My grandfather hated all cats as far as I knew, but he especially hated Granny Sakowska\u2019s tabby. It hadn\u2019t killed varmint or vermin in years. And he didn\u2019t approve of handouts even to elderly felines.<\/p>\n
I supposed he hated me and tee-ball as much as cats, repeatedly asking, \u201cWhy don\u2019t you play with a ball of yarn?\u201d after one particularly bad loss in a tee-ball game, he caught me laughing with the winners. He told me, \u201cThere is dignity in hate. Perspective, boy.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cPerspective?\u201d<\/p>\n
My mother had to tell me, \u201cHe means The War.\u201d<\/p>\n
For years, I asked about The War, so I could gain perspective. He dismissed me from deep in his throat, \u201cCkuhph.\u201d I kept asking. I even stopped paying attention to WWII history at school, in favor of my grandpappy\u2019s forthcoming primary source material, though my parents didn\u2019t care for that reasoning.<\/p>\n
Every Memorial Day weekend, my grandpappy charred red meats black instead of parading to the graves of the fallen. \u201cThose guys in their uniforms that don\u2019t fit\u2014we should have a day for forgetting,\u201d he\u2019d say.<\/p>\n
On one of the last Memorial Days before he croaked, Pappy\u2014who demanded everyone use Pappy to address him because using Grandfather was too fancy and, in fact, \u2018The Rich Man\u2019s way of owning time”\u2014took me out behind the woodshed. Thankfully, that wasn\u2019t code for a whooping\u2014grandsons never suffer the same fate as sons.<\/p>\n
The five-foot woodshed leaned left and rocked in any moderate breeze. Shanty was a better word for it, maybe shitty was the best word. This shed\u2019s only true purpose was to be the sanctuary where Pappy snuck cigars or nipped bourbon from his rusty flask while filling and refilling the gas mower free from Granny Sakowska\u2019s scowl. On this day, he was joined in the blue shade of overgrown poplars and thorn bushes by the tabby cat who lay stretched flat its own feces.<\/p>\n
\u201cWar is like this,\u201d Pappy said.<\/p>\n
Before I could ask questions, he opened a shiny pocket knife with a mother of pearl handle. The blade must\u2019ve been five inches (minimum) and I was already worried because he\u2019d also brought the garden shovel, with which he continuously seemed to be cleaning his rather sharp, if not sharpened fingernails. His only son\u2019s only son, I was the heir to all this opulence, but maybe that wasn\u2019t a compelling argument for letting me see the other side of puberty.<\/p>\n
His light-gray Sunday slacks didn\u2019t stop him from kneeling in the damp. He dragged the mud-flecked tabby to him. The cat\u2019s eyes squinted and in a calm motion, arthritic hands slid the knife through a patchy fur throat. Breath escaped from the cat and blood began pooling near our feet like an oil leak. We listened to the slow drizzle falling to earth. There was not a lot of blood though; this animal was running on fumes. \u201cHold her until,\u201d he said. He shoved the dead animal into my right side. I immediately dropped it into its own brown blood. The fur was cold when I picked it up by its scruff with both hands, careful not to drip on my own Sunday pants. Squatting like a catcher, I held the dirty furball as far from my body as possible. It was shrinking.<\/p>\n
Pappy stood and wiped his knife on a handkerchief, then pocketed both. His knees were shot and the knees of his pants were too. He began breaking earth with the shovel, turning over the first few inches of rocky, moist soil and dropping it. In my teeth, I could feel the metal hitting stone. \u201cBlind moles were mocking him,\u201d he said. We swapped pelt for shovel like traders in olden times. Slow blood beaded a thick trail down his polyester pant leg.<\/p>\n
After rummaging in the shed, he emerged with one of Granny Sakowska\u2019s burnt cookie sheets. He dropped the sloppy corpse on it. \u201cI\u2019m not going to make the joke,\u201d Pappy said. He did attempt to sing the official \u201cOriental riff,\u201d but he was tone deaf and missing a racist gong for punctuation. Sometimes he made Granny play the riff on their upright racist piano, just to make him laugh during commercials of Hee Haw.<\/p>\n
My stomach flatlined and my throat got sticky. He\u2019d left me digging for about twenty minutes, while creating an intricately believable story for my Granny and Mother like, \u201cLeave us alone,\u201d or \u201cWhat do you care? Ckuhph,\u201d or possibly, if no one was buying, \u201cCkuhph, boy\u2019s digging a shady garden area appropriate for beets wherein they will thrive.\u201d However, Pappy and I agreed on one thing. Those blood turnips were a ridiculous vegetable that all American-born patriots hated. They must be stopped. Every planting season we didn\u2019t. We did fake it. Harvest time, we\u2019d lie and say, Your beets didn\u2019t make it. But Granny always wondered, Why no beets? In Poland beets everyplace.<\/p>\n
The old man returned in new slacks with an empty and topless box of Campbell\u2019s Cream of Mushroom. He said, \u201cThat hole should be big enough for this.\u201d I hadn\u2019t thought of a coffin, but Pappy was steps ahead. I stopped working and he said, \u201cNo. It isn\u2019t yet. I said, \u2018It should be big enough.\u2019 Keep going.\u201d<\/p>\n
Perhaps sensing his daughter-in-law\u2019s dangerous curiosity to protect her only child, he stepped out in front of the woodshed to protect our mission to bury the dead. A split-second later, my mother\u2019s voice bounded with a song from the back porch, \u201cCould you all use some lemonade?\u201d<\/p>\n
I thought, I could use some lemonade.<\/p>\n
Pappy said, \u201cBoy\u2019s fine.\u201d<\/p>\n
She countered more melodically, \u201cHow about you?\u201d<\/p>\n
He finished the volley, \u201cDiabetes.\u201d<\/p>\n
The screen door struck the jamb like a universe beginning and ending.<\/p>\n
My arms were bubblegum when he dropped the cardboard box into the hole. \u201cClose enough.\u201d He squatted again\u2014his time careful not to ruin his navy golf slacks. The box fit better once his knobby hands crushed it down like garbage. A layer of Sunday\u2019s funnies and Memorial Day sales circulars provided a barrier from the further ruin of his Sunday slacks with the blood-stained cuffs. One by one, he unloaded ten, fifteen Kentucky bourbon bottles. Every bottle bone dry. \u201cReinforce the walls of this, uh….\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWas that what you did in foxholes and trenches?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThis will do. Because it\u2019s peacetime. And we weren\u2019t in goddamn foxholes. Wrong war.\u201d<\/p>\n
From his flask, he emptied an eyedropper\u2019s worth near the hole. \u201cFor the fallen,\u201d he said. \u201cThrow all the catshit in too.\u201d<\/p>\n
I wouldn\u2019t rest a shovel over my shoulder again. From somewhere, possibly behind a large, hairy ear, he produced a wooden paint stir then smashed it on the edge of a stump. With two fingers, he plucked an old nail from the roof of the shanty, which wobbled the normal amount, confirming that the nail\u2019s removal was structurally insignificant. With minimal splintering, he impaled the two pieces of softwood paint stir on the nail, thus creating a cross in the yellow paint of Granny\u2019s kitchen. \u201cNeed a marker,\u201d he said. He tapped at his breast pocket with a palm and then patted down his other pockets. He looked in the box, then at me. \u201cWe know who she was,\u201d he said. He speared the small cross into the ground at the head of the grave. \u201cStupid name.\u201d He spat and walked away.<\/p>\n
I never liked the name Jingles either. It had been years since the tabby moved fast enough to ring its bell, but Granny insisted that we call the neighborhood cat by this name. Other families probably called our ratty cat something less literal, unless they called it Ratty. I tilted the cookie sheet and its body slid into its fortress of spirits, pushing the chocolate blood like a rag mop. Its bell scraped along the metal pan. When the body hit the bottles with a wet thud, it settled into the nest of newspaper and space-age textiles. There was no final jingle. The clapper must\u2019ve been gummed up.<\/p>\n
The house spigot squealed and the sprinkler oscillated. Somehow Pappy looked dry when he\u2019d returned, though more sauced. A new, unlit cigar slashed the air toward the dirt pile. \u201cThrow your pants in too,\u201d he said. My pants were covered in organic hell. \u201cAnd that t-shirt, or your mother\u2019ll brain you.\u201d<\/p>\n
He said, \u201cWe got some of your father\u2019s old… She never throws away nothing. What the depression did for us: made us packrats.\u201d He said this once a visit. Shoveling in my Fruits of the Loom, I hoped he could prove it.<\/p>\n
He lit his cigar and coughed, \u201cLittle girl.\u201d Self-conscious about twelve years of barely bouncing manhood exposed to a decorated war hero, I was thankful his glower had gone to an upward gaze through the web of branches and into a single spot of sky. Pappy drank and smoked a cigar in silence until he said, \u201cCkuhph,\u201d and then silence, and then, \u201cFoxholes,\u201d and then \u201cCkuhph\u201d and more silence.<\/p>\n
And then, \u201cA supposed French officer is pulling this girl by her long, black hair. Pulls her right out her shoes. She\u2019s got one left. We see them go in a caf\u00e9 or bar with no tables outside. We follow. This is just after the occupation ends, I think. Couldn\u2019t have been more than thirteen, this girl. We\u2019re not supposed to get involved, but we\u2019re not supposed to be looking for drinks neither. Inside there\u2019s nothing but crates and an old woman holding a lantern. She\u2019s shining it at the back corner. The girl\u2019s hair is still in this schmuck\u2019s fist and they\u2019re both bent over like tired fighters, shoulders pressed against the wall. And we say, \u2018Hey!\u2019 \u2018Stoppierre!\u2019 or something French. It\u2019s me and this guy from Wilmington on the Ocean, Carolina. Scarpetti. Eugene, I think was his name. Eugene, tries, \u2018Cesser!\u2019 which means cease in French. Still nothing. It\u2019s dim, but you can see there\u2019s blood on her lips like she bit her tongue or someone else did. Whichever it was, it made her lips really red. She was beautiful and silent. Her legs like you poured milk out a pitcher and her eyes were blue as that sky there but even better. Blue before pollution eyes. Another guy was with us too. He didn\u2019t want to get involved\u2014I think he stayed outside. Jenkins. So Scarpetti and me grab this guy by the shoulders, swing him around. Naturally, he pulls a knife. The girl and I duck and I punch him right in his French nuts. He goes down like he\u2019s got no bones, only clothes. I smack his wrist against a crate while this drunk squirms. We unwind her hair and she\u2019s all blue eyes and breath on my neck. Scarpetti drags him outside. But not before he sliced me. This. From this knife. The hair won\u2019t grow here.\u201d<\/p>\n
He folded down his left ear and with his cigar pointed to a colorless, faded scar. It was sunk in his skin like a raw shrimp.<\/p>\n
\u201cAfter, the old woman sets the lantern on our corner crate and disappears into the dark. The girl has my blood on her now, my uniform is shot, and I don\u2019t understand anything she\u2019s whispering, but it all sounds like heaven. Her fingers are digging into my boot laces and she\u2019s trying to pull them out. Grunting tiny grunts like a song. The old woman comes back with a green monk bottle of cognac and a bandage that\u2019s already blood-stained. There isn\u2019t enough material to wrap around my big head. She\u2019s wadding it up and the bootlace is for tying it tight. Scarpetti gets back with his bloody knuckles. Jenkins too, I think Jenkins makes the knot when the old woman says so.<\/p>\n
\u201cEnough glasses appeared, as long as you shared with someone. We shared. The old woman poured. We drank. We danced. The only music was the humming of the old woman who also hummed through her own blue eyes. She danced with Jenkins and Scarpetti, who took turns drinking alone. Another half bottle appeared. We danced some more. It didn\u2019t matter that one boot was loose. I was ready to marry this woman and learn French.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDidn’t you say\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t tell your Grandmother nothing.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201c\u2014she was thirteen?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHow old are you?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAbout that old.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou would have been impressed. Her beauty. Literally stopped time. The clock broke.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOkay.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAll women are beautiful,\u201d he said. \u201cAnd an inch to the left and that\u2019s goodnight mister Irene. Women bandaged me up pretty good. Oh here\u2019s\u2014She was so happy when Scarpetti found her shoe. Maybe Jenkins. Wouldn\u2019t you know, she kisses him. She probably only had one pair. In the doorway, before I leave, she slaps that mother of pearl handle into my palm. Three fingers from her other hand press into my heart, whispering Fran\u00e7oise.\u201d<\/p>\n
For a half-second Pappy\u2019s eyes are fully in France.<\/p>\n
\u201cBoy, you ought to grow a mustache.\u201d<\/p>\n
He stubbed out his cigar, popped it back in his mouth, and rose up quick. I watched him stagger off, right through the sprinkler to the house, completely soaking his crotch. He was probably headed for the basement. Down there was a pegboard workshop and he pretended hard to tinker in it from his fold-out cot.<\/p>\n
\u201cClothes?\u201d I half-hollered to his back. If I lost him to the basement, I\u2019d be skipping through the sprinkler in my skivvies for eternity. He stood like the crooked woodshed facing the crooked woodshed but his neck was following the sprinkler\u2019s arc. I repeated. \u201cWhat about\u2014 \u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHere. By the door here!\u201d He yelled his whispers. He picked up and dropped a plastic bag at the foot of the steps by the porch. \u201cSee it?\u201d My new ancient clothes were exactly where every summer the ants gather like it\u2019s Woodstock.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo. See this? It\u2019s Fran\u00e7oise!\u201d He raised up the tabby slaying blade. \u201cNever tell!\u201d His arm was stabbing so many angels.<\/p>\n
My rubber arms had to finish the job. With each shovelful, the vibration in the earth shifted the grave marker. The horizontal part of the cross worked its way vertical, until there were two parallel sticks connected by a nail. It needed duct tape. \u201cDignity,\u201d I said to the dirt.<\/p>\n
I couldn\u2019t find any ants crawling on me, but I\u2019m sure they were. When Granny asked about my strange dusty clothes, I said I thought flared jeans and wet, striped tank tops were fashionable. When she said they looked like my father\u2019s, I said nothing but oh. And when she asked, Did I seen our tabby Jingles or our Pappy, I said they probably went to live with that rich family up on the hill. And with all that good central air, Pappy got rich too and the cat has become an indoor cat and will live a few hundred more years now and maybe I told her a hundred thousand other lies. Granny knew Pappy was \u2018tinkering\u2019 downstairs. When I asked Granny if I could borrow some tape and a magic marker, she said we have Elmer\u2019s and crayons. When I asked where my parents were, she said, \u201cPappy said, \u2018Feed the boy.\u2019 So he pay twenty bucks to feed you, boy. Hungry? Mother and Father bring egg rolls.\u201d I could hear the \u201cOriental\u201d piano riff in my ears, but sorting out the hierarchy of bigotry would take longer than mastering chopsticks. Was the song \u201cChopsticks\u201d vaguely racist too? Blatantly? I was sure that everyone would die before I understood anything. When she asked me to turn off the sprinkler, I understood she\u2019d seen me in my underwear.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo one should overwater the beets,\u201d she said. \u201cYour Pappy always kills them somehow.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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