No one spoke like his grandfather. Every word perfectly formed.
Every phrase melodic,
every sentence composed. Even today, when Aunt Bessie from Buffalo was due to arrive,
his
grandfather showed no signs of anticipation. He sat in the worn,
rattan loveseat in the sun room,
focused on The Times. He turned the pages effortlessly, and folded
each completed paper leaf
the way Geoffrey’s grandmother folded sheets, the fabric smooth,
the edges at precise angles.
Though Geoffrey’s grandfather was within arm’s reach of the
curtain that looked out on the
porch, he showed no interest in peering out. Geoffrey was made to
sit on the living room sofa,
the place his family preferred that he wait. For Geoffrey, it was
the worst of places because he
had to hide his wriggling. Although it was torturous to be still,
the house had somber rules.
Estelle, who rented a room upstairs, set the dining table in her
usual way. The clang of
silverware and the thump of dinner plates creating a familiar
symphony of sounds. When it was
time to eat, the tablecloth would be so perfectly arrayed it would
resemble a painting.
Geoffrey’s grandmother, stern faced, carried a spray bottle and
rag. She passed in front of
Geoffrey without so much as a nod. Her destination was the cherry
wood end table. She
examined its glass top and gave its surface one last wipe, then
standing back, examined the
surface and judged that it was clean. Then she turned to Geoffrey,
and with her steadfast eyes,
made bolder by her bifocals, said, “Get your mother.”
Geoffrey ran upstairs, but the door to his mother’s room was shut.
He pressed his ear
against the wood, flattened it to create suction. That’s when he
heard crying. He took a deep
breath and braced himself. Then he stood back from the door, and
aimed his voice where the
door and doorframe met: “Grandma said to come down. Aunt Bessie
will be here soon.”
Geoffrey listened for a response, then turned and galloped down
the stairs. He scurried
through the living room, and peeked out the front door window. His
grandfather lowered his
paper, took a look, and without a word, returned to read it.
Geoffrey raced back to the sofa, sat
down, and began to count.
With two more numbers until Geoffrey reached fifty, the doorbell
rang. The sound seemed to reverberate in every nook and cranny,
until the entire house felt like
the inside of the bell. Geoffrey’s heart leaped, but his
grandfather smoothed his newspaper
neatly, folded it, and arose.
“Welcome to Brooklyn, and let’s take your things,” his grandfather
said after he opened
the door. Geoffrey could see a florid dress at the threshold.
Meanwhile the vibrations of footsteps
echoed from every corner of the home. Geoffrey’s grandmother and Estelle
marched to the door,
and even his mother appeared, though she stopped several steps
short of the entranceway.
Sunlight flooded through the open door. Geoffrey squinted, but
still could see that his aunt wore
a flower-print dress with alternating patterns of leafy green and
lattice brown. Where his aunt
stood, it was sunnier and fresher than the rest of the house.
At the dinner table, Geoffrey grew hypnotized by his aunt’s
beatific smile and clear,
angelic voice. Buffalo, where his aunt was from, must be a place
with large houses, lots of space,
and birds that danced across the sky. It was a place where you
learned to be proud and when
people spoke it was like singing.
Geoffrey’s grandmother, who grew up with the aunt,
mentioned a story about reciting Shakespeare at family
gatherings.
“Grandmother and your aunt had tutors,” his mother had told him
once. That was
Buffalo.
“And what are you studying in school, Geoffrey?” Aunt Bessie
asked, the question rising
over the clatter of dishes and chatter.
“He’s shy,” Geoffrey’s mother said.
“Not so shy,” Geoffrey protested. His mother’s words made him
furious. They sounded
worrisome and her voice shook when she spoke.
“I bet you could tell me just one
thing you’re studying,” Aunt Bessie said.
Geoffrey imagined that all his classes were on a revolving
carousel. He watched them
spin.
“Edgar Allan Poe,” he said.
But he didn’t say it, really. It was as though a thousand
words were circling his head, and he happened to grab those three
as they flew before his face.
“Aunt Bessie is a writer,” his mother said.
“Just like Mr. Poe,” his grandfather scoffed. The edge of his lips
curled into a smile. Aunt
Bessie smiled too, but broadly. Then his mother smiled, but hers
was odd. There was a joke
being shared. But it wasn’t funny. Grownups often joked like that.
“Do you write?” his aunt said, looking down at him. “It doesn’t matter if you don’t.”
Geoffrey couldn’t imagine how someone could be so steady and warm,
as though the world was
balanced, and god protected you.
“You wrote a story,” his mother said.
“I didn’t,” Geoffrey said. He thought he might explode. He didn’t write a story, not a real
story.
After dinner, Geoffrey’s aunt was at the piano. His grandfather
and mother, and Estelle
stood around the curved lid of the instrument. Its black surface
glistened like a mirror, and
Geoffrey could see their reflections in the glossy surface. It was
like a painting of a family. On
the piano was a purple and yellow flower in a glass vase. The
flower was called Bird of Paradise.
Geoffrey’s grandmother brought in a book so big she carried it
with two hands.
“Show tunes,” Aunt Bessie said. “You know how I love show tunes.”
Moments later, everyone was singing, except Geoffrey. Even
Geoffrey’s mother sang,
and she rarely did. But tonight she was singing and smiling, and
almost fit in with the rest of the
family. Only Geoffrey felt left out. Then the first song
ended.
“Geoffrey’s too young to know these songs,” his mother said, and
glanced at him on the
sofa.
“But I bet you know lots of those new ones,” his aunt said and
smiled in his direction.
Geoffrey grew embarrassed, imagining the songs he liked. No way
could any of them
like his songs. But his aunt understood.
One tune followed another. Geoffrey sat obediently, hands clasped,
looking up as the
pendulum swung inside the tall clock and the minute hand moved
sluggishly around its face.
Geoffrey studied the faces of everyone around the piano. He
planned his escape. He
would hate to have to give a reason for leaving. So he waited.
When everyone was singing and caught up in the middle of a song,
Geoffrey slid his back
against the sofa, and launched himself upward. No one discerned
his movement, so he quietly
edged towards the stairs, swung around the bannister, and began to
tiptoe up the steps. He
imagined himself under the surface of a lake, the water muffling
his movement, and the music
growing faint. He reached
the top of the stairs and walked into his room. Then he threw off his
clothes and lay down in his bed.
His window shade was drawn. He looked at it, and it became the
land where his Aunt
Bessie lived. It was a
place people sang when they talked, and birds called to one another among
the trees.
When he woke up, the music was gone. The house was quiet and dark.
Aunt Bessie was
probably sleeping in the guest room, next to Estelle’s. Then he
heard a sound. It was faint, but
unremitting. It was his mother crying. Her room was next to his.
She cried nearly every night.
Geoffrey pulled his pillow over his head. But eventually his arms
grew tired. And the crying
leaked into his ears. At Aunt Bessie’s house there was no crying.
There was music. The birds
sang. God would bring down his wrath on an enemy.
But where Geoffrey lived and where he would always live, there
would be crying. Like
the night before last. Like all of last week. Like tonight. It
would be there tomorrow and the day
after, and the day after that. Geoffrey pictured the future. It
was a horizon and the sun was setting
at the edge of the sea. He perked up his ears to listen whether
there was crying out there as well.
But it was far away, way farther than his ears could hear.
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