remember, he'd seen the Franklin sadness in his grandfather's eyes.
And now Tim has gone away and left him, too.
When Tim was a little baby, Granddad was the one who stayed up with him at night when he had colic. Mom had told him so. "Go to sleep," Granddad would say to Mom. "A new mother needs her sleep." And then he would take Tim downstairs and walk him back and forth, back and forth until Tim slept and finally Granddad could sleep, too.
And wasn't it Granddad who ran alongside Tim's two-wheeler while he wobbled down the middle of the street? Wasn't it Granddad who always knew exactly the right moment to let go?
And Granddad who took him camping, Granddad who taught him about catching fish, cleaning them, frying them in a cast-iron skillet over the camp fire?
Tim loves his mother, of course, and he likes Paul just fine. He's even beginning to think Minneapolis is okay. But his grandfather? He
owes
his grandfather.
And now, it's payback time.
With Tim home, Granddad will get better. Everyone will see how much better he'll be with Tim there.
And then they'll have no choice.
They'll have to agree that Tim must stay.
TWO
Waiting for the Leaves to Fall
When they step out of the car, Tim sees Granddad first. He is standing in the front doorway, his face glowing like a friendly jack-o'-lantern.
"Here he is!" Granddad calls. He is looking only at Tim. "Here's my boy!"
Tim runs up the porch steps and throws his arms around his grandfather. Granddad isn't big like Paul, but he is solid. He is there. He has not changed.
"Oh, Leo," Mom says when she arrives, "we missed you. I'm sorry it's been so long. It just seemed to take forever to get settled." She pecks him on the cheek.
It's a lie, of course. They were "settled" within a week. Two at the most.
Tim steps back from his grandfather's embrace, ready to contradict his mother, but Granddad winks at him and draws him close again. Tim lets himself be pulled into the rough wool shirt. The shirt smells of fabric softener, but it also carries the tang of the crisp outdoor air and a faint memory of horses. Tim sighs and wraps his arms around his grandfather once more, squeezing with all his might.
Grandma arrives at the door, too. Her hands fluttering. Her hands are like birds looking for a place to land. "Oh, my," she is saying. "Oh, my. Here you are at last. Such a long trip. You must be exhausted." And then with that mock crossness she always uses to cover strong feelings, "For heaven's sake, Leo! Where are your manners? Invite them in!"
"Come in," Granddad booms obediently. "Come in!" He holds the door open, and they all troop inside.
Once in the living room, they stop, facing one another. Everyone is talking at once. Except Tim. Except Granddad. They just stand there on the edge of the small crowd, smiling at each other.
Granddad runs a hand down Tim's sleeve as though to test if there is truly a boy inside. "How's your new school?" he asks.
Tim shrugs. "It's okay. Not as good as Sheldon Elementary, though. Nothing's as good in Minneapolis as here."
Granddad's smile widens to a grin. That must have been the answer he was hoping for.
The others go on talking, their voices rising, treading on the ends of one another's sentences.
"Coffee!" Grandma cries above the din. "You need coffee." Strong, fragrant coffee is Grandma's answer for every celebration or woe, weddings, funerals, homecomings. She offers it only to the adults, though. Sometimes, when Grandma and Mom weren't around, Granddad used to give Tim a cup of Grandma's coffee, with lots of cream and two heaping spoonfuls of sugar. Drinking it was like drinking rich, bitter candy.
Grandma always said coffee would stunt Tim's growth. Granddad just said, "Here, boy. This will grow hair on your chest."
Before he was old enough to understand the joke, Tim used to check his chest afterward to see if he had begun to sprout hair.
The others move toward the kitchen, still talking all at once. They leave Granddad and
And now Tim has gone away and left him, too.
When Tim was a little baby, Granddad was the one who stayed up with him at night when he had colic. Mom had told him so. "Go to sleep," Granddad would say to Mom. "A new mother needs her sleep." And then he would take Tim downstairs and walk him back and forth, back and forth until Tim slept and finally Granddad could sleep, too.
And wasn't it Granddad who ran alongside Tim's two-wheeler while he wobbled down the middle of the street? Wasn't it Granddad who always knew exactly the right moment to let go?
And Granddad who took him camping, Granddad who taught him about catching fish, cleaning them, frying them in a cast-iron skillet over the camp fire?
Tim loves his mother, of course, and he likes Paul just fine. He's even beginning to think Minneapolis is okay. But his grandfather? He
owes
his grandfather.
And now, it's payback time.
With Tim home, Granddad will get better. Everyone will see how much better he'll be with Tim there.
And then they'll have no choice.
They'll have to agree that Tim must stay.
TWO
Waiting for the Leaves to Fall
When they step out of the car, Tim sees Granddad first. He is standing in the front doorway, his face glowing like a friendly jack-o'-lantern.
"Here he is!" Granddad calls. He is looking only at Tim. "Here's my boy!"
Tim runs up the porch steps and throws his arms around his grandfather. Granddad isn't big like Paul, but he is solid. He is there. He has not changed.
"Oh, Leo," Mom says when she arrives, "we missed you. I'm sorry it's been so long. It just seemed to take forever to get settled." She pecks him on the cheek.
It's a lie, of course. They were "settled" within a week. Two at the most.
Tim steps back from his grandfather's embrace, ready to contradict his mother, but Granddad winks at him and draws him close again. Tim lets himself be pulled into the rough wool shirt. The shirt smells of fabric softener, but it also carries the tang of the crisp outdoor air and a faint memory of horses. Tim sighs and wraps his arms around his grandfather once more, squeezing with all his might.
Grandma arrives at the door, too. Her hands fluttering. Her hands are like birds looking for a place to land. "Oh, my," she is saying. "Oh, my. Here you are at last. Such a long trip. You must be exhausted." And then with that mock crossness she always uses to cover strong feelings, "For heaven's sake, Leo! Where are your manners? Invite them in!"
"Come in," Granddad booms obediently. "Come in!" He holds the door open, and they all troop inside.
Once in the living room, they stop, facing one another. Everyone is talking at once. Except Tim. Except Granddad. They just stand there on the edge of the small crowd, smiling at each other.
Granddad runs a hand down Tim's sleeve as though to test if there is truly a boy inside. "How's your new school?" he asks.
Tim shrugs. "It's okay. Not as good as Sheldon Elementary, though. Nothing's as good in Minneapolis as here."
Granddad's smile widens to a grin. That must have been the answer he was hoping for.
The others go on talking, their voices rising, treading on the ends of one another's sentences.
"Coffee!" Grandma cries above the din. "You need coffee." Strong, fragrant coffee is Grandma's answer for every celebration or woe, weddings, funerals, homecomings. She offers it only to the adults, though. Sometimes, when Grandma and Mom weren't around, Granddad used to give Tim a cup of Grandma's coffee, with lots of cream and two heaping spoonfuls of sugar. Drinking it was like drinking rich, bitter candy.
Grandma always said coffee would stunt Tim's growth. Granddad just said, "Here, boy. This will grow hair on your chest."
Before he was old enough to understand the joke, Tim used to check his chest afterward to see if he had begun to sprout hair.
The others move toward the kitchen, still talking all at once. They leave Granddad and
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