Commuters by Emily Gray Tedrowe

look. “What did she tell you to say to me?”
    Avery was baffled. “Nothing, she just—” Wasn’t he supposed to be here? Wasn’t that the deal?
    “Eight hundred, forty-five thousand.” Jerry rested his elbows on the chair’s arms, and his hands on his stomach.
    “What?”
    “That’s what goes to you, when I die. Doesn’t include your shares of stock, the futures, or various other holdings. But that’s the picture as it stands right now.”
    “Okay. But…that’s a long way off. Right?” Avery wasn’t sure if he was supposed to say thank you, or what. “Maybe I should get going.”
    “This all gives me an idea,” Jerry said. “You and I should get to know each other, even if your mother—I mean, especially since your mother…”
    Avery nodded, half out of his chair. “Sure. That sounds great.” He wasn’t sure what Grandad was talking about, but his ever-closer exit was buoying his spirits.
    “Talking about Frank, to you just now. Well, it’s a little…” His grandfather paused. Avery sat down again. “It brings me back. I’d forgotten that, about the beef stew.”
    “Good story.” There was a steady drilling noise coming from outside the window, but Avery couldn’t see the workers anymore. He felt a surprise surge of empathy and goodwill for this older man. Its driving force was Nona, although in the moment Avery could only half recognize that. Suddenly, he found himself wanting to be a comfort to Jerry. Suddenly, he wanted to be there for him . “And that other thing? You know, the two things a man can’t joke about?” Jerry was blank. “Women. Right? I mean, it has to be.”
    “Women,” Jerry echoed, agreeing. He let a small grin slip free.
    This is good, Avery thought. I can do this. Yeah: we’ll be all close and shit. Now just get him back to Nona.
    Then Jerry thumped the desk. “All right then.” Avery realized they had just sealed some kind of deal. “So, we’ll get started. Same time next week?”
    “Uh—actually I work, and Sundays are usually pretty busy, so…”
    “Your office is open on weekends?”
    “It’s a restaurant. Called Pita Pie. On lower Broadway.” Each thing he said made Jerry look less pleased. “I’m doing some prep cooking there.”
    “Well, it doesn’t have to be on the weekend. My schedule’s wideopen now, as you can see.” In response, Avery smiled weakly. “You can call me and say what day’s best. And bring some kind of recorder.”
    “Recorder?”
    “Tape recorder, something like that. For a long time, I’ve been wanting to get some things down on paper. About the company—about my life. It’ll be important for you, down the road.”
    “Oh,” Avery said unhappily.
    “You can type up whatever we record and we’ll just take it week by week. All right, then?” Jerry slapped the desk, both hands.
    “I don’t have a computer, or anything like that.”
    “What?”
    “It’s true.” Avery feverishly hoped this would be a big enough obstacle to the whole you-can-type-it-up plan, but Jerry was opening a desk drawer. He watched his grandfather write out a check and slide it across the desk to him. Twenty-five hundred.
    “That should buy one of those small digital recorders, too. Like journalists use. Let me know what day next week.” Jerry walked Avery to the door, and nodded him toward the stairs. Avery was still holding the blue piece of paper that said $2500 . Just to the right of his own name.
    Downstairs, Winnie—she insisted, laughing, that he call her that when Avery visibly hesitated over her name—seemed perplexed when he turned down an offer to drive him to the train station. Standing in the kitchen doorway, Avery had fumbled through his wallet—Grandad’s check stuffed in there now—looking for that little train brochure; he was sure he’d grabbed one in Grand Central. But Winnie knew the Sunday train schedule off the top of her head, and recited it to him, arms crossed, smilinga little at something Avery