Lefty Shake by Chris Parsons

Herbert Munshin’s recliner is the throne of his country fortress. So, like the half-refurbished farm house itself, approachable only over hills, dirt roads, and makeshift bridges, the chair’s coarse grey fabric endures no unwanted visitors. Though his grandson’s family is wanted at the home exactly two times each year, the chair remains powerfully separate, forbidden.

As a small child in his grandfather’s home, Jack Munshin’s clandestine attempts to climb the chair bore no relation to the thing itself. The jar of pink candy on his grandfather’s table was reachable only from the recliner. Young Jack always hesitated at the summit to glance over the table’s contents; a pair of glasses, two opened packs of cigarettes, a Bic lighter, a new book about an old war, one remote control, and, of course, the sparkling, opaque jar of blurred pink mints. Despite sporadic success, Jack more often felt a quick tug on the waistband of his pants as his grandfather pulled him high into the air and back safely to the ground. The family’s laughter drowned away Jack’s cries of real terror and Herbert’s rough grunts as he tossed him down a pink mint. Herbert scared Jack.

Herbert still scares Jack. The newly adult Jack sells cellular phones and lives far from both his immediate and extended family. Still, he visits his grandpa and grandma Munshin twice a year with his parents. Jack’s other grandparents put bags of sugary candy in his obliging, twenty-five year old hands, but he still looks both ways before venturing a reach over Herbert’s recliner to the pink mint dish.

The newest family trek to the farm house will include a funeral for a relative remembered only vaguely in the haze of Jack’s childhood. Though he knows he should feign a somber mood for his parents, the familiar pattern of hills, ponds, and forests viewed through the back seat window forces his grandfather’s chair to the forefront of his thoughts.

“Mom, grandpa Munshin hasn’t said more than ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye’ to me since I can remember.”

“Well – he’s always been a little prickly.” His mom’s look is transparent. Outbursts like ‘I’ll be buried in my backyard with a cigarette in my hand” and ‘congratulations on your marriage Mrs. Munshin – when’s my first grand child due?” ring in her mind. “Besides, your grandma will be happy to see you. You are her only grandchild.”

“I swear she’s the only reason I keep driving out here with you guys.” Grandma Munshin compensates for her husband’s imperial, ‘prickly’ disposition with wonderful intelligence and open, obvious love for Jack. The two have kept their biyearly date for after dinner coffee and Trivial Pursuit ever since she taught Jack to play fifteen years ago. “I’m sure she’s upset about her sister.”

For the Munshin’s, funerals masquerade as family reunions. So, the death of grandma Munshin’s older sister sounds the dirge that brings a flood of relatives into the Munshin country house. Jack laughs to think of gas station attendants within a fifty mile radius explaining the sequence of hills, dirt roads, and bridges leading to his grandfather’s house and the neighboring, country church. The inner laugh nearly becomes an outward giggle when he thinks of his grandfather throwing an unsuspecting fat uncle or awkward grandnephew from his chair.

Upon arriving, however, Jack’s private laugh becomes a private, tightening worry for his grandmother. She looks frail. Her skin, always tough, tight, and grooved like leather, appears sallow and hanging. The spark of her blue eyes is faded and replaced by hollowing fatigue. Even her movements, usually brisk and determined, are languishing and indecisive in the obstacle course of distant relatives and excited dogs. After greeting his parents with quick hugs, she doesn’t notice Jack for a minute.

“Hi grandma.”

“Oh Jack! You look very handsome in your suit.” After a brief embrace, she eyes him warily. “Where will you sleep? I’m quite overrun with all the family here.”

“No big deal grandma, I think we’re heading home after the funeral.” As his grandmother nods and drifts toward the dining room, Jack slides past an uncle who calls him ‘chief’ to investigate his grandma’s bookcase in the living room. Any new books of his grandmother’s are blocked, however, by a rolling sea of relatives sitting on the floor.

“Why don’t we watch a movie?”

“Caddyshack! Caddyshack!”

“No, Isaac can’t watch movies with boobs.”

“Can too you asshole…”

“Hey! Hush up! We’re leaving for the funeral in an hour, so there’s no time to watch movies.”

Jack ignores the noisy sea and glances at his grandfather’s empty chair. He suddenly appreciates the sanctity of the throne. Not even an errant child attempts to roll into the forbidding stone grey seat, and Jack walks a few steps closer for a better look. The fabric is a little worn and the cigarette burns are more numerous this year. He instinctually glances in all directions and reaches for the candy jar on the neighboring table. Before his hand touches the lid, however, he notices the lack of dull pink through the opaque glass.

“Where are the mints?” Jack wonders aloud.

Providing no answers, his grandmother suddenly comes through the door and collapses, weeping and silent, into the chair. Jack’s words catch in his throat as he stares dumbly down at her. Her small body shakes and her tears fall down the grooves of her face before the arm of the chair knowingly catches and absorbs the droplets. Though silent to Jack’s ears, the sound of her tears seems to cause a ripple effect. The movie watchers, out of respect and discomfort, flow silently into the next room, and, suddenly, Herbert’s alert form appears in the doorway. Jack wants to defend her against his grandfather but instead stands frozen to the ground.

“Please don’t mov…”

Jack’s words die on his lips as Herbert quickly approaches his wife and gently lifts her, sits down, and wraps his arms around her torso. The chair looks small and fragile with two adults in it. His grandmother continues to cry, his grandfather continues to hug, and Jack continues to stare. Then, breaking the silence, Herbert begins whispering inaudibly into his wife’s ear. Jack hears only the soothing tones of his grandfather’s voice, and his grandmother begins to nod. Suddenly Jack is aware of his awkward presence. He feels like an intruder on a moment too far beyond him to include him. As he turns for the door, though, his grandmother looks up for the first time since collapsing into the chair.

“Wait.” She reaches for Jack’s hand, and, finding a grip, lifts herself to her feet. “We have to go to the funeral.” Without looking back, his grandmother leads him by the hand. They walk through the kitchen, out the back door, and across the front lawn toward the church. Jack forces conversation.

“Where are grandpa’s pink mints?”

“Oh! He must have forgotten to get them with the funeral and all. He has to drive two towns away to get the pink ones. You know, dear, he usually only gets them twice a year, when you and your folks visit.”

“What’s in the jar other times?”

“I suppose the jar is empty most other times. We gave up candy to keep our real teeth. Now, we’re here.” Jack and his grandmother walk slowly into the small chapel where the coffin stands open. He feels her grip tighten at the first sight of her sister’s body.

“All the flowers look real nice grandma.”

“Yes. Yes they do. Jack I need you to keep hold of my hand. And if I can’t get through my little speech about my sister, I need you to finish.”

“What about grandpa? He could do the speech better probably.”

“He told me you better do it.” With that, she led Jack toward the Pastor. Jack holds her hand as she talks to the Pastor, as she hands the organist pages of sheet music, as she looks at the cards on the floral arrangements. He holds her hand as she kisses Herbert on the cheek, as she makes it through her entire speech, as she listens to the condolences of a steady stream of friends and relatives. In fact, he holds her hand until they, along with Herbert, return to the house. Jack and his grandmother climb the back stairs, and he lets her hand go as she crosses through the door held open by Herbert.

“Well grandpa, I’ll see you soon?”

“Yep. Soon.” Still holding the door with his right hand, he awkwardly offers his left to Jack. “Sorry for the lefty shake.” Jack forces a chuckle as he grasps his grandfather’s hand. The two break off after a few seconds, and Jack waves over his shoulder to Herbert as he walks to his parents’ car. As they back out of the driveway, he glances up sees his grandfather still holding the back door open. Jack waves out the window once more as his dad pulls the car onto the road.