Fiction: The Only Family Left

“Hi-dee.”

Avery puffed on his cigarette hunched over the trunk of the car with a seat cushion resting under his propped-up elbows. He tapped the ashes into an empty rust-colored Folgers coffee can. Sometimes he would urinate in the can if he really had to go without warning.

“Is Grandma inside?” It was a ridiculous question to ask. At eighty-five and never having a driver’s license, there wasn’t anywhere else she could be.

“Uh, yup. She was cookin’ sum’em earlier.”

I never had any illusions that Avery was my grandfather. I never met my grandfather, but I knew he wasn’t Avery. Avery never tried to be my grandpa anyway, which I was thankful for.

“It’s gettin’ chilly out here.”

“Hmph.”

He didn’t want my sympathy. Grandma wouldn’t let him smoke inside the house, which I’m thankful for for both of our health, so he rolled his green oxygen tank outside during the winter for a smoke. He had a faraway look in his eyes, matching the colorless gray sweats he always wore.

The familiar smell of grease and coffee rammed my nostrils as I entered the house. The dining room and kitchen were empty, except for the remnants of a meal—dishes, pots, pans, cups, and silverware littered the kitchen. A plate with a few biscuit crumbs sat on the bar, blankly watching the small kitchen TV that showed a black-and-white boxing match on mute. I turned into the living room half expecting to see my grandma’s smiling face in her peach recliner, instead an empty room greeted me. I could hear commotion from down the hall.

The living room was a shrine to heritage. There were pictures ranging in nearly a century around the room. I saw my mother, wearing a yellow tie that hung below her polka-dotted sun dress, smiling with innocence and love, surrounded by her brothers and sisters. I guessed she was around seven in the photograph, the second youngest of the bunch. It was like looking in a mirror, seeing her dark curly hair and green eyes with that coy smile staring back at me. On the wall to the right of the entryway hung pictures of the married grandchildren with their wives. My brother looked like a seventeen-year old unable to grow a beard instead of frozen at twenty-three. A wallet-sized photo sat in each corner of the hanging frame, one for each of my nieces. History and heritage are ever-changing and sometimes hard to keep up with, but there was an attempt at a flowing narrative in my grandma’s living room.

On the wall to the left was a group of photos much larger than the married section—the wall of graduates. Senior photos from four decades graced the wall, running three rows deep; with seven children having at least two children apiece and up to as many as four, Grandma reserved the biggest wall in the room for these. Like the marriage wall, small amendments had been made to the frames, mostly updated pictures from further academic achievements. A picture from medical school, an advertisement for a law practice (which I knew my cousin detested, but I’m sure my grandma insisted on cutting out and hanging), and photos of girlfriends, boyfriends, and fiancés. Most of the photos were classic portraits—the guys dressed in black suits and red ties, and the girls in dark, modest dresses. My picture sat in the middle, hanging on the second row in its gold frame. I hadn’t changed much, still the twin of my young mother.

My grandma’s empty recliner sat facing the walls, though closer to the one with the most grandchildren. I imagined her sitting in her recliner, staring at the pictures and saying her mumbled prayers for all of us daily. She prayed for us individually, petitioning God on our behalves by name, I have no doubt. Maybe she started in the morning and only took breaks to cook, methodically building a hedge around each of us. Or maybe she went down the line like a bricklayer, continually building upon each row throughout the day until she’d built a fort. Reclined with her socked feet up, head tilted to one side, a toothless grin spread wide across her face, admiring her family, thanking God for her blessings, she labored.

Silence didn’t suit the room, which was usually filled with three to four generations. It was easy to imagine aunts and cousins busying themselves with stories, jokes, and lies about the past. The room felt safe, secure. The sound of the screen door banging closed broke the silence. Avery would assume his hunched position at the bar—he never sat down because he wouldn’t be able to breathe; he even slept sitting up—watching the silent TV, until he needed another cigarette, the pillow trudging along for the endless journey.

The graduation wall turned into a hallway, the carpet giving way to tile. There were two intersections down the hallway. At the first, a bathroom opened to the left and an extra bedroom to the right. At the end of the hall, the master bedroom lay on the left and spare bedroom on the right. Avery slept his half-awake sleep in the master bedroom, which also had a half bath. Grandma slept in the extra bedroom across the hall. The front bedroom served as a small family room. When we were younger, it was where all the cousins would congregate during the holidays. It had the only other TV in the house, one quite a bit bigger than the boxy kitchen set. It was also where Grandma got her hair fixed every Sunday for church, which is why it has smelled like cheap hairspray and burnt hair since I can remember. There was never a shortage of bobby pins or hot rollers in the front room.

The tradition of hiding a $500 in a shoe, or anywhere out of sight for that matter, began in the family room—the world was conquered and life debated in those infinite hours of youth. Every autumn, America’s Team played on the TV, and we hoped to see the gunslinger from our neighboring state. We’ve watched the kid from Mississippi for the majority of our lives, some of us literally since the day we were born. My dad has an old black toolbox that reads “FAV 40.” We took it as a sign. We were proud to ride in the back of the truck with the toolbox on our Sunday fishing trips.

“Jesus.”

I stopped for a moment, probably assuming that tilted-head, eyes-squinted, toothless-grin look that we all attribute to Grandma. Her wiry white hair frizzled about everywhere, her pale scalp shining through in more places than not. She was slightly rocking, no doubt, wringing her hands in prayer. I couldn’t make out what she was saying because of the screaming TV evangelist, but I didn’t need to—I’d heard her prayers hundreds of times.

“Jesus,” she mumbled to herself. “Oh, Jesus, Jesus. Help us, Jesus.”

“Give me tha’ ole time power!”

She nodded her head at this. I knew that no matter how I went about this, I would startle her.

“Gran—"

“We need tha’ ole timed Holy Ghost!”

“Amen.”

“Grandma.” She hiccuped in her seat--jumping seems unlikely. For a second, a look of terror filled her face as she turned around. Some day I know that look will stay.

“Oh, hon. You scared Grandma. I had the TV so loud I didn’t hear nobody pull up. I’m gettin’ hard ‘a hearin’, I tell you. I have to turn the TV up so loud I can’t hear anything else in the house. Good thing Avery’s outside to watch, I guess.”

“It’s OK, Grandma.”

“Come give Grandma a—,” she started, but I was already on my way. A hug and a kiss on each cheek was everyone’s greeting from Grandma. “You look handsome, son.”

“Thanks,” I said, unable to withhold a smile—no matter how many times you heard it, even from Grandma, she found a way to make it genuine. It was pure love cured by time and tragedy, seasoned with loss and regret.

“We need a ree-viii-val. The world has gone on too long in its wickedness—”

“Let me turn down the TV, hon. I just love listening to him—he speaks the Word, the ole timey stuff.”

I nodded my head, smiling, and took a seat.

“Do you want anything to eat or drink?”

“No, I just ate not—”

“Oh, I think I have some sweet tea or some orange soda in the fridge. Do you want me to go get—”

“No, I’m fine, Grandma.”

“Are you sure? There’s some cookies in there, too, if you’d like. Or I can make you something.”

“No, I’m all right, Grandma. I promise I just ate before I came.”

“All right. Grandma just don’t want you to go without. I don’t care if you eat all my food, just help yourself if you want.”

“I know.”

“How’s your mom and dad?

“Fine. Just working a lot.”
“Oh, I know. I hate it that they stay so busy. With your mom taking care of the girls and your daddy working and trying to build that house, they’ve got their hands full.”

“Yeah.”

“How’s school? Now, are you working, too?”

“Yeah, I work at the college, but just twenty hours a week. Even though it’s enough to keep me busy with my classes and homework.”

She only smiled and nodded, tilting her head to the right. Sometimes I knew she didn’t hear what I said—she zoned out, her eyes seemingly losing touch with reality in her stare, which penetrated you to the core. You knew she was appreciating your presence, savoring the time and clasping to the memory, but you couldn’t help but feel exposed under her glare. Every transgression bubbled into your conscience, making itself visible. If for the only time in my life, I felt sorry for my sins. The weight of my sins was enough to overburden the frail women in front of me, crushing her remaining life with its ferocity.

“Have I ever told you the story about when I was baptized?”

“No, I don’t think so.” She’d told me many stories, but I didn’t recall this one.

“Well, it was one of the first times I’d went to church with my older sister. I was a devil child—I’m ashamed of the way I acted looking now. Oh, looking back, I regret all the time I wasn’t in church. But I’d went to church with my sister when I was about twelve. I got under conviction and decided I needed to be baptized. Well, we were going to a Church of God church then so I was baptized in the Trinity, but I went under in the name of Jesus when I started going to the Pentecostal Church. Anyway, the preacher was handin’ out Bibles to those who got baptized, and I didn’t have a Bible of mine own, so I was excited. Now, Pastor knew my sister and my parents and he said, ‘Bernice, I know you’se chewing tobacco. Since you’se been baptized, you can’t do that nomore, you understand?’ He made me promise I’d quit chewing before he gave me that Bible.

“‘Lo and behold, you know the first thing that happened to me when I got home. I went and sat under a gumball tree to read my new Bible and the Devil started whisper’n in my ear: ‘Bernice, you know you’d enjoy that Bible more if you had a chew.’ It didn’t make no sense, but I thought, ‘Yeah, that sounds good.’ So I started chewing a wad while reading my new Bible under that tree. Oh, I don’t know why I listened to that Devil—son, he’s always deceiving, whisperin’ in your ear. Well, I’ll have you know, I got sicker ‘an a dog that afternoon. I went back to church ashamed and asked God for forgiveness. I told Pastor I wouldn’t ever chewing tobacco again, and I haven’t ‘til this day, Lord help me. Course, I’m too old to want to do those things anymore. I’ve come too far in my walk with the Lord.”

I only nodded my head, unable to picture my Grandma as a teenager chewing snuff. I couldn’t help but smirk a little.

“Oh, son, don’t ever let go of your faith. Nothing can replace the Pentecost experience. Nothing in the world worth losing eternity for.”

“I know, Grandma.” I glanced at my watch and checked my phone.

“Oh, am I holding you? I know you’re busy and have a lot of places to go since you don’t get to come home very often. Don’t let me hinder you.”

“You’re fine, Grandma. I just have to go in a few minutes. I need to start back home so I can finish some things before the week starts.”

“I know, I know you’re busy. I’m so glad you come to see me. I don’t know what I’m gonna to do with your brother or David or Grant if they don’t come see Grandma soon. And they only live a few minutes away.”

“Yeah, I don’t see them much either now, living so far away.”

We repeated the hug and kiss on each cheek. I helped her up and guided her down the hall—her slippers are slick on the cold tile—turning on the heat for her as we passed the thermostat. We passed the wall of smiling achievers, traveled through the cluttered kitchen, stopping at the front door.

“Come back and see me when you can.”

“I will.”

“I know. I love you.”

“I love you too, Grandma.”

She balanced herself on the screen door handle, waving and watching me go like a small child, head tilted, eyes squinted, mouth spread wide.

Avery was outside again, propped up on the car, oblivious to the bite of the winter wind. The next time I saw him, he was as lifeless as his gray sweats. My brother, David, and Grant were even there—I arrived late this time, splashing through the puddles on my way to the blue tent to join in as the only family he had left.