She didn’t smile back or nod or anything. She just turned away and never looked back.
I even waited for her outside the classroom to say something, anything, about her fixing up the yard and how bad I felt, but she ditched me out the other door, and after that anytime I got anywhere near her, she’d find some way to skate around me.
So there she was, watering the yard, making me feel like a jerk, and I’d had enough of it. I went up to her and said, “It’s looking real good, Juli. Nice job.”
“Thanks,” she said without smiling. “Chet did most of it.”
Chet? I thought. Chet? What was she doing, calling my grandfather by his first name? “Look, Juli,” I said, trying to get on with why I was there. “I’m sorry for what I did.”
She looked at me for a second, then went back to watching the water spray across the dirt. Finally she said, “I still don’t get it, Bryce. Why didn’t you just tell me?”
“I … I don’t know. It was dumb. I should have. And I shouldn’t have said anything about the yard, either. It was, you know, out of line.”
I was already feeling better. A lot better. Then Juli says, “Well, maybe it’s all for the better,” and starts bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, acting more like her old self. “Doesn’t it look great? I learned so much from Chet it’s amazing. You are so lucky. I don’t even have grandparents anymore.”
“Oh,” I said, not knowing what to say.
“I do feel sorry for him, though. He sure misses your grandmother.” Then she laughs and shakes her head, saying, “Can you believe it? He says I remind him of her.”
“What?”
“Yeah,” she laughs again. “That’s what I said. But he meant it in a nice way.”
I looked at Juli and tried to picture my grandmother as an eighth grader. It was hopeless. I mean, Juli’s got long, fluffy brown hair and a nose full of freckles, where my grandmother had always been some variety of blond. And my grandmother had used powder. Puffy white powder. She’d put it on her face and in her hair, in her slippers and on her chest … . That woman powdered everything.
I could not see Juli coated in powder. Okay, maybe gun powder, but the white perfumy stuff? Forget it.
I guess I was staring, because Juli says, “Look, I didn’t say it, he did. I just thought it was nice, that’s all.”
“Yeah, whatever. Well, good luck with the grass. I’m sure it’ll come up great.” Then I totally surprised myself by saying, “Knowing you, you’ll get ’em all to hatch.” I didn’t say it mean or anything, I really meant it. I l
aughed, and then she laughed, and that’s how I left her—sprinkling her soon-to-be sod, smiling.
I hadn’t been in such a good mood in weeks. The eggs were finally behind me. I was absolved. Relieved. Happy.
It took me a few minutes at the dinner table to realize that I was the only one who was. Lynetta had on her usual pout, so that wasn’t it. But my father’s idea of saying hello was to lay into me about the lawn.
“No sweat,” I told him. “I’ll do it tomorrow.”
All that got me was a scowl.
Then Mom says to my granddad, “You tired tonight, Dad?”
I hadn’t even noticed him sitting there like a stone.
“Yeah,” my father tosses down the table at him. “That girl working you too hard?”
My grandfather straightens his fork on his napkin and says, “‘That girl’ is named Juli, and no, she isn’t ‘working me too hard,’ as you so callously put it.”
“Callous? Me?” My dad laughs and says, “Developed quite a soft spot for that girl, haven’t you?”
Even Lynetta let her pout go for a minute. These were fighting words and everyone knew it. Mom nudged Dad with her foot, but that only made things worse. “No, Patsy! I want to know why your father has the energy and inclination to befriend a complete stranger when he’s never done so much as toss a baseball around with his own grandson!”
Well, yeah! I thought. But then I remembered — I owed my grandfather. Owed him big-time. Without thinking, I said, “Take it easy, Dad. Juli just reminds him of Grandma.”
Everyone clammed up and stared at me. So I looked at my grandfather and said, “Uh … isn’t that right, Granddad?”
He nodded and rearranged his fork some more.
“Of Renée?” My father looked at my mother and then at Granddad. “She can’t possibly!”
My granddad closed his eyes and said, “It’s her spirit that reminds me of Renée.”
“Her spirit,” my father says. Like he’s talking to a lying kindergartner.
“Yes, her spirit.” My grandfather’s quiet for a minute, then asks, “Do you know why the Bakers haven’t fixed up the yard until now?”
“Why? Sure. They’re trash, that’s why. They’ve got a beat-up house, two beat-up cars, and a beat-up yard.”
“They are not trash, Rick. They are good, honest, hardworking people — ”
“Who have absolutely no pride in how they present themselves to the rest of the world. We’ve lived across the street from those people for over six years, and there is no excuse for the state they’re in.”
“No?” My grandfather takes a deep breath and seems to weigh things in his mind for a few seconds. Then he says, “Tell me this, Rick. If you had a brother or sister or child who had a severe mental or physical handicap, what would you do?”
It was like my granddad had passed gas in church. My father’s face pinched, his head shook, and finally he said, “Chet, what does that have to do with anything?”
My grandfather looks at him for a minute, then quietly says, “Juli’s father has a retarded brother, and—”
My father interrupts him with a laugh. “Well, that explains a lot, doesn’t it!”
“Explains … a lot?” my grandfather asks. Quietly. Calmly.
“Sure! It explains why those people are the way they are … !” He grins around the table at us. “Must run in the family.”
Everyone looks at him. Lynetta’s jaw drops, and for once she’s speechless. My mother says, “Rick!” but all my father can do is laugh a nervous kind of laugh and say, “It was just a joke! I mean, obviously something’s wrong with those people. Oh, excuse me, Chet. I forgot. The girl reminds you of Renée.”
“Rick!” my mother says again, only this time she’s mad.
“Oh, Patsy, please. Your father’s being overly dramatic, trying to make me feel bad for criticizing our neighbors because there’s a retarded relative someplace. Other people have family troubles and still manage to mow their lawn. They should have a little pride in ownership, for cryin’ out loud!”
My grandfather’s cheeks are seriously flushed, but his voice is rock-steady as he says, “They don’t own that house, Rick. The landlord is supposed to maintain the premises, but he doesn’t. And since Juli’s father is responsible for his brother, all their reserves go to his care, and obviously it doesn’t come cheap.”
Very quietly my mom asks, “Don’t they have government facilities for that kind of thing?”
“I don’t know the details, Patsy. Maybe there are no government facilities nearby. Maybe they thought a private facility was a better place for him to be.”
“Still,” my dad says, “there are government facilities available, and if they don’t want to go that route, that’s their choice. It’s not our fault their family had some sort of chromosomal abnormality, and I refuse to feel guilty for wanting — ”
My grandfather slams his hand on the table and half-stands as he says, “It had nothing to do with chromosomes, Rick! It was caused by a lack of oxygen at birth.” He brings his voice down, but it makes his words seem even more forceful. “Juli’s uncle had the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck. Twice. One minute he was a perfect little baby, just like your son, Bryce, and the next he was irreversibly damaged.”
My mother was suddenly hysterical. In seconds she was bawling her eyes out, wailing, and my father was all over her, trying to calm her down. It was no use. She basically dissolved right there on the spot.
Lynetta threw her napkin down and muttered, “This family is a joke,” and took off. Then my mother bolted out of the room, sobbing into her hands, and my father raced after her, throwing my grandfather the wickedest look I’d ever seen.
That left Granddad and me and a table full of cold food. “Wow,” I finally said. “I had no idea.”
“You still don’t,” he told me.
“What do you mean?”
He sat there like granite for a minute, then leaned across the table toward me and said, “Why do you suppose that upset your mother so much?”
“I … I don’t know.” I gave a halfhearted grin and said, “Because she’s female?”
He smiled, but just barely. “No. She’s upset because she knows that she could very well be standing in Mr. Baker’s shoes right now.”
I thought about it a minute and finally asked, “Did her brother have the cord around his neck when he was born?”
He shook his head.
“Well, then … ”
He leaned forward even farther and whispered, “You did.”
“I did?”
He nodded. “Twice.”
“But … ”
“The doctor who delivered you was on the ball, plus apparently there was some slack in the cord, so he was able to loop it off as you came out. You didn’t hang yourself coming into the world, but it could very easily have gone the other way.”
If I’d been told years or even weeks ago that I’d come down the chute noosed and ready to hang, I’d have made some kind of joke about it, or more likely I’d have said, Yeah, that’s nice; now can you spare me the discussion?
But after everything that had happened, I was really freaking out, and I couldn’t escape the questions tidal-waving my brain. Where would I be if things had been different? What would they have done with me? From the way my dad was talking, he wouldn’t have had much use for me, that’s for sure. He’d have stuck me in a nuthouse somewhere, any where, and forgotten about me. But then I thought, No! I’m his kid. He wouldn’t do that … would he?
I looked around at everything we had — the big house, the white carpet, the antiques and artwork and stuff that was everywhere. Would they have given up all the stuff to make my life more pleasant?
I doubted it, and man, I doubted it big-time. I’d have been an embarrassment. Something to try to forget about. How things looked had always been a biggie to my parents. Especially to my dad.
Very quietly my granddad said, “You can’t dwell on what might have
been, Bryce.” Then, like he could read my mind, he added, “And it’s not fair to condemn him for something he hasn’t done.”
I nodded and tried to get a grip, but I wasn’t doing a very good job of it. Then he said, “By the way, I appreciated your comment before.”
“What?” I asked, but my throat was feeling all pinched and swollen.
“About your grandmother. How did you know that?”
I shook my head and said, “Juli told me.”
“Oh? You spoke with her, then?”
“Yeah. Actually, I apologized to her.”
“Well … !”
“And I was feeling a lot better about everything, but now … God, I feel like such a jerk again.”
“Don’t. You apologized, and that’s what matters.” He stood up and said, “Say, I’m in the mood for a walk. Want to join me?”
Go for a walk? What I wanted to do was go to my room, lock the door, and be left alone.
“I find it really helps to clear the mind,” he said, and that’s when I realized that this wasn’t just a walk — this was an invitation to do something together.
I stood up and said, “Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”
For a guy who’d only basically ever said Pass the salt to me, my granddad turned out to be a real talker. We walked our neighborhood and the next neighborhood and the next neighborhood, and not only did I find out that my granddad knows a lot of stuff, I found out that the guy is funny. In a subtle kind of dry way. It’s the stuff he says, plus the way he says it. It’s really, I don’t know, cool.
As we were winding back into our own territory, we passed by the house that’s going up where the sycamore tree used to be. My granddad stopped, looked up into the night, and said, “It must’ve been a spectacular view.”
I looked up, too, and noticed for the first time that night that you could see the stars. “Did you ever see her up there?” I asked him.
“Your mother pointed her out to me one time as we drove by. It scared me to see her up so high, but after I read the article I understood why she did it.” He shook his head. “The tree’s gone, but she’s still got the spark it gave her. Know what I mean?”
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