For Grandfather by Mollie Lam

I could always see Mrs. Sanders from the upstairs window. In a neighborhood made up mostly of 1950s ranch styles, my grandfather’s house stood tall in the tradition of the old colonials. Thirty years ago I used to look down from the upstairs window, a little girl barely able to see over the ledge. My grandfather would pick me up so I could see the street. I used to think of his house as my house; I loved it more than anyone. Now I was back at the window again, but my grandfather was dead—a heart attack. And it was no longer my house. It was my brother’s house.

I looked down. Across the street lived Mrs. Sanders and her dog. Without fail they had appeared every morning for the last ten years, the ten years since her husband had died. The dog’s name was Sady. When we would visit my grandfather during college, my brother and I used to walk Sady for Mrs. Sanders. He’s the kind of dog that looks perfectly groomed, but up close smells like he hasn’t had a bath in far too long, a condition I’ve since discovered is characteristic of Cocker Spaniels. My mother and my aunts worried about Mrs. Sanders. Her mind was failing, they’d say. Her children really ought to hire a live-in nurse. Nevertheless, year after year, Mrs. Sanders survived with just Sady.

As dog and owner set off down the block, I turned away from the window. The room, with old-fashioned hardwood floors and yellow walls, smelled like my grandfather—the musk cologne, the plain Ivory soap, even a lingering whiff of cigarette smoke from a habit he quit when my brother Tom was born. Dust marked the outlines of the furniture, which was now stacked neatly outside in a large moving van. Until a few days ago, though, the furniture hadn’t moved since my grandmother died. She died when the oldest girl was twelve and when the twins had just started school. Since then, my grandfather and his four girls had stayed in this beautiful brick house, my favorite house in the world.

But there was a reason he gave up smoking when my brother Tom was born. A reason he paid for Tom’s college tuition. A reason he didn’t pay for mine. My mother was the oldest. That her first child, his first grandchild, was a girl had disappointed him. God’s irony—four daughters and a granddaughter for a man who had wanted sons. But he made do. He played with me, bought me dolls. He took me to the donut shop, held my hand while I pointed to the chocolate munchkins, and told me about my grandmother on the walk back. But then my brother was born. And I didn’t go to the donut shop; my brother went with him and brought something back for me. He didn’t drive the hour and a half to my school for my senior recital, but he drove the four hours to Chicago for my brother’s tennis tournament.

He never said he loved my brother more. If Tom and I were fighting, he always awarded me the victory. “Tom,” he’d say, “leave Julianne alone.” He’d send me away, upstairs to the girls’ room with my dolls. He’d sling an arm around Tom’s shoulders and lead him into the study for a little chat, man to man. He never said it; I always suspected. Now I thought I knew.

Years ago I wanted to protest when he took my brother out on the boat or when he wouldn’t let me play in the study. But my mother always stopped me. My grandfather, she said, just didn’t understand girls. He’d wanted a grandson to follow in his footsteps. I had to accept his behavior, even though it wasn’t fair.

All I really wanted to be in that house, with my aunts and my uncles and my cousins and my parents. I loved sitting on green living room couch in the evening listening to my aunts talk about their childhoods. My grandfather would tell us stories about his old patients. Then, when it was finally time for bed, we’d walk slowly up the majestic mahogany staircase, past the beautiful cabinet of glassware off of which the light streaming through the windows danced. I dreamed about the bathroom window through which I would crawl late at night to sit on the porch roof and look at the stars. In the morning, when I woke up before everyone else, I would lay happily in bed, content to know that my family was so close by. In the summer the sun would set while we ate corn on the cob and potato salad on the patio. In the winter the snow would start to fall as we baked cookies in the kitchen. And when everyone packed up the cars to leave, I would cry as we drove away. The other kids couldn’t wait to get back to their friends, to their houses, but my grandfather’s house was the only house I really loved. No one else understood, except maybe my grandfather himself. But in the end, that hadn’t mattered. He still left the house to Tom.

He died almost three weeks ago. My family delayed the memorial service so that the entire family could come. Naturally Tom decided (after consulting with the family) to sell. We’d spent the last week cleaning out the house. Some of the furniture was still left, of course; the realtor said people don’t like to buy empty houses. But my aunt and uncle from California and their daughter didn’t want to have to come back in a few months to collect the pieces they wanted. Now the house seemed foreign, the remaining furniture rearranged so that no room looked too barren.

Since he’d graduated from medical school, Tom had barely been home to see my grandfather. It wasn’t really his fault; not only did he live a thousand miles away, but he and his wife were raising twin boys even as Tom finished his residency. I, on the other hand, visited often enough that my grandfather converted one of the old bedrooms back into a nursery when my daughter was born. I wanted her to love the house as much as I did, so I would buckle her car seat, say goodbye to my husband, and head off to Clampton for the weekend. Even with a crying baby the house seemed a little empty, but I didn’t care. In the middle of the night, old as he was, my grandfather would take my daughter in his arms and walk slowly up and down the hallway. Sometimes the soft padding of his footsteps would wake me up. I listened to that sound and remembered the contentment I always felt in the house. Those times, late at night, a small part of me was glad Tom lived so far away. No great-grandsons in sight.

From downstairs I heard my mother’s voice. “Jules, Tom’s leaving for the church. Do you want to ride with him or wait to go over with your father and me?”

“I’m coming!” I shouted back, turning away from the window.

The kitchen was a mess. My mother stood over a huge Waterford punch bowl, stirring round and round with a huge wooden spoon. The table overflowed with cookies, bars, and pies that my aunts were ferrying to the dining room.

“He’s already outside, Jules. Hurry!”

I grabbed my coat from the closet and threw open the door. The cold December air rushed into my lungs and froze the inside of my nose. Tom’s Mazda rental puffed exhaust in the driveway. I jumped down the stairs and into the car.

“We’re late,” he said shortly. “The minister wanted us there at 9:00 to go over the service.” He backed slowly onto 30th Street, hitting the mound of slush pushed into the driveway by the snow plough.

We drove for a few minutes in silence. I bit my tongue, staring out the window at the leafless trees. Finally I spoke. “Tom,” I said, “did you know that Grandfather was going to leave you the house?”

He looked surprised. “Of course,” he said. “I thought you knew that, too.”

I turned away again. This time it was Tom who broke the silence.

“Jules, if you wanted the house, all you had to do was ask. I’d give it to you in a second. I didn’t know you wanted it.”

“That’s not the point.”

Tom sighed. “Listen, I know you never really liked him, but today’s his funeral, so can you forget about it for a few hours?”

I couldn’t forget about it. My grandfather had let me down. He’d betrayed me. That was the only correct word. It wasn’t the kind of betrayal that made me angry. Just sad. Sad, because he’d ignored his last opportunity to show that he loved me, too.

Tom spoke again. “Aren’t you a little old to hold a grudge?”

I looked back at him. “You don’t know what it’s like, Tom. He gave you everything.”

“I know it was unfair, but let it go, Jules. That was years ago” I could hear the annoyance creep into his voice. “I told you, I’ll give you the house if you want it.”

“I don’t want the house from you, Tom. I wanted it from him.” And I realized it was true. I didn’t really want the house. I had my own home, my own family. I wanted my grandfather.

We glided across the snowy parking lot of the church. The stained glass windows sparkled in the sun; the flaming cross stood above the sign which read “COME WORSHIP WITH US.” Through the doors we walked, up the stairs, into the sanctuary, down the aisle. The pastor greeted us familiarly. Mr. Critz and his sons, owners of the Clampton funeral home, were setting up bouquets of yellow roses and lilies around the altar. The burial had happened quietly two weeks ago. In place of a casket, a little coffee table held a picture of my grandfather, his diploma from medical school, and my grandparents’ marriage certificate. I picked up a program and slid to the middle of a pew. On the first page, large script read “In Loving Memory of Dr. Theodore J. Mann.” Inside, a short account of his life graced the left page: Born 1916, in Springfield, IL. Graduated from the University of Illinois medical school. Served in WWII. Married Eleanor 1947. Widowed 1960. General practitioner for fifty-five years. Active member of United Methodist Church and Rotary Club. Beloved friend and father. Survived by his daughters Jane (Adam), Helen (Robert), Christine (Steven), and Alice (Bill), and grandchildren Tom, Katie, Sarah, Elizabeth, Eleanor, and Julianne…

I looked up. People were arriving. The rest of my family trickled in, surrounding me in the front pews. Soon the minister stood up to speak. I looked up at the high ceiling. How many times had I sat in this room, staring in awe at the huge organ pipes when the old woman played the benediction? How many times had I rushed down the steep stairs after the postlude, hoping to be the first kid to grab lemonade and a cookie at coffee hour?

“….Dr. Mann’s daughter Jane would like to speak.” My mother stood and walked to the podium. Her hands trembled as she unfolded her notes and rearranged her glasses.

“My father,” she began, “loved one thing on this earth more than any other: his family. His only desire in life was to help us, to make the way easier, to…to make sure we were safe. When our mother died, he never faltered, not even at the prospect of raising four girls by himself. He was…was a…” She faltered. I could see the whites of her knuckles as she gripped the edges of the podium for support, fighting her tears and struggling to regain her voice.

Come on, I thought. Come on, come on, come on. My fingernails dug into my palms as I stared hard at my mother. And as I stared, I began to notice how sad she really looked. It was not just the tears in her eyes, not just the lines on her face. It was palpable sadness, something I could feel from forty feet away.

Suddenly, I stood up. I pushed past my astonished aunt and walked quickly up the aisle to the podium. I took my mother’s hand, wrapping my fingers tightly around hers. As she stepped to the side, I leaned into the microphone. “He was,” I said, “a good man.”

An hour or so later everyone returned to my grandfather’s house. I sat in the living room, in one of the cranberry patterned chairs by the fireplace. I had never really cared for black clothes, but in this dress I’d finally found something I liked. The fitted waist gave way to a pretty, floaty skirt that stopped just shy of my knees. I fiddled with the pearl buttons on my jacket cuffs and looked down at my shoes. Leather pumps in a style the clerk called “peek-a-boo toes.” No one really talked to me. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I’d carefully navigated the cookie table to avoid anyone who knew me by sight. Now, with my daughter dozing in a cradle at my feet, people stayed away. They didn’t want to wake her. I prayed she’d stay asleep until everyone left.

Luck was not with me. A passerby accidentally rocked the cradle with his foot. Awake she flew, first opening her eyes and then her lungs. Tom, standing a few feet away, turned and scooped her up, cooing platitudes. “Oh, quiet now, princess. We don’t want to upset everyone in the neighborhood. Come on, now…” He wandered into my grandfather’s abandoned study as her cries slowly subsided. Now, left without protection, I faced a mass of my grandfather’s friends. From across the room I saw Mrs. Sanders. She had just finished her pie and was scanning the room for a familiar face. I walked towards her.

“Hello, Mrs. Sanders.” I gave her a friendly smiled and reached out for a hug.

“Wha- oh, er, hello, dear,” she responded, confused. My mother and her sisters were right. Mrs. Sanders’ mind was failing. She’d known me since I was born.

“It’s Julianne, Mrs. Sanders. Theo’s granddaughter.” I hoped she remembered my grandfather.

“Oh, yes!” she said. “You’re Sady’s favorite walker.”

I smiled. “How’s the old boy doing?”

Her face fell. “He’s dead, dear. Didn’t you know?”

I froze. “What? When?” I’d just see the two of them setting out for a walk that morning.

She looked distressed. “Almost three weeks ago, or so I heard. Such a tragedy—a heart attack. Theo was one of the last.” Her mouth trembled. “It’s so lonely. No one from my generation is left anymore.”

My expression softened. I put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Sanders. I’m sure you and Sady will be fine.”

She looked up at me. “Theo talked about you, you know. All the time. He was so proud when you graduated from law school. He said you were the top of your class.”

I didn’t know what to say. Her son wandered over to us before I could think of anything. “Mom, I think we’d better get home, don’t you? Sady needs to be let out.”

“All right,” she said, and turning to me, “Remember, dear, you and your brother can come walk Sady anytime you want.”

I watched her son lead her away. Gently he helped her to put on her coat, then her hat, then her scarf. They headed slowly out the front door, arm in arm. I turned and looked through the door to the study. Tom was sitting in Grandfather’s big leather chair, my daughter sleeping peacefully on his chest. I walked in.

“Tom,” I said, “I did like him.”