Michael P. McManus is a two time Pushcart nominee and recipient of a Fellowship from
the Louisiana Division of the Arts. He was born in Altoona, Pennsylvania. He currently lives in
Louisiana where by day he sells plumbing supplies to the masses. At night he
reads and writes, and from time to time sips a round or two at the local
Irish pub. He is a Navy Veteran and lifetime member of the Disabled American
Veterans. Michael's poems and short stories have appeared in numerous
publications.
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Springtime in the Alleghenies means a
beautiful unsettling of things. All along the former bare branches, tiny green buds appear on the hardwoods.
The buds turn into leaves and in turn the rolling, hunched mountains become a sea of green. Not a single specific
green; but yellow-green, olive green, blue green, a sunlit green of varying intensities. The birds, too, bloom
in their own unique way, filling the forest with their cacophony. The grey squirrel emerges from its leafy nest,
barking branch to branch, jerking its tail, racing up and down the tall trunks, suggesting that gravity does not
exist.
One such spring Wilson O’Brien lost his grandmother to lung cancer. He was fourteen.
She was sixty-two; a most-of-her-life smoker who, even though she was an RN, refused to stop smoking after her
diagnosis. When she died two months later she weighed seventy-five pounds. On the day of her funeral Wilson was
one of her pallbearers. As he helped carry her up the steep side steps of Sacred Heart Catholic Church, he lost
his footing and, nearly his grip on the brass handle of the mahogany coffin. But his uncles and cousins were
strong men and they took up the slack until Wilson recovered. He never wanted to be a pallbearer again.
On the way home from the graveyard, sitting across from his grandfather in one of
the back seats of the funeral home limousine, Wilson waited for him to say something. Death made everything so
complicated. Wilson fidgeted in his suit because it fit too tight. He loosened his tie, wondering how the next
family Sunday dinner would turn out.
Wilson’s mother put one arm around her father. She wore black sunglasses and a
matching dress and for a moment Wilson became angry at her because he knew she would never stop smoking as long
as she was alive. Then a long, terrible moan came out. Wilson’s grandfather pressed his face on the side window
as if he had come under some kind of spell. He appeared to become smaller, shrinking into his suit, the broad chest
and shoulders slipping away. What, Wilson thought, would people looking in think when they saw his grandfather’s
face that way?
“No, no, no. Nooooooooooooooo.” His left hand came up to rest on the left temple,
pressed there like a second piece of skin. Wilson watched his grandfather cry and convulse, the tears so strong
and heavy, they wet the right trouser leg.
“Mary. Where’s my Maryyyyyyyyy. Oh, noooooooooooo.”
Wilson’s mother began to sob, resting her head on her father’s shoulder. Wilson did
not know what to do. He too felt the loss but did not feel like crying. It was strange to feel that way, he
thought.
His right hand moved through the side-bangs of his shoulder-length, brown hair.
All of what was happening was new to him. He had never seen his grandfather cry before. He wished his grandfather
would tell the story again; how he had worked his way up through the Pennsylvania Railroad, becoming in Altoona
the youngest supervisor ever in the Industrial Engineering Department. Wilson loved hearing it and he wished he
could hear him tell it again and again.
“Maryyyyyyyyyy,” his grandfather cried once more. After a moment, Wilson pretended
that the tears, the sobs, the horror-channel moan would go away. He held the thought until his grandfather’s large
hands reached out to him.
* * *
As his grandfather hugs him and rubs his back,
Wilson knows he will never be too
old for this type of thing. They stand just inside the front door, beside the bookshelves filled with books
written by, among others, Hemingway, Steinbeck, and Shakespeare. The books once belonged to his grandmother.
And two years later the books trigger memories in Wilson that make him believe she will come walking down the
hall, smiling.
But instead of his grandmother, an impish woman with skin the colour of tainted
flour walks out of the living room. Her grey hair, worn in a tight bun behind her head, is streaked with yellow
lines that remind him of old photographs. She has a thin neck with a fake pearl necklace doubled around it. Her
lips appear fused together, but this changes when her mouth forms a tiny O, above which a set of blue eyes seemed
poised to flare into anger at any moment. As she extends her hand, Wilson thinks that she won’t be able to lift
it because of all the gaudy, fake rings.
| "Maybe, he thinks, Peg has detected the sarcasm in his remarks.
In life there is a price to pay for everything and Wilson does not want to go broke on apologies because he
has offended his grandfather. In Wilson’s mind, he is the greatest man who ever lived." |
He takes her hand, pulling her forward into a hug, imagining then that she recoils
from his embrace. For a moment he considers breaking away. But this thought passes and he holds her, rubbing her
back with one hand. She says nothing to him.
“Wilson, this is who I’ve been telling you about. This is my Peg. My dear, dear
Peg.”
There’s nothing patronizing in the sound of his grandfather’s voice. The feelings,
which Wilson detects, are identical to those ones from when his grandmother was alive. Certain nuances in one’s
life never disappear. He knows this from those times he has heard his grandfather speak about his wife as if she
had never died.
Wilson steps back to consider them both. “So, how are the happy honeymooners?”
Peg closes her mouth and opens it in a fish-like movement. Wilson’s previous
statement seems to incite some volatility in her. She stares and fidgets as if the off-hand mention of sex has
made her lose her equilibrium. Before she attempts to answer, Wilson’s grandfather chuckles. “We’re fine, Will,
Will. Just fine. My Peg is a blessing. A God-sent blessing.”
“Well, Paps. She sure looks good, that’s for sure. Once again you’ve done well for
yourself.”
Wilson knows no connection should be made between his dead grandmother and his new
grandmother. On the other hand he knew what he said had been a lie. It was not what he felt, however it was the
diplomatic thing to say. It was best to start things off right. And there was nothing wrong with diplomacy. After
all, family was family. And it should not matter that Peg has never married before.
He holds those thoughts when no one speaks. Maybe, he thinks, Peg has detected the
sarcasm in his remarks. In life there is a price to pay for everything and Wilson does not want to go broke on
apologies because he has offended his grandfather. In Wilson’s mind, he is the greatest man who ever lived.
Without warning, Peg comes forward as quickly as her arthritic knees allow. She
reaches up, takes Wilson’s face in her hands, and plants a kiss on his right cheek. “Welcome to the family, Wilson.
Welcome to the family.”
He eases back, studies her face, hoping to find some indication in her archaic,
reserved smile; a hint in her eyes. Something, anything that reveals her puzzling welcome. But all that remains
with Wilson is the scent of her budget-rack perfume, a lingering talisman that he associates with his grandmother’s
viewing.
* * *
Three weeks later Wilson stands once more
inside his Grandfather’s front door. He tries to fight it, but he cannot stop the red, tingling flush that covers
his face. He looks around with such disgust his grandfather diplomatically attempts to walk him into the living
room, trying to lead the way by taking hold of his elbow. Wilson refuses to be taken anywhere. Gone are the book
shelves. They have been replaced with black lacquered shelving that’s highlighted with fake gold trim and faux
paux oriental paintings on the backdrop pieces. The shelves held vases and knick knacks. The new look gives
the hall a gaudy look that mirrors Peg’s clothes and jewellery.
“Pap, what’s this? What’s happened to grandma’s books? She loved those books. Where
are they?”
“Wilson, they’re in the cellar now. I know, I know. This is difficult.”
“Difficult? What’s this?” Wilson asks after seeing something white in the large
cedar closet down the other side of the hall. The seasonal coats are still in the closet, but as Wilson slides
back one of the doors, he hears his grandfather’s slight laugh.
“Will, Will, that’s Peg’s idea. She does not like to wait.”
Wilson glances back to find Peg staring at him. He glares back, unable to turn
away from her lips. The O has returned, this time wider than before. He turns back to contemplate the reasons
why anybody would have a toilet installed in a coat closet. A plastic bowl scrubber in its pink holder sits
beside the toilet. Wilson’s anger worsens because he believes that his grandfather will be the only person
in that house to use the scrubber.
* * *
“Wilson, I want you to be on your best
behaviour. This is Peg’s first Christmas with us. She’s family now. We can’t live other people’s lives for them,
nor do we have the right to pass judgment.”
| "But one doctor. The one who has treated her for many years.
He pulled me aside yesterday and told me. ‘George, modern medicine can cure many things. But it can’t cure
misery.’ I suppose that’s the truest thing I’ve heard in a long time. A long, long time." |
Wilson notices how his mother’s voice taper offs, ending in a melancholy way that
has her clearing her throat. She opens the oven door to check on the turkey. Outside it has been snowing since
daybreak. The neighbourhood houses disappear when the wind picks up.
The door bell rings and Wilson jogs through out into the living room where
he pulls open the front door. Cold air rushes in, swirling with the scent from the Christmas Pine centred
in the bay window that looks out through the bare maples trees along the street.
“Paps! Merry Christmas!”
“Wilson! Oh my boy! Have you grown some more? Come here and hug your old Paps!”
Wilson smiles as he buries his head on the shoulder that, over the course of
the past years, has gone from a clutch of solid muscle to something easily breakable.
“Do you want me to run down to your car and bring back the gifts?”
“No, no, no. We can worry about that later. Can’t we Peg?”
With dinner finished and everyone in the den drinking coffee, Wilson walks into
the living room to turn on the television and find a football game. As he turns to sit down on the couch, he
finds his grandfather extending his arm. “Here, take this. And don’t say anything to Peg. This is between you
and your old Paps,” he whispers like a schoolyard child who has discovered the value of secrets.
Wilson looks at the one-hundred dollar bill that’s been placed in his hand. He wants
to say thank you, but had he done so he would have been speaking to his grandfather’s back.
“Dad, I don’t understand what’s going on here. What the heck has Peg done to Paps?
It’s his money too.”
It’s just after eight and the snow has not stopped and will not stop for three
more days. Wilson’s father sips a whiskey and water. He looks at his son, wondering how he can temper his emotions.
But he knows that Wilson has every right to feel angry and uncertain. A grandfather’s bond can never be taken away,
nor should it ever be altered.
“Is Peg poor?” Wilson asks before his father has time to reply to the previous
question.
“No. She has plenty. Let me tell you she has plenty,” Wilson’s mother says just
before taking a long drag from her Kool cigarette. Her anger, which she will not allow to wholly overcome her,
replaces any melancholy she might have felt. An only child, she continues to feel a sense of displacement by
her father’s marriage. This was to be expected, though she would never admit to it. However, she believes it
would have passed quickly. But it has not. No, it has grown worse with time.
“I bet the old bat hopes that Paps dies first so she can have all of his money.
I know that’s what it is. Dad, what do you think?”
“I’m trying not to think, Wilson. Not tonight at least. It’s Christmas. Let’s be
thankful for what we have and what others don’t have. That’s not a very nice thing to say. Is it, Judy?”
Wilson’s mother looks at him. He expects her eyes to narrow in disappointment. But
instead she gives him a smile.
* * *
When Wilson raps on the door it takes
his grandfather longer than usual to open it. As he waits he realizes that these openings are mirrors to the
past, because with each one Wilson has one more memory, one more period in time, which he shares with his
grandfather.
His grandfather smiles before welcoming him in. Wilson knows that his grandfather
is the same man as before, but the way he has aged makes Wilson feel deeply for the lives that are now passing
too quickly.
The house is cool and quiet. During the past year Wilson’s body has turned lean
and tan and hard from training to become a Navy diver. He has become a man filled with confidence who fears only
failing at those things he has chosen to do in his life. And so as he walks into the living room, feeling the
sunlight that streams in through the long bay window with its view of the Alleghenies, Wilson smiles in spite
of the white sheets covering the furniture.
The only uncovered chair is the large, high-backed Victorian style in which Peg
sits like a fallen queen. Wilson smiles at her and takes her hand, shaking it gently, aware of its leathery but
brittle texture. Then he turns and walks into the kitchen, knowing that since the marriage, Peg has never cooked
once for her husband. Wilson pulls open the refrigerator door. He begins searching. “Pap,” he yells, not to
intimidate, only to be certain that he can be heard, “I’m hungry. Where is everything?”
But the refrigerator trays are nearly empty. Wilson sees a half-full bottle of
prune juice. A box of saltine crackers and a box of raisins. There’s nothing else and Wilson knew that before
he came to the house, but he is smiling now because as he turns he hears the rasping, sucking noise coming from
Peg’s mouth. The lips open and close. The air gets sucked in and blown out like the mouth is a raspy megaphone.
She has moved to the edge of her chair and her glare tries to command Wilson as if he has become a burglar
ransacking her house.
* * *
On the drive from Pittsburgh, Wilson runs
into a snowstorm sweeping across the summit of Ebensburg Mountain. The salt trucks have not been there yet, and
the road is white and icy and even in four-wheel-drive, Wilson inches along. The wind buffets his Jeep and as
he looks into the hardwoods, he asks himself what will happen now? Wilson wonders what it might have been like
had he married and had children who, over the years, had run and leaped into their great grandfather’s arm. He
smiles as he recalls being lifted above his grandfather’s head, held there like something sacred.
His grandfather stands outside the hospital door. He wears his pants high up on
his belly as if it’s barrel he’s trying to keep from rolling away. Even though his cataracts have been surgically
removed, he wears thick, bi-focal glasses. He has on a white shirt with a black clip-on tie whose end disappears
into the top of those pulled-up pants.
“How is it,” Wilson asks?”
“Not good. Not good at all.” Wilson studies his grandfather so he can determine
how to help him with his grief.
“What did the doctors tell you?”
Wilson steadies his grandfather as they walk down the hall. The doors are all shut
and besides them the hall is empty. They walk and Wilson feels the old fingertips pressing in on his elbow. He
wishes they would stay there forever.
“Will, Will. They have every run kind of test available. They have all come back
negative. All of them. Negative. But...”
Wilson stops as his grandfather has done so and for the first time in many years
he looks into his eyes without feeling compromised or a tang of bitterness.
“Yes, Paps. It’s okay.
“But one doctor. The one who has treated her for many years. He pulled me aside
yesterday and told me. ‘George, modern medicine can cure many things. But it can’t cure misery.’ I suppose that’s
the truest thing I’ve heard in a long time. A long, long time.”
Winding towards home through the graveyard, Wilson drives his grandfather’s Cadillac.
His mother and father sit in the back. The day has broken clean and clear and the snow and headstones sparkle
together in the sunlight. No one has said anything and Wilson remembers how grief can explode like a gunshot.
As they drive past the mausoleum where Wilson’s grandmother is buried and where his grandfather will be buried
too, a chuckle comes from the front passenger seat.
“Wilson.”
“Yes, Paps
“That’s where you’ll be visiting your old Paps in a few years. Right there beside
my Mary.”
“Well, Paps. Let’s not let the dogs out back just yet. Okay?”
“Okay,” he answers as he reaches across the seat to touch his grandson’s shoulder.
“Okay. Will, Will. Would you do me a favour?”
“Of course, Paps. A favour. You don’t have to ask me, just tell me. Anything. I’ll
do it for you. Anything.”
The Cadillac idles along the curb in front of Vanzant’s store. A long time ago the
red brick building had been a house, but as long as Wilson could remember it had been a neighbourhood store, one
which had survived the chain stores that appeared on every corner.
“Do you think he will be okay? He’s eighty-six years old. He should not be walking
out there by himself.”
“Mom, that’s what Paps wanted to do. He’ll be fine.”
A few minutes later they watch him come out of the store, grinning. Wilson pushes
open the passenger door, watching his grandfather slide into the seat with a brown paper bag.
“Don’t leave yet, Will, Will. Not yet, no sir, Georgie needs to get something.”
Wilson narrows his eyes as he watches his grandfather pull from the bag a loaf of fresh,
thin-sliced Italian bread. Then he comes out with two hand-sized packets wrapped in white paper. Two slices of bread
are placed on his thighs, which he has moved together like a child. Each white packet gets unwrapped and from the
first he takes three pieces of Lebanon bologna, which he drops on a piece of bread. Then from the second he does
the same thing with two slices of yellow, American cheese.
Before he bits into the sandwich, he holds it up at arms length, showing it off.
“Yes, sir. I haven’t had one of these in twenty years. Can you believe it Will, Will, twenty years.”
“Yes, Paps. I believe it. Trust me I believe it.”
Wilson watches his grandfather take his first bite. Then it begins to snow again.
The big wet flakes cover the windows, blocking out the world and everything it might bring. Wilson hesitates before
turning on the wipers. He likes this place and he does not want it to end. And he knows there’s nothing wrong with
it should he begin to cry.
* * *
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