Page 59
Story: The City (The City 1)
The camera panned left, and suddenly there he was, dear old dad, wearing a black T-shirt instead of the black turtleneck that he’d been wearing more than six months ago when I’d seen him in The Royal. He still sported a well-shaped beard. His previously close-cropped hair had grown into a modest Afro. Also as in the diner, he wore a large silver medallion on a chain around his neck. Back on December 29, I hadn’t been able to discern the nature of his jewelry; on the TV, it was clearly a peace sign.
The sight of Tilton in this context was so beyond expectation that I was both astonished and amazed, both my heart and mind quite overwhelmed. Like Miss Delvane, he displayed none of the righteous fury of the demonstrators among whom he moved. He seemed even to be somewhat bemused by their passion, and there was a certain wariness about him, his gaze continuously shifting here and there.…
I surprised myself when I said aloud, “What are they up to?”
Intuitively, based on my experience of my father, I knew that neither he nor Miss Delvane, nor Mr. Smaller, for that matter, was at the City College demonstration because they thought the war was immoral and hoped to end it. Something else must be afoot.
Although I expected next to glimpse Lucas Drackman and Fiona Cassidy, the news went to Detroit to dwell lovingly on the charred and still smoking ruins left behind by the recently ended riots. When I heard car doors slam and stood up and, through a window, saw Grandpa’s Cadillac at the curb in front of the house, I shut off the television.
When he and Mom came through the front door and called out to me, I called back to them from the kitchen, where I was busy setting the dinette table for dinner.
They had stopped at the supermarket to buy fresh-ground sirloin and other items. For dinner we enjoyed a tomato-and-cucumber salad, hamburger steaks, baked beans, and potatoes that Grandpa sliced thin and fried in a big iron skillet with butter and slivers of a green pepper.
At the table, as we ate, we shared the events of the day with one another. Two and a half months after Grandma Anita’s passing, my grandfather was able to smile again and on occasion even laugh, though there remained in him a sorrow that was obvious when he thought you weren’t looking and was evident to a lesser degree when you were.
I told them about Malcolm Pomerantz, how he had to work hard to convince me that he wasn’t a murderous stranger, how we had a lot of fun playing together, even if piano and sax made an odd duet. I didn’t mention my father on television, because I knew myself well enough to realize that if I talked about him, I might chatter on and tell them about Miss Delvane. I didn’t want to hurt my mother, and even though she had given up on Tilton, she might be wounded if she learned that Miss Delvane was with him.
48
Later, I was lying in bed with a copy of Robert Heinlein’s The Star Beast, which I’d started the evening before. The story was hilarious. The previous night, I’d giggled frequently while reading. But now I couldn’t get Tilton-on-TV out of my head, and scenes that should have made me laugh out loud could raise no more than a smile.
My door was ajar, and Mom appeared at the threshold. “Hey, big guy, you have a minute?”
“Well, I was about to get dressed and go bar-hopping, then take a jet to Paris for breakfast.”
“What time’s your flight?” she asked as she came into the room.
“It’s a private jet. I can leave anytime I want.”
“You’ve been saving your lunch money, huh?”
“And investing it wisely.”
She sat on the edge of the bed. “Are you happy here, sweetie?”
“In Grandpa’s house? Sure. It’s better than an apartment. It’s so quiet here.”
“Your room’s bigger.”
“A piano right in the living room. And no cockroaches.”
“It’s nice having the second bathroom, even if it does just have a shower without a tub.”
Putting the book aside, I said, “I miss Grandma, though.”
“I’ll miss her till the day I die, sweetie. But she left a lot of love in this house. I feel it all around.”
She picked up my left hand and kissed each finger. She always did things like that. I’ll never forget the gentle things she did, not ever.
“You like Malcolm, do you?”
“Yeah. He’s cool.”
“I’m glad you found a friend so soon. Which reminds me, someone came by to eat at the lunch counter today and gave me a message for you. She said you were the sweetest, most courteous boy, and I was so proud of you.”
“Who?” I asked.
“I never saw her before, but she said she lived in our building for a short while. Said she met you in the foyer and on the stairs a few times. Eve Adams. Do you remember her?”
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 10
- Page 11
- Page 12
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 28
- Page 29
- Page 30
- Page 31
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 34
- Page 35
- Page 36
- Page 37
- Page 38
- Page 39
- Page 40
- Page 41
- Page 42
- Page 43
- Page 44
- Page 45
- Page 46
- Page 47
- Page 48
- Page 49
- Page 50
- Page 51
- Page 52
- Page 53
- Page 54
- Page 55
- Page 56
- Page 57
- Page 58
- Page 59 (Reading here)
- Page 60
- Page 61
- Page 62
- Page 63
- Page 64
- Page 65
- Page 66
- Page 67
- Page 68
- Page 69
- Page 70
- Page 71
- Page 72
- Page 73
- Page 74
- Page 75
- Page 76
- Page 77
- Page 78
- Page 79
- Page 80
- Page 81
- Page 82
- Page 83
- Page 84
- Page 85
- Page 86
- Page 87
- Page 88
- Page 89
- Page 90
- Page 91
- Page 92
- Page 93
- Page 94
- Page 95
- Page 96
- Page 97
- Page 98
- Page 99
- Page 100
- Page 101
- Page 102