All Manner of Things Read online

  “Well, you’ve seen me, then.” She half-smiled and motioned for us to follow her. “Come on and see Grandpa.”

  Sunshine poured into the living room through the large windows. No matter how difficult caring for Grandpa was, Grandma kept her house tidy and free of dust. It seemed to be the one way she was able to maintain order in her life.

  “Dear,” she called as we entered the room. “You have some visitors.”

  My grandfather, Rockston Jacobson, sat in an easy chair clear to the other side of the room. He held a newspaper in his hand, folded up just so. He didn’t seem to be reading it, just holding it. These days he always wanted one; they served almost as a security blanket for him.

  “Who’s that?” he asked, looking at us with dull, faraway eyes.

  “It’s Anne and Michael,” Grandma answered, speaking louder and slower than she needed to. “Two of Frank’s kids.”

  He looked between the two of us with no recognition. He shrugged and pulled the paper up in front of his face, a barrier to what confused him.

  “Give him a few minutes,” she told us.

  We knew. It had been that way for Grandpa for a long time. It had started with small things, like a misplaced wallet or calling Grandma by the wrong name. Over time, the troubles deepened. He got lost and threw fits and had terrifying waking nightmares that were so very real to him. It seemed to get worse all the time. All that Dr. DeVries told Grandma was that there was no cure. No treatment. That it was just one more unpleasant part of getting old.

  “Hi there,” Mike said, pulling a footrest close to Grandpa’s easy chair to sit on. “How are you feeling today?”

  Grandpa lowered the newspaper an inch or two and looked over it at Mike’s face. In a flash of recognition, he smiled, showing all of his teeth.

  “My boy,” he said. “I didn’t know you were here. When did you get home? Your last letter didn’t say anything about this. Mabel, why didn’t you tell me Frank was home?”

  “That’s not Frank,” Grandma half-yelled, shaking her head and crossing her arms. “That’s Michael, Frank’s son.”

  “You’re lying,” Grandpa said, pointing his finger at her, his face reddening. “Don’t you think I’d know my own son if I saw him?”

  “You’re confused. That’s Michael.” She took a step forward. “Frank hasn’t been home in years.”

  “She’s trying to make a fool of me.” He looked into Mike’s eyes and reached for his hand. “I’m just glad you’re here, son. No matter what she says.”

  “He won’t listen to me,” she said.

  “It’s all right,” Mike said, holding Grandpa’s hand. “Maybe it’s better if we don’t argue with him.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Your mother is trying to make me think I’m losing my mind,” Grandpa said, glaring at her. “But I’m not.”

  “I know it, Pop,” Mike said, using the name Frank had always used for Grandpa. “She means well.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.” Grandpa hit the newspaper against his thigh. “Won’t even let a man have a drink of brandy.”

  “Maybe she’s saving it for something special,” Mike said. “What do you think about that?”

  “Then we should have it now.” Grandpa nodded. “My son’s come back home from war. I’d say that’s cause for celebration.”

  “Sure is, Pop.” Mike patted his hand.

  “You do your old man a favor,” Grandpa said, leaning his head closer to Mike’s. “Go on out and get my bottle of brandy. I still keep it in the fallout shelter out back on that shelf. You know where, don’t you?”

  Mike cracked a smile. “I’m not certain I do, Pop.”

  “Of course you do.” Grandpa reached out and knocked him gently on the shoulder. “Don’t you remember I caught you down there sneaking a drink just last week?”

  “That’s right.” Mike’s voice was flat, like he was trying to hold back emotion. “You caught me all right, didn’t you?”

  “Did that happen?” I asked Grandma, whispering.

  “When your father was seventeen,” she answered. “I don’t want to talk about it. It isn’t a good memory.”

  She turned and left the room, headed for the kitchen. Mike lifted his head and watched her go.

  “Listen, Pop,” he said. “Let me see what I can do about that brandy. No promises, but I’ll try. How does that sound?”

  “Good, my boy.” Grandpa rustled Mike’s hair. “And while you’re at it, get a haircut. You look like a doggone girl.”

  Mike smiled and got up from the footrest, headed toward the kitchen. I didn’t believe he was thinking of giving Grandpa liquor. I thought he went to console Grandma.

  “Can I sit with you?” I asked, taking Mike’s spot.

  “I guess you can,” Grandpa answered, frowning. “I’m sorry, dear.”

  “What are you sorry for?”

  “I don’t remember you.” His chin trembled. “I should know you, shouldn’t I?”

  “You don’t have to feel bad.”

  “But I do.” He cleared his throat. “It seems my mind isn’t what it used to be.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “He writes me every week, you know,” he said.

  “Who’s that?”

  “My son,” he answered. “Frank. Have you met him?”

  “Yes.” I leaned toward him. “What does he say when he writes?”

  It was Grandpa’s favorite thing to talk about, the notes home from Frank. I knew he was telling me about nothing but an old bundle of letters that Frank had sent from Korea, letters that he’d read over and over. Still, I let him talk. Nothing could soothe him like bragging about his son.

  I sat and listened to stories from letters that were nearly as old as I was. If I’d tried, I could have recited each in that stack by memory for all the times Grandpa had retold them to me in the last handful of years.

  It made me feel guilty, how much I wanted to get back home.

  5

  Mike had insisted on mowing the lawn after church, even if it was the Sabbath and meant to be kept holy. He trimmed the hedges, swiped at the eaves for gunk, and checked the air in the tires on Mom’s car. When I took him a glass of iced tea, I found him in the driveway, finishing up an oil change.

  “Mom’s not happy that you’re doing all of this,” I told him, setting the glass next to him. “She said the neighbors are going to talk.”

  “Well, they can say whatever they want.” He wiped his hands on a rag before drinking half the tea in one go. “This is the only time I can do it.”

  “How much more are you planning on doing?”

  “I just need to clean up.” He lowered the hood of the car, letting it clunk into place. “I want to make things easier for Mom while I’m gone. I was thinking of going over to do Oma’s yard next.”

  “She wouldn’t let you. Not on a Sunday.” I crossed my arms. “She’ll get after you with her wooden spoon.”

  “That’s true. I just don’t want to leave things undone.”

  “You know Joel and I are sticking around, right?” I leaned up against the car, feeling the heat of the metal through my cotton shorts.

  “I know.”

  He drank the rest of his tea. “I guess this just took my mind off things.”

  “Are you nervous?”

  He shrugged.

  “I would be.” I took his empty glass from him. “It’s all happening so fast.”

  “It’s not that,” he said. “I mean, I’m not looking forward to it or anything. But there’s something else.”

  “What is it?”

  “Well, I had a little talk with Grandma yesterday,” he started. “You know, after she got sore at Grandpa and went into the kitchen?”

  I told him I remembered.

  “Well, we talked for a few minutes about me leaving.” He scratched at his hairline. “Annie, she cried. I hated seeing her like that.”

  “She’s worried about you.” I shrug
ged. “She’s probably afraid you’ll come back shell-shocked like Frank did.”

  “Yeah. Maybe,” he said. “What if I do?”

  “You won’t. You’re not like him.”

  “I am.” He nodded. “I’m a lot like him.”

  He opened his mouth to say something else but sighed instead. Licked his lips. Rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand, leaving a black smudge of oil there.

  “Mike,” I said, crossing my arms, “you’re only like him in some ways. But you aren’t him. You’re different.”

  He smiled and breathed out his nose.

  “I sure am going to miss you,” he said. “But don’t let it get to your head or anything.”

  Mom called us inside for little dishes of ice cream. Before we went in, Mike gave me his most earnest face, the one with lowered eyebrows and squinted eyes.

  “You’ll take care of Grandma, won’t you?” he asked.

  I nodded. “I’ll take care of everybody.”

  “You promise?”

  I did.

  6

  On most nights when Mom served boiled hot dogs on buns for dinner, we didn’t sit at the dining room table. We’d fill our plates with dogs and baked beans and—if we were lucky—handfuls of chips and sit in front of the TV.

  But that night, Mom had set the table and put out potato salad that she’d bought from Huisman’s Market the day before. She’d even cut up a watermelon, serving the slices on one of her nice platters. She hummed while putting out the ketchup and mustard.

  “Annie, will you call the boys for supper?” she said without looking up from her work.

  I set my book down and walked to the foot of the stairs. “Boys! Supper!” I yelled.

  “Well, that was ladylike,” Mom said, shaking her head.

  Mike and Joel ran down the stairs, shoving each other out of the way and smiling. So like puppies. Even at nearly twenty, Mike was still so much a little boy.

  “No running in the house,” Mom called after them. “You’re going to break something.”

  Mom took her seat, as did I. But Mike just grabbed a hot dog and shook a good amount of ketchup on it.

  “I’m going out with some of the fellas,” he said before shoving at least half the hot dog into his mouth.

  “Oh, I just thought . . .” Mom started.

  “Can I go?” Joel interrupted her, grabbing a hot dog of his own.

  “I guess so,” Mike answered, shrugging. “A couple of guys are building a bonfire over at the old campgrounds.”

  “Is that all right, Mom?” Joel asked. “Can I?”

  “No one will be drinking?” she asked. “There won’t be girls there?”

  “If there’s any funny business, I’ll bring Joel home. Promise.”

  Mom sighed and nodded, reaching for the dish of potato salad and serving herself a spoonful. “That’s fine.”

  “Mike,” I said, hoping to make him understand that it wasn’t fine.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Just the guys this time, sis.”

  I tried to catch his eye, but he’d already turned his back on me, heading for the front door. “Come on, champ. Let’s shake a leg.”

  “Keen,” Joel said, putting his face close to his plate and scooping the rest of his baked beans into his mouth before picking up his dishes and silverware and taking them to the sink.

  He didn’t remember to rinse them.

  The boys were halfway out the door before Mom called out for Mike to have Joel home by eleven.

  “If you want to go, you can,” she told me.

  “He said it was just for the boys,” I answered. “I’d rather stay in, anyway.”

  “You don’t have to.” She stabbed at a square potato chunk with her fork. “You could see if Jocelyn wants to do something.”

  “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

  She met my eye and smiled, shaking her head.

  After we finished eating we cleaned up the dinner things, not saying too much as we did. It wasn’t until I opened the fridge to put away the ketchup and mustard that I saw the cake on one of the shelves. It was round and layered, more than a little lopsided, as most of the cakes Mom made ended up being. It had homemade chocolate frosting spread thick over the top and the sides. I knew if I cut into it, I would have seen white cake. Mike’s favorite.

  “Mom,” I said, holding the door open.

  “Don’t let all the cold air out,” she said, standing at the sink. “It’ll keep until tomorrow.”

  “Why didn’t you tell him?” I asked.

  She didn’t answer but turned off the faucet and flicked the extra water off her hands. “His birthday’s next week and we’ll miss it. I just realized that this morning.”

  I shut the refrigerator and turned, leaning back against it. She dried her hands on an already damp hand towel. She wouldn’t have grabbed a fresh one from the drawer, I knew it. Not at that time of day. Mornings were for fresh towels. She wouldn’t have wanted to dirty another one when the one she’d used all day was good enough.

  We poured ourselves tall glasses of iced tea and headed to the living room just in time to watch The Ed Sullivan Show. She sat in her chair, one leg tucked up under her. Every couple of minutes she’d sigh before going back to gnawing on her thumbnail. Her tea sat untouched, the sweat running down the glass onto the cork of her coaster.

  “I suppose you don’t remember when Frank was in Korea,” she said in the middle of Spanky and Our Gang singing “Sunday Will Never Be the Same.” “You were so small.”

  I told her I didn’t remember, and she nodded.

  “I’m glad.” She didn’t take her eyes from the television. “It was a hard time.”

  I didn’t say anything back to her. I wouldn’t have known what to say if I had. She rarely talked about Frank or his war.

  “As afraid as I was then, I’m much more afraid now.” She rubbed her forehead with the tips of her fingers.

  “What are you afraid of?” I asked, just a whisper.

  She turned from the TV and looked me straight in the eye. I couldn’t read her expression, but I understood its meaning and I instantly felt stupid for having asked her.

  “That isn’t going to happen,” I said with all the resolve I could muster.

  Her eyes softened.

  You can’t live your life afraid of what might happen. That was what Mike had said. Don’t duck and cover.

  Mom turned back to the television to watch the rest of the show.

  I was up reading on the living room couch when Mike, true to his word, returned Joel home at eleven o’clock sharp. The smell of campfire hung on their clothes and hair. Joel had a busted-up lip, and a bruise was starting to form under his swollen eye.

  “Mike,” I said, trying to keep my voice down so I wouldn’t make Mom come out of her room. “What happened to him?”

  Getting up, I went to Joel, touching his bruise and making him wince.

  “It’s nothing,” Joel said, moving his head back and away from me. “Just a little shiner.”

  “Come on,” I said, taking him by the hand and leading him to the kitchen. “We need to get some ice on that.”

  I shut the door that led to the hallway between Mom’s room and the kitchen before getting a few ice cubes out of the freezer and wrapping them in a clean towel.

  “Don’t bleed on it,” I warned Joel, handing it to him. “Mom would be furious.”

  He held it, just barely touching the skin over his cheekbone, and grimaced.

  “What happened?” I turned on Mike. “You were supposed to be watching out for him.”

  He smirked into his half smile. “We were just playing a game of football on the beach, that’s all. Joel was a wide receiver, and Adam tackled him.”

  “Adam Main?” I asked. “He’s four heads taller than Joel.”

  “And our kid took it like a champ.” Mike looked at our baby brother with eyes full of pride.

  Joel smiled before sucking in a pained breath. “Gosh, it hurts to
smile.” He moved the ice down to his lip. “You think it’ll scar?”

  “I don’t know,” Mike answered. “Let me see it. Nah. It’s not near deep enough.”

  “Rats.”

  “Well, I’m glad you boys had a good time,” I said, leaning back into the counter and crossing my arms. “Did you know Mom made you a cake?”

  “What for?”

  “It’s a birthday cake,” I answered. “For you.”

  “Aw, Mike,” Joel said. “We’re going to miss your birthday.”

  “And she wanted to have it after supper.”

  “Why didn’t she say anything?” Mike asked.

  I shrugged. “You know how she is.”

  “She was upset.” It wasn’t a question. Mike knew enough.

  I nodded.

  “She still up?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I bet she is,” he said. “She never sleeps when she’s angry. Listen. I’ve got an idea to make this right.”

  Joel and I heard him out. True to form, Mike had a pretty good plan to smooth things over.

  “You awake in there?” Mike asked through Mom’s door. “Dear, sweet mother of mine?”

  He waited another few seconds before she answered that she was.

  “May we come in?”

  “Who’s ‘we’?” she asked.

  “Lyndon Baines and Ladybird Johnson and their pet dog Freckles,” Mike answered. “Come on, pal. Let us in.”

  “Fine,” she answered. “But don’t call me ‘pal.’”

  Mike used one hand to open the door, the other to carry in a single rose he’d had Joel steal from the yard of a neighbor across the street. I followed behind him with the lopsided cake. Joel came last with a stack of plates and a fork for each of us.

  “What are you kids doing?” she asked from where she sat on top of the covers, magazine open on her lap.

  “We’re having a birthday party for me,” Mike said, handing her the rose. “Is that okay with you?”

  “It’s so late,” she said, looking at the alarm clock on her bedside table. “We have to be up early to get you to the station.”

  “None of us are going to sleep tonight anyway.” Mike winked at her. “We might as well have some cake with our insomnia.”