Grandmother Gracious

    

     Seagulls wheeled in the distance.  The low blaring of a ship’s horn drifted over the water up the hill upon which the old house had perched precariously for almost a century.  Noah’s Cove was once a famous private port used in piracy.  If the water and rocks could tell their tales, what stories they would pour out upon any listener about the early history of Maine. 

   This wasn’t a vacation tour.  He was here to visit Grams.  He could see her now.  His steps grew quieter, more precise.  She looked so very old and frail sitting there in her chair upon the weathered porch of this once proud, Gothic edifice from another era. 

    He watched her rocking, rocking, rocking.  Rocking away her life. Had she always been like this, seemingly glued to that chair?  He knew he was just annoyed because none of the family knew what to do with her.   They couldn’t get her to see reason. She was too old to live alone any more. 

    It was time for her to give up this place, let someone else take care of her, yet the old woman stubbornly clung to this relic of memory.  He had been sent here to convince her to come home with him.  But he didn’t know if he wanted to do that.  After all, he was in his last two years of internship and he was too busy to have his life disrupted by any more responsibilities.

   With some annoyance and shame he realized he was being totally selfish and disagreeable.  Little glimmers of memory were working against him here.  His childhood had been ever poignant and compelling in this old place.

    The creak of the rocker became a body memory, reminding him of the sound of a creaky swing she used to push him in at the park.

   “Come on Robin.  Swing higher!  Push now!”  Any other grandmother might have told him to be more careful, but not his Gram.  He had squealed with complete little boy glee, in total abandon, his eyes backlit by the sheer joy of life and knowing he was loved.

   He could honestly say that he had never been loved like that since.  Gram was so young and vibrant then, almost glowing with a strange and suppressed youth.  She was not like any of the other grandmothers he knew.  Grandmother Gracious Merribee had long hair the colour of a sunlit wheat field.  Her arms would reach out to him as though she were going to catch him each time he flew into the air.  The chains of the park swing whined in that peculiar metallic fashion when they hang unused in the weather. 

   When he was six he had learned to make a flying leap, landing upon his feet.  She had praised him as though he were the greatest athlete in the world.  He likened that same feeling to the same thing he felt now after each and every successful operation he had performed.  The ghosts of his childhood were firmly etched into everything he was or would become. 

   He searched the lined old face before him.  He would never be able to convince her.  No way!  In his mind’s eye he pushed open the front door just behind her.  Immediately the curved staircase was before him inviting him to run up the steps so that he could jump the post with the carved deer horns where he would begin slipping, sliding and laughing – maybe even shouting his descent all the way to the bottom.  His ride would be over and he would begin to ascend the stairs and slide down all over again.

   “Gracious!  Your grandson is going to kill himself one day!”  Predicted his stern-voiced invalid grandfather.

     Before his accident Grandpa had been a captain of a great ship, as well a major shareholder within the shipping line itself.  He was a tough old bird, inclined to have a sharp tongue when crossed or otherwise.  His life was lived behind four walls and upon two wooden wheels on an ancient wheelchair.  He was always assisted by Grace (as he sometimes called grandmother) or Saphronia, the housekeeper.

     They must have loved each other, surely.  The day Grandpa had died the skies were grey, the same color as gram’s face.  The two of them had been inseparable in life; it was unthinkable that they could not go together.  At least this is what he had always assumed in his (then) childlike mind.

     He approached the porch in what he believed to be a quiet fashion, yet the old woman’s hearing had grown very keen ever since her world had faded to black.  Her sightless eyes starred straight ahead as she turned to ask, “That you Robin?”

     “How’d you know Grams?”

     “How many times have I measured the sound of your steps all these years?  You come at me from the same direction each time, you know.  You’re a creature of habit like the great old “himself” you know.”  She smiled, patting the arm of the rocker as though it were a tame old dog.

     “Sent ya here, did they?”  She inquired.

     “Yeah Grams.”  He sighed.  “They have decided . . . uh . . . I mean we want you to think about living with me.”  He scratched his arm and began to kick the big rock in the middle of the flowerbed, the one that had always resisted movement no matter how hard he had always kicked at it.

    “You know you’ve been kicking poor Hubert to death these past years.  You’ve kicked the paint off his face by now.”  She accused in a mocking voice. 

     “Hubert?”  He questioned. 

     “One of my best painted rocks”, she stated, pointing in the exact position of the large rock.

     “I didn’t know Gram.  I’m sorry.”  He said in a contrite voice.  “I can’t believe you allowed me to do this to one of your best painted rocks.  Why did you ever let me get by with kicking it all the time?”  He was puzzled.

      “Because I loved you.”  She said in a soft tone. And in a more teasing voice she added, “And boys will always be boys.”

       A companionable lull in conversation fell between them.  She smiled directly at him, or perhaps it was a trick of the way the light fell across her face. 

        “I’m not leaving this house you know.”  This uttered in such a polite and small voice that he wasn’t even sure that she had said it.  Her voice sounded unsure and childlike, as though someone had been relentlessly bullying her with well-meaning coercion.

       “Gram, who else has been here to talk to you?”  He questioned.

      “Well, Edra and Sean and Father Tim.”  Her hands stroked the velveteen lap quilt.

      “Father Tim?  I wonder why Father Tim.”  His voice was clearly puzzled

      “Don’t be daft.  You know why.”  She muttered.

      “No Gram.  I don’t.  I can’t imagine.  You’ve been in his parish for years.  It’s obvious you are not at death’s door.  I can’t imagine why he would be visiting you concerning a private family matter.”

      “Can’t ya now?  Could it be that several of us have gotten a burr under our saddles, thinking the old girl is a bit barmy and should be put by real soft and quiet like?”  Her voice had grown a little sharper.

       He shook his head in disbelief.  “Ah Gram.  I am so sorry.  I didn’t know. I am not one of the several, I’ll have you to know.

     “I’d never believe it.  I never thought you were one of them.”  She coughed slightly, the fringed coverlet slipped to the porch – both of them reaching for it at the same time.

       “You’re amazing.  How do you do that?” 

       “I’ll have you know that I can hear the softest whisper in a hallway, as

well as the whisper of this as it fell to the ground.”  She bragged.  And he knew it was true.  The remaining senses of the blind often grew keen to make up for lack of sight.

       “Robin, I’ll not leave this house.  It is my home; it should stay in the family – something to be kept, not torn down for one of these concrete monstrosities of architectural diversion!”  She was vehement.  Her fervor had all but tired her out.  She returned to rocking back and forth. 

       “Mind if I have a seat?”  He asked. 

       “It’s dusty, but suit yourself.”  She continued to rock.

       – Oh the children of today.  They couldn’t remember the old ways, the traditions that kept families alive and together.  Their idea of togetherness was to be camped beside that noisy picture radio, trays of food afore them.  Not any of the children could feel the love and history that permeated every weathered board of the old house.  To the scornful eye, it was a relic of a bygone era, best left to a pry bar, but to her, it was love, courtship, home-birthed babes, sticky little fingers and notches cut into the door frames to measure childhood’s perpetual growth. 

        She saw herself, a young bride, remembering the ripple of muscle and sinew as David purely hauled her over the tip top of the white picket fence, with her wondering all the while whose yard they were trespassing upon.  With some trepidation she looked expectantly up at the three story house, waiting for a face to appear behind a parted curtain and a window to lift slightly with a voice calling out, asking them their business there.  But no one had said a word to them. 

         Breathless, she was.  “Oh David, put me down.”  She implored.

          “I’ll not put you down until you are across the door.”  Said he, grinning.

        He’d fairly held her up with his one arm while his other hand got the door in one deft movement which would have left another man very winded or clumsy.  He held her aloft, as though she were a prize, saying “This be yours, forever.”  And then his lips had overpowered hers, there in the front entrance foyer until they’d felt eyes upon them and come up for air.

        “Welcome Misses and Mister.”  Said an amused voice. 

     In the doorway was the tallest Creole woman that Gracious had ever beheld.  And yet the figure was imposing: well-groomed, light negro, oiled hair shining, pink frothy tulle slip peeking out from underneath a dark blue house frock, white apron over all.  Her bright blue eyes and pale olive-complexion belying a  French-Creole heritage. 

    “This is my housekeeper, Saphronia.”  David had said, by way of introduction.

      “It is very good to meet you at last.  Saphronia Gandier, your servant.”

The woman was remarkably cultured and spoke with a slight French accent. Likely she was from an old quadroon family of the French Quarter of New Orleans.  Gracious wondered where in the world David had chanced to find such an unusual servant.

      It would not be until many years later that she would discover the more intimate connection between this master and servant, though discontinued it was from the moment the new bride had crossed the doorstep.  Gracious had always wondered what it would have been like to see the man you love take to himself a new bride.  How could this woman stand witness to the love between them through the years?  Surely it must have been a source of pain?

      Saphronia was wise.  She knew the ways of the white man were oft fickle and fated.  She had never counted David as her own, ever.  She had not allowed her heart to be tricked so.  She knew that she was perhaps luckier than many who never managed to leave the Quarter.  Hers had been a more assured and easier fate than some.  She could not complain.  She had been loved, once.  And now a completely new and different life with different expectations was put before her.  She would rise to the challenge.  Perhaps the two women would grow respectful of each other in time.

      In fact the two became friends, though David would never entirely be at ease with this, especially in lieu of Saphronia’s former intimate station.  Gracious, in her child-bride innocence was explained the facts of life upon the eve of her wedding night by the Creole, David having asked her to dispense this information as a kindness to her new mistress.  The young girl was without kith or kin by which to inform her of her new duties of wife.

      Gracious had listened to the woman as she explained “the duties.”  Her face wore a look of incredulous wonder, perhaps a little fear.  David had been every bit the gentleman and had never taken an improper liberty with her even in their more private moments without escort.

        The sisters of the Rose Of Jesus convent had raised her to be a true lady.  The girl had come to them in the most mysterious of circumstances.  What orphan ever came with a bit of riches?  Not many or any.  The blue-eyed Gracious Reneau had not only come with a weighty purse of gold, which luckily the good sisters had not reported to the Monsignor, or else the child would have had no dowry upon marriageable age, but she had come with an even more unusual behest, that of an arranged marriage.  The sisters thought it terribly strange, and yet followed the directives left to their charge, most especially since the gentleman in question was of good family background.

     When the wedding day had transpired, Gracious had walked down the aisle and been given in Holy Wedlock by none other than the very stern-faced and stony Mother Esther.  The Merribee Clan had looked on in wonderment and stiffness.  This was not protocol, but out of respect for their beloved young David, they would endure together.  Poor David!  Having to actually go through with such a request, all for the sake of inheritance and keeping all of them together, their lives, their vast holdings and all – even the old home.  Their David was a sacrificial lamb on this day.  Any tears shed into lace hankies were tears for the groom and not for the bride.

    When Gracious had cast off her bridal finery, assisted by the attentive Saphronia, once again the Creole had spoken words of comfort to her.  Gracious had begun to tremble when the lights were dimmed, the room scented by rose petals that had been dropped all across the coverlets and sheets.  When David had finally come to her side, she had trembled.  She had been explained the mechanics of love and yet the act itself was something that had not been unpleasant for her at all.  Just a brief moment of pain, then such incredible ecstasy.  He had been gentle, all the more surprising considering the act itself, which when described to her in words, sounded altogether quite clumsy, even brutal.

      She settled in quite nicely to becoming The Mrs. Gracious Merribee of the tall house with the bright lamps and the pristine formal table settings of many wonderful and elegant dinners.  The two women, servant and mistress, had worked together often side by side to produce some of the finest culinary delights.  

     Soft voices would rise and fall in the twilight.  The myriad colors of dress scattered in chairs upon the back lawn and porch, looking like a dotted rainbow painted on the backdrop of the house.  The men gathered round the fireplace, lighted cheroot cigars in hand, snifters of brandy in the other. The creme-de-menthe breaths of summer rolling away in carts and fine carriage.  No one remembered any of these things but little old Gracious Merribee, still clinging to the traditional, the known.

      “Father Tim.  Mother is not well.  She needs to come away from there.  The house is crumbling, a rack and ruin.  It’s not safe for her any more.  Her sight never returned, you know.  No matter how keen she is, she is helpless all the same.  And she can’t be right.  I’d like the church to intervene, to help us take up the reigns in her behalf.”

     Father Tim was fairly aghast and highly reluctant to assume this duty.  When he came to her, she remembered the swish, swish of the wool Cossack. Not like a woman’s garb, and with the firm distinguishable sounds of a man’s tread upon the lawn and step. 

      He’d held her hand and talked pleasantly enough.  She hadn’t meant to fly off on the old Saint.  The elderly priest had shuffled off most hastily, fairly chastened for playing the part of message bearer.  Gracious had once again stood her ground.  She would not budge.  She was not going to give up her old home no matter what they threatened her with.  She was merely old, not “infirm”.  The very idea! 

      Robin touched the withered cheek with a trace finger tip.  She appeared to be lost in thought.

     The eyes that looked back into that of his own were whitened with blindness, true, though they appeared to glance with a vision of a perfectly sighted person.   

      “Robin I see children playing still upon this lawn.  This old place has a heart that beats same as you or I.  Come.  I want to show you something.”

      And she fairly leapt from her chair as though she were fifty years younger than she actually was.  In her haste the old rocking chair nearly fell backwards.  Grams was obviously upset about something.  He nearly could not keep up with her, her feet fairly flew up the stairs.  Up the staircase, their hands sliding along the age-smoothed wood, to the top, down a corridor.

     And what was this now?  Her hands reached along the wall, tap-tapping.  At one point of seeming precision along the horizontal pattern of a hill, her finger pushed a strategic spot and the wall slid to the side.  He’d never seen this.  What could this be?  He was enthralled.  Walking up an winding iron stair case, up and up they went until they reached the top.  She turned the knob delicately, as though entering the most sacred of places.  And then he knew.  The old widow’s walk!

      “David built this for me.”  She was clearly winded by now, leaning out onto the rail overlooking the harbor in the distance.  Gulls wheeled in the sunlight.  The view from this distance was spectacular.  He’d never been allowed up here before having in his youth a penchant for using all rails for sliding or gymnastic feats.  He thought the old walk had been boarded off long ago and closed up.  And here it was, at long last.

    “Gram, this is great!”  The railing and walkway was not in the least weathered.   Amazing.  Apparently this had been the one luxury the old lady had afforded herself.  It was truly superb.  This view alone could make anyone fall in love with the old place.  He too had fallen under its age old spell. 

    Though the old woman could not see the view, she could feel it.  The colors were still vivid in her memory for all time.  And off in the distance, the harbor noises still alive, reminding her of a time when once again she and her sweet lover would once again be reunited.  Perhaps it was too much to hope that one so young and full of life could appreciate atmosphere and painted sky and water as she once had. 

       He was spell bound and silent.

       “The two of us used to sit up here together sometimes when he was on leave.  He used to say ‘There will come a time when you and I will not share this.’  And he pointed out some where beyond the waters towards the expanse of heaven.  And I thought to myself that surely this is where I must wait here for him, until we be together again.”  Her voice was almost a benediction.

       “Beautiful, Gram.  Just beautiful.”  He could think of nothing else to

say.  What could he say?  She was right!  He leapt from the enclosure, bidding

her to follow him down.  When she could not follow fast enough, he bid her to get upon his back, holding her arms around his neck so he could carry the two of them at a faster pace back down the winding casement. 

       While it seemed that his grandmother was winded, something came over her countenance – a trace of youth perhaps, a sense of adventure.  She gathered herself for a small jump.  He caught her slight form mid-air.  Why she was hardly more than eighty pounds soaking wet!  Together, the two of them fairly raced step by step downward.  The old lady held her eyes together tightly though she didn’t even know why she bothered since she couldn’t see the height anyway.  Perhaps she felt it in memory.  The descent fairly made her head spin as though she was on a gradual free-fall downward, like a leaf drifting off the edge of a window sill.

    When Robin put her on her feet she was dizzy and started to topple.

He caught her, seating her comfortably in one of her best chairs in the

formal parlor.  The faithful Saphronia was no longer on this earth to

scold either of them about draping themselves across good furniture.

 

    Robin couldn’t help but compare this place in all of its semi-disrepair to

the apartment that had been one of the many causes of his divorcement.  The

little apartment was perched on the edge of the city.  He remembered how

very much Charlotte had hated the feeling of being boxed in and surrounded

on all sides by too much noisy humanity.  He felt strong regret that she would not ever get to see this place.  They had divorced, she had gone on to another life.  Emmy was his second chance to correct a huge absence of companionship and non-existent home life.  He’d lived the life of a bachelor much too long and he was tired of it.  The redundancy was too much to endure.  Medicine was wonderful and fulfilling, but it could be a lonely and singular planet unless you had someone special that understood the pressures of being a doctor’s wife.  Emmy was that person.  They could make a wonderful home life together with Gram, in this house.  He just knew it.  He felt a worry that had weighed heavily upon him now slip from his shoulders.

    “Gram, I’ll do it.”  Robin placed his hand over hers.

    “You’ll do what young Robin?”  She whispered.  “Kill me of fright racing down that stair case?”

    “You weren’t frightened.  You loved it.  I saw your face.  And I’m talking about your house.  Our house.”  He added.

     “Our house.  You said our house.” 

     “That’s right.  Our house.  That is, if you say that it is “our house.  I am awfully busy Gram.  Please understand.  But I am willing to fix it up.  I can’t do a whole lot all at once.  But even doctors need relaxation.  This could be my hobby Gram.”

      “Is that all this is to you?  A hobby?”  She sighed.