A Summer Story (Work in Progress)

A fluster of dark brown hair pruned into a bowl cut bounced upon my forehead in a springy buoyant rhythm, each leap compounding my knee against the forgiving and supple ground. Days like these were my favorite-- the sun so hot and bright that I can feel the melanin flushing my skin. Days like these simply did not tire, I ran until my knees felt like that of a wooden puppet, knocking about with no real joints. My lungs grew sharp with the hot dry breeze, which carried the smell of the bales of trimmed grass that scattered over the lawn, or the acrid aroma of a hot blacktop. I often avoided the driveway because the heat always ate through my sneakers soles, which had grown smooth and thin from wear. But I didn’t care, I was just a kid, even the Velcro on those sneakers was matted with burrs and small violets that my grandmother considered weeds, but I loved greatly for the slight purple sheen they left after rubbing the velvety young petals between my fore fingers.

One summer day, my grandmother called me inside, and handed me a cup of cool water, which I lapped eagerly, panting between gulps, and fogging up the sides with slippery condensation. The dehydrated flush drained from my face. She pinched the places where I stained my khaki shorts with bright green smudges and she clucked her teeth, a criticism presented with a wry smile, for she knew, as I do now, that children at play is one of the greatest joys in life.

My grandmother was my closest friend, highest admirer, and a woman of old customs who wore her smooth black hair carefully wreathed in a bun, a smattering of gray framing her face brought out her mahogany irises, which were draped in the kind of wrinkles one can only accomplish from year after year of laughter. In my young age I didn’t bat an eye at the unending love she gave to me, in my mind I thought everyone treated each other this way, surely I knew of murder and hate, but I also knew of villains on the Saturday cartoons, and that tax season ends in April, all situations mere abstract in my mind because I had never confronted with them.

She wiped the dishwater off of her pruned hands on her apron, which I had become familiar with being that my height did not extend beyond her hip; the cloth garnished with faded pink roses and a delicate lace trim.

“You still thirsty?”

I knew what was next. I nodded.

She took the glass from me and set it down on the counter. Curiously, she picked up a half empty ginger ale bottle from the fridge, and let it glug and chug into the glass. I watched with my elbow propped up on the counter, I knew this was special.  Followed was a jar of maraschino cherries that opened with a short metallic gulp. The lid revealing little orbs bobbing in a neon syrup. I watched her wrinkled hands splash the red liquid, the glass intermittently blipping with carbonation. Her almond shaped nails, coated with a sheen of pink gloss, slid the glass in my direction. I looked down into the concoction, a spread of red pigment mingling among the handful of bobbing ice cubes, the color reminding me of roses. I took a sip and knew it was special. A tangy, sickeningly sweet flavor spread across my tongue. She made one for herself as well, and cleared the sink of dishwater, watching as it left behind a residue of foam and some old shredded carrot in the drain.

We sat down together at the kitchen table, waiting for me was a cheese and tomato sandwich, with the crusts cut off and made into triangles, a reflection of my youth. She crossed one knee over the other and relaxed into her drink. The window behind me lie open and a breeze swept through the room, along with the hum of the neighbor’s lawn mowers, a persistent presence day or night. After I finished my sandwich, she pulled me onto her lap and together we marveled at birdhouses on the porch, chickadees zooming around in a zany flutter, their dome shaped heads twitching in every which way with beady eyes, glinting in the golden hour.

The lock in the front door shifted with a thud and cap in hand, my grandfather was home. He smoothed back a swath of sweaty gray hair with a long, cathartic, exhale- his eyes squinting to adjust to the dimmer inside light, which appeared warped and purple compared to the residual sun still harbored in his retinas. He tossed his keys in a dish and sat next to my grandmother, being sure to balk up the front of my trousers before sitting down, the chair letting out a yelp under his hasty slouch. He slung his arm her and gave her a look, one of love, oh how he admired his woman.

“Any meat for the pot tonight?” Grandma asked.

He let out a grunt and shook his head, he pulled out a cigarette and flicked on his lighter with a thick square thumb, with nails crusted with dirt and knuckles sporting the same white hair as the top of his head.

I never knew where my grandpa went during the day, and never cared to ask, the world past my family, my neighborhood block, and the corner store were beyond my comprehension. Instead I watched it zoom by in the back seat of the rusted minivan my grandmother drove, a landscape laced with larger than life billboards displaying bright white smiles, the sidewalk a blur of tight lipped people and buildings that seemed to repeat themselves, to me it felt as if the van was just turning and starting and stopping until we were home again.

A lot of  summers went on like that, passing by me as if he were on a never ending track of hard edged yellow grass that cut my baby skin, with a lick of sweat always present on my brow, and a safe wistful slumber awaiting me up every night, my dreams always kind, and consciousness never far from the surface.

On a day in late July when I was fifteen, when the light was low and the cicadas sang their guttural hymn, a wash of oil laid heavy on the eyelids of everyone in the house. Grandmother was boiling potatoes for mash, one of grandpa’s favorites, with pepper crusted chicken, cream, and lots of thyme. The steam from the pot made the kitchen hotter than what was comfortable for anyone. The ceiling fan was caught in a tumultuous beat of its blades, though not to much relief.  

I was sitting at the table, only wearing one of my grandpa’s tee shirts, a billowing gown against my body. Grandmother was slicing mushrooms for a gravy.

“Hirsh, honey, could you come finish for me?” Grandma asked, sounding croaky. She put down the knife and wiped her forehead with the heel of her palm. She massaged her hand as if she were in a great deal of pain.

I tenderly sliced each mushroom, I could sense something was wrong, but I knew obedience was the way to help in the situation, and the privilege of using a knife was new and exciting.

“Everything alright?” Grandpa called from the living room, the TV spitting out the clustered sound of pre recorded laughter and used car ads.

She paced quickly into the living room.

“It just doesn’t feel right.” She said anxiously. She stared at her open hand, furrowing her brow as if she was trying to make a fist, but her hand just lay there, flaccid. She sat down, exasperated.

Grandpa wrung out her arm, “Ahh c’mon, it’s just pins and needles.” he rastled.

“Oh, Daryl, don’t you think I wuld be able tut’tell guh difference?” She asked, a clutch of marbles rolling around in her mouth. I knew something was wrong.. He sensed it, too.

He sprang out of his chair and made it to the phone in three strides. Only to reveal that the other side of her face was starting to melt into a lopsided drool of olive skin, her eyelids drooped exposing the white of her eye.

“Oh goddamnit, sweetie!” He fumbled with the phone, and tripped over his words, a panicked mess. I stopped my work and sat beside her.

My heart had skipped a beat and froze there, my eyes searched wildly over this monsters face to find my grandmother, it couldn’t be her. She looked at me and tried to speak but immediately stopped after a dribble of spit escaped the fallen corner of her mouth.

“Ouh, honey, don’t worry. Go. Gu play sweetheart.” Her words fit around a wad of cotton in her mouth. But I persisted.

    Grandpa rushed back in and stood for a moment, his face gone pale. He sat down and cradled her in his arms like he always had, but this time tighter, like he was trying to put her back together again. With each passing moment she seemed farther away, her eyes focused on somewhere deep and distant into the wall, and with a twitch of her eyebrow and a flicker in her eye, I knew it must have been spectacular.