I was waved in by aunts and close relatives, but it felt more like a mustached caller in stripes, bearded women to the left, gimps to the right, headless chicken bodies littering the ground. I stepped into the main event, my grandfather’s living room. It had been converted from a cramped den to an even more cramped hospital room, complete with a bed and a 1970’s breathing device. I could hear hums and beeps and the wheezing gasps of a curled up old husk. Hens crowded behind me hoping to peck at favor, waiting for the chance to flap agitatedly at me in case I tried to ferret away some secret inheritance that they hadn’t already squandered. He was five days overdue according to the doctors, so I guess in a way I was speaking to the dead, and I wondered what we would talk about this time. Building airplanes, shoddy foreign engineering, centennial birthdays that would never be? Grampa wheezed and turned blank eyes to me. I held that dry firm hand of his, his fingers still strong and desperate, and the wheezing got worse. It was apparent that he couldn’t see me, that some darkness had its iron grip on his lungs and mind. With each gasp, entertained jabber erupted behind me. The spectators had front row seats, maybe this time his resolve wouldn’t rain them out.
“Just a little longer, Grampa, you’ve still got an audience.” I whispered into his ear.
His hand shook and went tighter, making my wrist tingle.
“Leave him alone,” I said quietly, but I was ignored.
“Get out of here!” A few of the more sensible ones left; after all, Superman wasn’t dying here, just an old skinny farmer. The others managed to find something to fidget with, or pretended like I wasn’t talking to them. It was the best I could do without getting violent. He figured now was as good a time as any. His fingers creaked as they gripped harder, then they fell softly from my grasp.
“I won’t forget what we talked about.” I closed his horrified eyes and got up to leave.
“He’s asleep, don’t bother him.” Scorning frowns were everywhere. After all, what gave me the right to order them around? They were at least twenty years my senior, and a generation closer to the man. Who was I to him? I had lived nearly three hours away my whole life. I was the worthless bastard with a family, the oddball with drive but no job. None of this was said, but I knew that look, it had been the same for as long as I could remember. Why should I get any special treatment from their beloved patriarch? Why should I take care of him? I guess it was because I was the only person that knew what Grampa wanted. Everyone else was here to witness the miracle of death and sell tickets. He just wanted to die quietly.
Someone will discover him later, but at least he won’t make a spectacle. They’ll think he passed in his sleep, at peace and not interrupted by the buzzards for handouts and inheritances. No more documents to sign, no babies left to kiss, just the peace of death with quiet dignity. I hope someday my son will grant me that, and if not, perhaps his son would.
Comments