FOR MY FRIEND ED
It had been one of those winter days in Seattle when the sun doesn’t get up but people are forced to anyway.
When I was younger, these winter months were always the hardest. But two years of Midwestern winters at college had made me appreciate what cold really was. Here there was no windburn, were no ice advisories, were no snow plows. The winters over there made you feel like you were standing on the edge of the Earth, in a place not meant for humans. Here you could live if you didn’t miss the sun too much.
The chemotherapy made Grandpa tired. In his seat at the head of the table, he ate slowly and was quiet most of the night. Mostly, he kept his hooked nose in the air, trying to follow the conversation. When I was younger, he carried these dinner table conversations. In recent years, though, he began talking less and when he did, he sometimes forgot which jokes and stories he had already told. When it was just us two, though, he always had new dirty jokes, stories from the Navy, and stories about the fights he had as a kid. He saved those for me.
When he finished his meal, I picked up my plate and walked to the head of the table.
“Can I take that from you, Grandpa?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, Conor. And couldja get me another glass of ice wutter?” he said. His New Jersey accent stayed with him, even though he had lived in Seattle for more than fifty years.
“Of course.”
“Thank you, sir,” he said and patted me on the back.
I carried our plates into the kitchen.
“He’s a charming son-of-a-gun, idn’t he?” he remarked to my parents. He bragged about me constantly, which I found embarrassing when I was younger. The older I got, though, the more I liked it, and the more I bragged about him, too.
“Could you grab the ice cream from the freezer, honey?” my mom asked from the dinner table.
“Yeah, momma,” I replied.
“Spoons and bowls, too?”
“Mmhmm.”
I brought the carton of chocolate ice cream, four bowls, and four spoons to the dinner table. I dished out the ice cream for him and my parents. My older brother had finished his dinner early, and had gone downstairs to his room, not wanting dessert. Usually, I didn’t have dessert either, but I would have to go back to school soon and didn’t know if I would see him again. Of course, I thought that way each time I had left the last couple years, but the latest prognosis from his doctor hadn’t been good.
“Let me tell you a story,” Grandpa said after a shaking bite of his ice cream. Instinctively, I set my spoon down. Grandpa was 88 years old now, my last grandparent, but still magnetic. People that met him once remembered him years later.
With a trembling, spotted hand, Grandpa brushed some of his gray hair off his forehead. He still had quite a bit of it for his age. “I once knew a woman long ago,” he began, “when I worked at the laundry service down in South Seattle. I was just out of the Navy. She was an Indian woman named Naomi. Well, you see, Conor, this older woman Naomi, she lived on the reservation. She wasn’t much to look at. Rode the bus for an hour each morning and an hour back home each night.
“I just drove the laundry truck. But she had to fold the laundry when it came out of the dryers. Tough life. Just a real tough life. Now, you’d expect her to become a mean woman. Just a real pain in the ass. But she was always pleasant, always talkative—and you know how much I like to talk—so we got along well. She used to tell me about her family, and you wouldn’t believe the things they would do to her. Her husband knocked her around, her kids left the house as soon as they turned 18; she didn’t have much to be happy about. But there she was, every morning: ‘Hey, Ed, good morning! How are ya, Ed?’ ‘And I’d say, ‘oh, can’t complain, can’t complain.’ Then we’d get to work.
“Anyway, one day she comes into work, you know. Just beaming. Happier’n usual. And she says to me, (Grandpa’s eyes lit up) ‘Ed, I have great news to tell you.’
“‘Yeah?’ I says.
“She said: ‘I got a phone call last night. There might be oil on some land I own on the reservation. They’re going to pay me to dig for it.’
“And I said, ‘That’s grrreat!’ I was real happy for her. She’s in great spirits all day, humming to herself, you know. In 90 degree heat, folding hot laundry, smiling her head off!
“Now a week or two goes by, and she’s still pretty chipper. Until one morning, it’s getting close to the end of the summer, and she’s nowhere to be found. And I’m thinking she doesn’t seem like the type to not show up. Then it dawns on me, (here Grandpa put one of his long fingers in the air) the oil! And sure enough, the telephone rings down by the trucks.
“And I pick it up, you know, and it’s Naomi! And she says, ‘Ed, you better tell the boss to find somebody to fold that damn laundry, cuz I’m done. And I start laughing, and she’s laughing, and I ask her, ‘what are you gonna do now?’
“She says, ‘Ed, you know what I’m gonna do? I’m going to Hawaii. I’m gonna be far enough away so my family can’t reach me, but close enough in case I ever miss folding hot laundry.’
“And I never heard from her again.”
My grandpa smiled. The room was silent. He reached down and scratched the head of our dog Griffey, who had been sitting by his chair, watching him throughout the entire story. “Oh, you’re a good doggy,” he said, and patted his head firmly, a bit carelessly, with one of his bruised, spotted hands. Griffey looked up at him and smiled the way Golden Retrievers do.
I did see him again. As luck would have it, or something like luck, I blew out my shoulder that spring and came back to Seattle to have surgery. Once my shoulder healed, I did yard work at Grandpa’s house almost every day—weeding, pulling up tree stumps, trimming hedges and tree branches, things like that. He found chores for us to do and we worked side-by-side until he got too tired.
Grandpa’s stomach swelled up that summer, not enough to make him look fat, but enough to make him look out of proportion. One day, he called me up and told me to come over; he had a present for me. When I got there, he was in the living room, sitting on the couch (the davenport, he called it), with a big green garbage bag sitting in front of him on the floor. The bag was labeled UNIVERSITY OF WASHINGTON MEDICAL CENTER. He told me the bag was full of clothes that didn’t fit him anymore. I told him I’d see if they fit later, and took the bag back home with me.
The day before I drove cross-country back to school, I stopped by his house to say goodbye. “Good luck this year, Conor,” he told me as he hugged me, firmer than I expected. “You’re gonna be great. I love you.”
“I love you too, Grandpa,” I said, holding onto him tight. He smelled like sawdust, like he did when I was younger. His stubble grazed the side of my neck. There were a couple gray patches on his chin that he had missed that morning. I turned to leave. “I’ll see you later, okay?”
“I like that,” he said, hunched over his cane with a big smile. “I’ll see you later.”
---
A little more than a month later, I got into my car after a fall baseball practice to find my phone beeping. I had a missed call from my mom. A text message awaited me, as well: “Grandpa not doing well. Call ASAP to talk to him.”
I took a deep breath and dialed. The phone rang four times before my mom picked it up. “Hi, sweetheart,” she said, almost whispering.
“Hey, momma.”
“I’m gonna put you on speakerphone,” she said quickly. Then, after a moment she yelled, “Go ahead, Conor!”
“Hey Grandpa!” I said after a moment, trying to sound normal.
There was no response; I only heard the shuffling of the cell phone being moved.
“Dad. Dad. It’s Conor. Conor’s on the phone,” I heard my mom say.
I heard more shuffling, with something that sounded like a mumble. I hoped it was Grandpa clearing his throat, preparing to greet me with his usual lighthearted insults. I had gotten into a lot of trouble as a teenager, which gave him plenty of ammunition. He liked to tell me, “Ya know, Conor, for the life ‘a me I don’t know how you made it this long, but I’m glad you’re still around.” I’d reply by saying things like, “I was just thinking the same thing about you, ya old bastard.”
He loved that.
“Tell him about school,” my mom said into the phone.
I cleared my throat. “School’s going great, Grandpa. Baseball’s going well and my classes are pretty interesting.”
“Grrreat,” I thought I could hear him say. “That’s great, Conor.”
But the phone was silent.
“I miss you, though,” I said.
“How are the girls over there?” I expected him to ask next.
The other end of the line was still silent.
“Okay, we’re gonna let you go, Conor,” my mom said.
A pang hit my chest and my throat felt thick. My stomach lurched. “I love you grandpa. I love you grandpa!” I said loudly.
The phone went silent, and the call ended. I slumped over my steering wheel and cried. It had been years since I’d cried, really cried, and the tears that I had been saving for a worthwhile occasion flowed out of me, hot and sharp and quick.
The day I flew back to Seattle was the most somber homecoming of my life. I spent my layover in O’Hare Airport at a small bar by my gate.
That night, I mindlessly watched TV at my parents’ house until very late, or rather very early in the morning. Even Griffey, who had been beside himself when I came home, had been asleep for hours with his head on my lap.
“Ready to go to bed, pup?” I asked him as I turned off the TV. He lifted his head and sleepily looked at me. We walked upstairs together.
Griffey and I squeezed onto my childhood twin-sized bed that night, and I slept late into the morning, long after Griffey had jumped off, until my body couldn’t sleep any longer.
We buried Grandpa in a grave next to his wife, who I remember almost entirely through old photographs and stories I’ve been told. It rained all day, and I had never cried harder than when I threw a handful of dirt into his open grave. This was not dignified, single-tear-rolling-down-the-cheek crying. This was ugly-faced crying. This was gasping-for-breath crying.
Afterwards, those who were at the funeral returned to my parents’ house for the reception. The rain dried up as we drove over and the sun broke through a bit, which everybody else thought was a sign of something or other.
Liquor bottles covered our dinner table. Most of the afternoon, I sat outside on the deck Grandpa and my dad built when I was young. People came out to commiserate with me, and when I was tired of talking, I would just look down until they left. At one point, my dad joined me with a couple glasses of bourbon. We were very somber. I’m sure we looked dignified in our suits with our drinks.
“He liked you, you know,” my dad said. “I mean, really liked you. Of course, he loved you, but he really liked you, too. He was genuinely interested in you and cherished his time with you.”
“I really liked him, too,” I said. “He was one of my best friends.”
“Mine, too,” my dad said, patting me on the shoulder. My dad and I had been close for some time now, but it felt awkward to talk about losing the same person, but not nearly the same friend.
That night, as our relatives were leaving, my uncle Jim hugged me. He was now the oldest member of Grandpa’s side of our family. As I let go, he pulled me close again.
“You’re in charge now,” he said earnestly in my ear.
“What?” I said. “No. You are.”
“I’m old,” he said. He gestured to the rest of the room. “We’re old.”
I glanced around the room. We shook hands firmly and he left.
That year, when I graduated from college and returned to Seattle, I moved back in with my parents while I looked for a job and an apartment. I overhauled my room, buying new posters, cleaning out junk I didn’t need, and re-organizing my furniture. Through all the change, a big green garbage bag full of old jeans, belts, and sweaters sat in my closet untouched.
After a couple weeks, it was time. I carefully tied up the bag and carried it over my shoulder down the stairs. As I walked toward the front door, I passed our dinner table. The chair at the head of the table could use a dusting.
His bag of clothes sat in the passenger seat next to me as we drove to our destination. They smelled like him, like that old people smell mixed with sawdust. I drove slowly. When I got to the donation center, I was given a tax receipt in exchange for the bag. Estimated value, it said. As I drove away, I wondered if anybody could fit those clothes.
It had been one of those winter days in Seattle when the sun doesn’t get up but people are forced to anyway.
When I was younger, these winter months were always the hardest. But two years of Midwestern winters at college had made me appreciate what cold really was. Here there was no windburn, were no ice advisories, were no snow plows. The winters over there made you feel like you were standing on the edge of the Earth, in a place not meant for humans. Here you could live if you didn’t miss the sun too much.
The chemotherapy made Grandpa tired. In his seat at the head of the table, he ate slowly and was quiet most of the night. Mostly, he kept his hooked nose in the air, trying to follow the conversation. When I was younger, he carried these dinner table conversations. In recent years, though, he began talking less and when he did, he sometimes forgot which jokes and stories he had already told. When it was just us two, though, he always had new dirty jokes, stories from the Navy, and stories about the fights he had as a kid. He saved those for me.
When he finished his meal, I picked up my plate and walked to the head of the table.
“Can I take that from you, Grandpa?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, Conor. And couldja get me another glass of ice wutter?” he said. His New Jersey accent stayed with him, even though he had lived in Seattle for more than fifty years.
“Of course.”
“Thank you, sir,” he said and patted me on the back.
I carried our plates into the kitchen.
“He’s a charming son-of-a-gun, idn’t he?” he remarked to my parents. He bragged about me constantly, which I found embarrassing when I was younger. The older I got, though, the more I liked it, and the more I bragged about him, too.
“Could you grab the ice cream from the freezer, honey?” my mom asked from the dinner table.
“Yeah, momma,” I replied.
“Spoons and bowls, too?”
“Mmhmm.”
I brought the carton of chocolate ice cream, four bowls, and four spoons to the dinner table. I dished out the ice cream for him and my parents. My older brother had finished his dinner early, and had gone downstairs to his room, not wanting dessert. Usually, I didn’t have dessert either, but I would have to go back to school soon and didn’t know if I would see him again. Of course, I thought that way each time I had left the last couple years, but the latest prognosis from his doctor hadn’t been good.
“Let me tell you a story,” Grandpa said after a shaking bite of his ice cream. Instinctively, I set my spoon down. Grandpa was 88 years old now, my last grandparent, but still magnetic. People that met him once remembered him years later.
With a trembling, spotted hand, Grandpa brushed some of his gray hair off his forehead. He still had quite a bit of it for his age. “I once knew a woman long ago,” he began, “when I worked at the laundry service down in South Seattle. I was just out of the Navy. She was an Indian woman named Naomi. Well, you see, Conor, this older woman Naomi, she lived on the reservation. She wasn’t much to look at. Rode the bus for an hour each morning and an hour back home each night.
“I just drove the laundry truck. But she had to fold the laundry when it came out of the dryers. Tough life. Just a real tough life. Now, you’d expect her to become a mean woman. Just a real pain in the ass. But she was always pleasant, always talkative—and you know how much I like to talk—so we got along well. She used to tell me about her family, and you wouldn’t believe the things they would do to her. Her husband knocked her around, her kids left the house as soon as they turned 18; she didn’t have much to be happy about. But there she was, every morning: ‘Hey, Ed, good morning! How are ya, Ed?’ ‘And I’d say, ‘oh, can’t complain, can’t complain.’ Then we’d get to work.
“Anyway, one day she comes into work, you know. Just beaming. Happier’n usual. And she says to me, (Grandpa’s eyes lit up) ‘Ed, I have great news to tell you.’
“‘Yeah?’ I says.
“She said: ‘I got a phone call last night. There might be oil on some land I own on the reservation. They’re going to pay me to dig for it.’
“And I said, ‘That’s grrreat!’ I was real happy for her. She’s in great spirits all day, humming to herself, you know. In 90 degree heat, folding hot laundry, smiling her head off!
“Now a week or two goes by, and she’s still pretty chipper. Until one morning, it’s getting close to the end of the summer, and she’s nowhere to be found. And I’m thinking she doesn’t seem like the type to not show up. Then it dawns on me, (here Grandpa put one of his long fingers in the air) the oil! And sure enough, the telephone rings down by the trucks.
“And I pick it up, you know, and it’s Naomi! And she says, ‘Ed, you better tell the boss to find somebody to fold that damn laundry, cuz I’m done. And I start laughing, and she’s laughing, and I ask her, ‘what are you gonna do now?’
“She says, ‘Ed, you know what I’m gonna do? I’m going to Hawaii. I’m gonna be far enough away so my family can’t reach me, but close enough in case I ever miss folding hot laundry.’
“And I never heard from her again.”
My grandpa smiled. The room was silent. He reached down and scratched the head of our dog Griffey, who had been sitting by his chair, watching him throughout the entire story. “Oh, you’re a good doggy,” he said, and patted his head firmly, a bit carelessly, with one of his bruised, spotted hands. Griffey looked up at him and smiled the way Golden Retrievers do.
I did see him again. As luck would have it, or something like luck, I blew out my shoulder that spring and came back to Seattle to have surgery. Once my shoulder healed, I did yard work at Grandpa’s house almost every day—weeding, pulling up tree stumps, trimming hedges and tree branches, things like that. He found chores for us to do and we worked side-by-side until he got too tired.
Grandpa’s stomach swelled up that summer, not enough to make him look fat, but enough to make him look out of proportion. One day, he called me up and told me to come over; he had a present for me. When I got there, he was in the living room, sitting on the couch (the davenport, he called it), with a big green garbage bag sitting in front of him on the floor. The bag was labeled UNIVERSITY OF WASHINGTON MEDICAL CENTER. He told me the bag was full of clothes that didn’t fit him anymore. I told him I’d see if they fit later, and took the bag back home with me.
The day before I drove cross-country back to school, I stopped by his house to say goodbye. “Good luck this year, Conor,” he told me as he hugged me, firmer than I expected. “You’re gonna be great. I love you.”
“I love you too, Grandpa,” I said, holding onto him tight. He smelled like sawdust, like he did when I was younger. His stubble grazed the side of my neck. There were a couple gray patches on his chin that he had missed that morning. I turned to leave. “I’ll see you later, okay?”
“I like that,” he said, hunched over his cane with a big smile. “I’ll see you later.”
---
A little more than a month later, I got into my car after a fall baseball practice to find my phone beeping. I had a missed call from my mom. A text message awaited me, as well: “Grandpa not doing well. Call ASAP to talk to him.”
I took a deep breath and dialed. The phone rang four times before my mom picked it up. “Hi, sweetheart,” she said, almost whispering.
“Hey, momma.”
“I’m gonna put you on speakerphone,” she said quickly. Then, after a moment she yelled, “Go ahead, Conor!”
“Hey Grandpa!” I said after a moment, trying to sound normal.
There was no response; I only heard the shuffling of the cell phone being moved.
“Dad. Dad. It’s Conor. Conor’s on the phone,” I heard my mom say.
I heard more shuffling, with something that sounded like a mumble. I hoped it was Grandpa clearing his throat, preparing to greet me with his usual lighthearted insults. I had gotten into a lot of trouble as a teenager, which gave him plenty of ammunition. He liked to tell me, “Ya know, Conor, for the life ‘a me I don’t know how you made it this long, but I’m glad you’re still around.” I’d reply by saying things like, “I was just thinking the same thing about you, ya old bastard.”
He loved that.
“Tell him about school,” my mom said into the phone.
I cleared my throat. “School’s going great, Grandpa. Baseball’s going well and my classes are pretty interesting.”
“Grrreat,” I thought I could hear him say. “That’s great, Conor.”
But the phone was silent.
“I miss you, though,” I said.
“How are the girls over there?” I expected him to ask next.
The other end of the line was still silent.
“Okay, we’re gonna let you go, Conor,” my mom said.
A pang hit my chest and my throat felt thick. My stomach lurched. “I love you grandpa. I love you grandpa!” I said loudly.
The phone went silent, and the call ended. I slumped over my steering wheel and cried. It had been years since I’d cried, really cried, and the tears that I had been saving for a worthwhile occasion flowed out of me, hot and sharp and quick.
The day I flew back to Seattle was the most somber homecoming of my life. I spent my layover in O’Hare Airport at a small bar by my gate.
That night, I mindlessly watched TV at my parents’ house until very late, or rather very early in the morning. Even Griffey, who had been beside himself when I came home, had been asleep for hours with his head on my lap.
“Ready to go to bed, pup?” I asked him as I turned off the TV. He lifted his head and sleepily looked at me. We walked upstairs together.
Griffey and I squeezed onto my childhood twin-sized bed that night, and I slept late into the morning, long after Griffey had jumped off, until my body couldn’t sleep any longer.
We buried Grandpa in a grave next to his wife, who I remember almost entirely through old photographs and stories I’ve been told. It rained all day, and I had never cried harder than when I threw a handful of dirt into his open grave. This was not dignified, single-tear-rolling-down-the-cheek crying. This was ugly-faced crying. This was gasping-for-breath crying.
Afterwards, those who were at the funeral returned to my parents’ house for the reception. The rain dried up as we drove over and the sun broke through a bit, which everybody else thought was a sign of something or other.
Liquor bottles covered our dinner table. Most of the afternoon, I sat outside on the deck Grandpa and my dad built when I was young. People came out to commiserate with me, and when I was tired of talking, I would just look down until they left. At one point, my dad joined me with a couple glasses of bourbon. We were very somber. I’m sure we looked dignified in our suits with our drinks.
“He liked you, you know,” my dad said. “I mean, really liked you. Of course, he loved you, but he really liked you, too. He was genuinely interested in you and cherished his time with you.”
“I really liked him, too,” I said. “He was one of my best friends.”
“Mine, too,” my dad said, patting me on the shoulder. My dad and I had been close for some time now, but it felt awkward to talk about losing the same person, but not nearly the same friend.
That night, as our relatives were leaving, my uncle Jim hugged me. He was now the oldest member of Grandpa’s side of our family. As I let go, he pulled me close again.
“You’re in charge now,” he said earnestly in my ear.
“What?” I said. “No. You are.”
“I’m old,” he said. He gestured to the rest of the room. “We’re old.”
I glanced around the room. We shook hands firmly and he left.
That year, when I graduated from college and returned to Seattle, I moved back in with my parents while I looked for a job and an apartment. I overhauled my room, buying new posters, cleaning out junk I didn’t need, and re-organizing my furniture. Through all the change, a big green garbage bag full of old jeans, belts, and sweaters sat in my closet untouched.
After a couple weeks, it was time. I carefully tied up the bag and carried it over my shoulder down the stairs. As I walked toward the front door, I passed our dinner table. The chair at the head of the table could use a dusting.
His bag of clothes sat in the passenger seat next to me as we drove to our destination. They smelled like him, like that old people smell mixed with sawdust. I drove slowly. When I got to the donation center, I was given a tax receipt in exchange for the bag. Estimated value, it said. As I drove away, I wondered if anybody could fit those clothes.
