33

  

       DOUG

 

    The door lets in the outside.  He closes it behind him, but the smell of the night hangs there around the kitchen.  I can feel it going up through my nose, and although the air is warm, I feel myself shiver down inside.  It is not the smell of a tree or wilting blossoms.  It is not the smell of the dog or any other animal.  It isn't the compost pile.

    I take my time rinsing and wiping the razor.  The sink is full of dirty dishes and plastic cups.  The scouring pads of a lifetime have left a mark the color of dried blood.  The dishcloth smells of mildew.  When I turn around he's sat down across from the old man, gripping the chair like he had to visit the can.  I give the razor another swipe and toss the towel on the table.

    John nods at me, his chins doubling up on him, the skin looking all red and raw.  We look at each other like we always do.  His is a looks you'd give a dog you're not sure you want to pet.  It used to bother me that he looked at me that way, but now that I've seen what a pain in the ass he can be I'm glad of it; it keeps him at a distance.  I'd rather not have him so friendly.  He drives Art right up the wall, just by being around, just by popping in his head and seeing how things are.  I'd just as soon he'd keep away from the old man.  Something tells me that would be better.  He's a hand at cards, and he doesn't win too much, but that's about it.  That's the only reason I can see for him being around, and that ain't much of a reason.  How'd you like that to be your only reason for being around, to be a hand at cards?  Seems like there's more than that to living.  But then again, I don't imagine he knows it.  I can't see a man being able to face himself knowing everybody thought that little of him.  I would tell him, just say, Hey John, the only reason you're on the face of the earth is so's other people'll have somebody to scratch their ass on and cause my grandfather likes to play pinochle, but that seems like a dirty thing to do to John.  There's just some things you don't do.  I meet his look, and he says, Doug.

    John, I return.  We never let on for the old man's sake.

    Sure is muddy out there.  Hope you don't mind my getting my boots on your floor.  Art sure is tearing up out there.  

    I don't care if Lorraine don't, the old man cackles.  John and I laugh, both because the picture of her fussing and fuming over the mud is funny and because when he makes a joke, you laugh.

    When he catches his breath, he leans forward as best he's able and fixes on John.  You remember Scooey Lynch, don't you John?

    Uh huh.

    Well you remember when him and me, we come back from the service and we both had beards?

    I'm afraid that was before my time, Clare.  I wasn't even a twinkle in my Daddy's eye when you doughboys were off in Europe.  He wasn't  old enough to fight let alone

    I was just telling this boy about it, and he don't believe a word of it, thinks I 'm as crazy as

    I never said any such thing, Grandpa.

    Yeah, he growls.

    I pull him back in the chair and tuck the towel up around his throat.  Leaning over his shoulder, I scrape off another swath of soap.  John worries his butt around on the chair; I can hear him even if I don't look up.

    Sorry, Clare.  I remember Scooey later, but I can't vouch for nothing 'fore that.  That was before my time.  It's getting so I can't say that about much of anything.  Was over here talking with Art the other night and started to realize just how things stand.  We're only a few years apart and he was talking like things was over.  Now that'll start you thinking.  Men just keel over and die at my age.  Heart.  Stroke.  Doug there, his father wasn't hardly fifty, was he?

    He knew I was thinking that.  He knew I was thinking about my Daddy.  He's got no business poking into what I got on my mind.  I look at him hard to let him know and say, He was fifty-two.

    Yeah, see there?  I'm not that far from that.  He didn't get the look.

    The old man doesn't answer.  His mind is elsewhere.  I finish up the right side of his neck and turn his head in my hands.  Nobody says anything for a while.  It's like this a lot with him.  It's like he forgets or don't want to know you're there and just goes off.  John's used to it too and just sits there thinking, maybe about how only an asshole sits and blabs on about dying to an old man with his chin barely above the ground, but I doubt it.  I don't really give John that much credit.  You can hear the clock in the other room. 

    You know, nobody tells me nothing!  It comes out of him like that, like there was no thinking behind it, only the words pushing to come flying out of him.  We, all three of us, sit there in the new silence, thinking what to say now.  He has a look on his soapy old face like, Where the hell did that come from?  Who said that?

    John and I exchange glances.  We both know this is something, something he never let fly with before.  What to do with it is the question.  We could just ignore it, act like he didn't say it.  But something tells me that wouldn't work this time.

    What is it nobody tells you about, Grandpa?

    He grunts and scowls out the window.

    Clare, John tries.  What do you mean, Clare?

    He's digging and who knows what else.  What the hell is he doing?  He's been at it for weeks, I don't have any idea what the hell he's doing.

    John looks uncomfortable.  Well, don't you think you should ask him that? 

    He scowls and turns away.  I shoulda known better

    John looks at me and then away.  He opens his mouth and out it comes like off a clipboard:  He had two foundations dug, one over along that wall and one over here.  Today they came and did some block work and poured cement.  Looks like he's adding two rooms and fixing up the porch.

    I can feel him tense up under my hands, the little bit of muscle left in him balling up and hardening.  I start to shave his cheek, but he jerks away.  Pulls, he says.  You sharp that thing?

    You watched me do it.

    Well, do it again.

    John looks at me like I should help him, but I don't know what to say and doubt that I would if I did.

    There's a load of wood out in the side yard.  Two by eights          stuff like that.

    Floor joists.

    Yeah, I spect so.

    It's silent again for a bit while I make a show of sharpening and stropping the razor.  He rousts his teeth up with his tongue and begins to flip them around inside his mouth.  It's one of those things that are so irritating that it becomes the most important thing in your life while he's doing it.  But then you forget about it when he's not at them, and things are back to normal so that when he starts up again, it's always a shock; you never remember to think about how it is when he's leaving them rest until everything's full of the sucking and clacking again and it's too late.

    Grandpa.  Grandpa, now stop that.  I can't finish this if you're gonna be doing that.          

    What?

    Your teeth.  I can't shave you if you're rolling them around in there.  You have to stay still.

    The teeth settle back into place, and I go on.  John sits there and watches, a worried look look on his face.  I don't know if he's worried about what he said or that I might slit the old man's throat while he's sitting there watching.  Don't worry about it John, I feel like saying, If I ever decide to do it, it'll be a private thing.  Wouldn't that give him something to think about?  I watch his eyes as I drag the blade up over the old man's cheek.  They follow it up over the bone and as it flicks back to pick up the little patch of soap along the sideburn.  His eyes are brown, so dark I can hardly see the pupil.  Suddenly they flit away and settle on my face.

    What are you smiling at?  He asks.

    I didn't realize that I was, I tell him.

    You were looking at me and smiling.

    Sorry.  I was just thinking.  Daydreaming.

    Oh.  I know how that is.  Don't you think you should pay more attention while you're doing that?

    What?  Oh, this?  I could shave him with my eyes closed.  Been doing it since I was sixteen.  Eleven twelve years.  I pull the skin taut with a thumb on his chin and scrape an inch or so of soap from the other cheek.  No, I tell him, There's nothing to it.

    Still and all

    Yeah, I agree.  I guess I could just slip or something.  I smile at him.

    Yeah, he says.

    My porch?

    Yeah, Grandpa.  Your porch.  Now quit talking while I'm doing this.  You can talk when I finish a part.

    You worsh that dog?

    No.

    Why not?

    It's dark out, and I was busy all day.

    Humff.

    Uh huh.  That's right.  I was busy all day.  Now stay still.

    I want that dog worshed.

    Okay.

    I mean it.

    Okay!  Now stay still!

    I finish the cheek and wipe the extra soap away.  John scrunches around in him chair.  I turn my head a little so I can see him.  He stops.

    John, you have piles or something?

    He just looks at me.

    I was just thinking that Grandpa's got some stuff here that

    No, I don't.  He's starting to look mad.

    Oh, okay, I just thought you looked a little uncomfortable.  Sorry.

    I stretch the old man's neck back and hold his chin in the palm of my left hand.  Now, just stay still till I finish your upper lip and then you can talk all you want.  I lean over his shoulder until my face is only a few inches from his.  I look down into his nostrils at the long white hairs.  His eyes stare at my chin blankly; he's off again.  When he seems to relax enough, I let go of his chin and use my hand to move his head around with his nose.  I draw the edge slowly up over the lip.  Again.  Again.

    Suddenly he jerks, My porch?

    The dark red mixes with the white soap in swirls.  It's like slow motion how it comes out, slow and thick, and runs down his face.  The color is something else.  It makes you think that you've never seen red before.  There is nothing like blood.

    Damn it!  I step back and grab the towel.  You trying to loose a nose?  I told you to stay still.  John, get me a paper towel.  Wet half of it.

    My porch

    What about your porch?

    He just looks at me, the blood running down his face. 

    What'd you expect?  You sell him the whole thing and          What'd you expect?

    I wipe the blood away again with the wet part of the paper towel and tear off a dry corner to stick on the cut.  Now stay still till I finish.

    For the first time I realize that I'm shaking.  It is the same scared shake you get when you're hunting and you got it in your scope and you know.  Damn it, you just know!  It's the shake that dogs get when they smell blood.  Damn him!  Damn him all to hell!

    I finish the upper lip, but now his eyes are watching mine.  They see it.  The skin on his face feels the shake.  He continues to watch me while I rinse the razor in the sink; I can feel it in my back.  Without looking at his face, I walk around him and look over his shoulder.

    It's just a little cut.  From now on when I say to stay still, you remember this.  You coulda lost half your nose.  That thing's sharp.  Here, hold still a minute.  I take up the cuticle scissors and trim the hair in his nose.  The piece of paper towel flutters when he breathes.  I try to ignore the eyes that refuse to look away from mine.

    Smiling, I undo the towel and flip it away from his throat.  Now you can breathe.  I look around at John.  He hasn't let out a peep.  Next?  I smile.

    He just looks at me for a minute.  Maybe he's trying to figure out if maybe I didn't just do that to show him something, that maybe it was on purpose.  I let him think it and just keep smiling.

    No.  I don't think so.  I shaved this morning.

    Well, you got five o'clock shadow. 

    That's not too bad considering it's after nine, he tries to joke.

    What'd he do with my porch.

    The front porch.  He tore it up and they poured cement this morning.  You're gonna have a nice slab there like you do out back.

    The roof?

    No.  He's got it all propped up there.  I got a notion he just might close that in and you'll have one of those Florida porches for in the hot days.  What do you think of that?

    He just looks at me.

    Yeah.  And they're not far off, I'd say, John adds.  Be June before you know it.

    June?

    Yeah, John looks at me puzzled.

    June?

    Yeah, it's almost June.  The twenty-fourth.

    You get yourself          No!          There was that there boy of Herb Jacoby's what died in in that acceedent with the combine but I never in all          But, no that wasn't

    John and I look at each other.  This is the one thing that John and I share and do not begrudge, the old man's pretzel-twisted songs of the past, his remembering that can never properly be called that.  We never know what to do, but it it the one time that we don't mind each other's company.  I don't like it, but somehow I don't want to give it up totally to somebody else.  I can just imagine Eric stuck here with him when he starts up.

    want to          was it?          Doug?

    Yes, Grandpa?

    Uh huh.  I thought you would          Did you worsh that dog?  Not yet, I'll bet!

    Not yet, I agree.

    No

    He's tired, I tell John, and he nods.  He's just tired.

    Here, let me help you with him.  He gets up and helps me lift him up and carry him through the curtains to his bed.  We tuck the sheet in between the mattress and boxspring to keep him from rolling out in his sleep.  He's quiet as soon as the sheet is up around his chin.  There you go, John tells him.  That'll do just fine.

    I return to the kitchen, leaving John to fool with the bedclothes and coo to him.  I won't do that.  I start to run the water in the sink.  When I turn around to collect some of the glasses and stuff from the table, John is watching me.  Thought I'd do some of these dishes.  Aunt Lorraine must not have been up here for a few days; I can't imagine her leaving these all stack up.

    I didn't think          Do you think we should have put his pajamas on him?

    No, he's comfortable.  I'll come up tomorrow and see to it that he don't sit all day in the same clothes.  I'll see that he changes.

    John nods absently.  She was here night before last.

    Huh?

    Lorraine.  You were talking about Lorraine.

    Oh yeah.  I guess he does use a lot of dishes.  Every time he wants a little juice it's a new glass.

    Yeah, I guess so.

    I squirt some soap in the water and slosh up some suds.

    He seem all right to you?  Seems to me he gets    forgetful more often than he used to.

    He's okay.  He comes and goes, like always.

    Yeah, but

    I said he's okay.  I wipe the drainboard with the dishcloth, my back to him again.

    Yeah.  What exactly is Art doing, anyway?

    I don't know John.  Why don't you ask him?

    You mean he doesn't

    I mean I don't know, John.  Looks to me like he's adding on two rooms, like you said.  That and the porch.

    Yeah well, I guess I better be going.  Wife'll be wondering.

    Uh huh.  I don't offer any more, and after a minute I hear him shuffling to the door.

    Night.

    Night.

    Sometimes I feel like areal bastard after I've talked to John.  Sometimes I wonder about myself, but then most times I'm just glad he's gone.  Tonight I'm just glad he's gone.  I finish up the dishes and cover them with a tea towel so they can dry on the drainboard.  The night still swirls in the kitchen from John's departure.  The air is getting cooler.  The smell isn't as oppressive and warm.  It is still there but you could ignore it is you wanted.

    Doug?

    Uh huh.

    John gone?

    Yeah, Grandpa, he's gone.  You feeling better?  I raise my voice.

    Eh?  I feel fine.  I'm fine.  What do you mean?

    Nothing.  I just thought you looked tired before.

    Comere.

    I dry my hands and part the curtains.  I'm in my own light, and I can barely make him out on the pillow.  Yeah, Grandpa?  I sit down on the chair beside the bed.

    Yeah, yeah, you sit there.

    What is it?

    I just want you to sit there.  You worsh that dog?

    Not yet.  What do you want that old dog washed for anyway?

    I can hear his jaw set in the dark.

    You just do, is that it?  Okay.  Today's Thursday; I ought to be able to hose him down a bit on Saturday.

    I want him worshed good.  Soap.  And cut them wads of hair out and trim his nails and all.  Fleas and ticks and all that.  The works.  You know how to take out ticks?  Paint 'em with something.  Kerosene.  Turpentine.  Something.

    Okay.

    Saturday?

    Uh huh.

    How's school?

    I'm not in school, Grandpa.  I graduated.

    His jaw sets again.  The dark makes it hard for him to tell the time he's in from the time he lives.  He's mad at the darkness, not me, although if I want it I'm welcome to it.  He'd like to be mad at me for lying  to him, but in the darkness he can't be sure.  Maybe is a thing he lives with at night.

    I got a card from Susie.

    I don't know how to answer until he goes on and says that the card said she's be home for the Fourth of July, she and Wes.  I nod; he can feel that as well as he hears anything I might say to him.

    She say anything else?

    I can make out a frown forming on his mouth.

    I said, did she say anything else?

    Just something about her Ma telling her about how well her Daddy's project is going.  Said she was glad to hear that.  Said she'd be glad I'd have the company.  Said there was a thunderstorm there and the lights were out.  We didn't have a storm, did we?

    No.

    I thought as much.

    Is that all?

    I thought as much.  Eh?  No.  She said to say hello to everybody.

    When'd you get that?

    The other day.  I think your Ma brought it in.

    Ma said to tell you that Janice and the little ones'll be by tomorrow.  They were there for lunch yesterday and she told her to bring them up to see you one of these days, and you know Janice; she'll be by tomorrow.

    He just nods, but I know there is a smile.  He forgets himself and cracks his face for the little ones.

    Tomorrow when?

    I don't know.

    Lunch?

    I don't know.

    He scowls, and I stand up knowing that he sleeps a little better when you leave him with a little anger to lull him into dreaming.  Sometimes he himself does not know if he's been sleeping; the daydreaming--if you can call it that--and the dreaming that comes in sleep are that much alike to him.

            Before I leave, I fold the razor and return it it the shelf above the sink.  The bloody paper towel I ball up in my hand and carry with me after I lock the door and crunch my way along the gravel to my car.