“Funny,” I said.
He stared down at me for a long moment, so tall and imposing, a bullfrog to my tadpole. Then his eyes went wide and he made them bug out a little, and he said, “Do you mean funny weird or funny ha-ha?”
I started to giggle, as I suppose he knew I might.
“I’m only asking for a definition,” Grandpa said. “Funny weird, like maybe a flock of birds might come flying out your whizzer? Or funny ha-ha because I look so silly standing here like a pee-pee coach?”
The giggles wouldn’t stop, but the pee started.
Afterward, he held me up at the sink. I washed my hands and pulled a paper towel from a dispenser and dried them. Then he gently lifted me into both of his arms, cradling me, and kissed my forehead. “As long as a man can pee, Jonah, he can take on anything the world throws at him.” He carried me back to my bed, beside which my mother stood smiling even as she cried.
85
Tuesday, eight days after the events at the bank, the doctors and therapist decided that I could go home on Thursday, which was a great way to begin the morning. The nurses and orderlies and everyone had been very kind to me, but I was nonetheless sick of the hospital. None of the gang that took down the Colt-Thompson armored transport had been apprehended, nor had the stolen truck or the third guard been found, but I reasoned that if a bank wasn’t safe, neither was a hospital.
Later that afternoon, I was staring at some stupid afternoon movie on TV, with the sound off, worrying about Mr. Yoshioka, when Mom came in from the hall. “Jonah, there’s someone very special here to see you. You might not want to visit, but you should, even if it’s hard.” I asked who, and she said, “It’s every bit as much about him, sweetie, as it is about you.”
“Malcolm?” I asked.
She nodded. “You can be strong for him, can’t you?”
“I’m scared.”
“No reason to be. He’s worried about you. Aren’t you worried about him?”
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath and let it out and opened my eyes. I knew what my mother expected of me, and why she expected it, and even why she should expect it. I switched off the silent TV. “Okay.”
As ungainly as always, pants hoisted high, four inches of white socks showing between cuffs and shoes, he came into the room, and my mother closed the door as she stepped into the corridor, leaving us alone. He didn’t so much as glance at me but went to a window and stood gazing out at the summer day, which was as bright and warm as if no tragedy had ever occurred in the city.
When he didn’t say anything, I wondered if I should speak first and what I should say, but then he found his voice.
“I came by myself. I know buses. It’s not so hard. One transfer that was a little tricky, that’s all.” After a pause, he continued. “I don’t cry, see. I haven’t for a long time, and I’m not going to start now. You cry in our house, man, it’s like you let them win. I figured that out a thousand years ago. Even when they say ‘Take it to the garage,’ you can’t go out there and get weepy, because they’ll know. I don’t know how they know, but they do. Amalia said sometimes she thought they fed on our tears because they couldn’t make any more of their own. But then she always backed off and said it wasn’t their fault, something had happened to them to make them that way. I’m not so generous.”