You’ll remember Stella, my father told me on the drive here. She’s a spitfire. But I didn’t remember her. I didn’t remember any of this. We used to go to my mother’s family’s house for holidays. My maternal grandmother lived just two hours from Brooklyn, in a town in Pennsylvania called Bryn Mawr. Her yard was fenced and she had one dog-a bichon frise. When she died, there was a closed casket and a small, tasteful service. We had a brunch afterwards, and some great-uncle made me a Shirley Temple with two maraschino cherries. We didn’t have to do anything like go see the body.
Stella put her arm around Steven’s shoulders. ‘You’ll love it here. It’s such a nice little vacation for you. Did your father tell you about the crick? And the river. They have these new things, they’re like water scooters. They’re called…oh, what are they called…?’
‘Jet skis,’ Samantha sighed.
‘Jet skis!’ Stella crowed, holding up one finger in eureka!
‘Jet skis aren’t new,’ I said.
‘A jet ski chopped off Mason’s leg last week,’ Samantha said.
‘It did not.’ Stella shot her a look.
‘How do you know?’
‘It’s all right,’ Steven said. ‘I’m not really into jet skis, anyway.’
‘Now, have you ever been on one?’ Stella asked.
‘Yeah,’ Steven said.
‘No you haven’t.’ Stella put her hands on her hips. ‘These are completely cutting-edge. You’re probably thinking of a canoe.’
5
The front door led into a sitting room with two scratchy plaid couches, a worn circular rug, a dingy fireplace and a very old television in the corner. On the mantle was a large, gold trophy in the shape of a horseshoe. There were giltframed, oily paintings on the walls, all of either hunting scenes-dogs majestically pointing at foxes, ruddy men on horseback, a deer, standing dumbfounded in a clearing-or of Frank Sinatra. Frank singing, Frank grinning, Frank with his Rat Pack.
‘A sight for sore eyes, huh?’ Stella sighed, as if the room were beautiful.
‘Looks good,’ my father answered quietly.
I passed into the dining room. There was a painting of Frank on navy blue velvet. He was made up to look like a saint, a Mento-shaped halo around his head.
On the table sat a bunch of framed photographs, a little shrine to my grandmother. I leaned down and examined the pictures on the dining table. The first was a black-and-white snapshot of her in a nurse’s uniform, standing at the edge of a cot. Chicken scratch at the bottom of the picture said (I think), Ruth, Paris, 1944.
Next was a soft, hand-colored photo. She looked about ten years older, with blonde, neat, bunchy hair, very white skin, no wrinkles. After that was a picture of her with her hands on my father’s shoulders. My father, maybe a bit older than me, stood beside her, although I didn’t think he intended to be in the picture. He stared off into space, his whole face shattered and fragile.
Something about his face in the photo reminded me of his face the day he threw the snow globe against the wall. Had my father told Stella about that? About the hospital? How had he explained?
My grandmother grew older and older in each successive picture, gaining more weight, her hair receding until it was a fuzzy, bald raft at the crown of her head, her pink scalp shining through. In the last photo, she was in bed. Stella was next to her, wearing the same green stretch pants she had on today.
My father returned from the kitchen, holding a can of beer. It looked strange in his hand; I’d never seen him drink one. He pointed to the photo of him. ‘That’s me.’
‘Duh,’ I answered. I motioned to the wall. ‘What’s with the pictures of Frank?’
My father took a long swallow of beer. ‘Yeah. Mom liked Frank. She really went nuts with pictures of him after Dad died.’
I stared at him. Samantha, who was sitting on the couch reading a wrinkled TV Guide, snorted.
Dear Claire. You know how you’re always looking for kitsch? Well, you’d hit the jackpot here.
‘Why don’t I take your bags upstairs?’ my father offered.
We all walked through the kitchen and up the creaky stairs to the bedrooms. The upstairs, way colder than the downstairs, opened into a long, narrow hall with doors on either side. The bathroom door, the first to the left, gaped open. Stacks of books and crossword puzzles balanced on the top of the toilet.
My father tapped the first bedroom door open with his foot. The door was very heavy, with a long crack traversing through its center. ‘This used to be my room.’
It smelled musty inside. There was a From Russia With Love poster on the wall and a video game console-at least I thought that was what it was-on the ground. The television was a tiny bubble. An orange milk crate in the corner held action figures, and a second milk crate behind it was filled with old LPs. Blonde On Blonde was up front, a frizzyhaired Bob Dylan pursing his lips at the camera. A plaid spread covered the twin bed.
‘Huh,’ Steven said, looking around.
‘Where did this TV come from?’ My father tapped it, puzzled. ‘And these video games?’
Steven knelt down to examine the console. ‘Atari.’
‘I certainly wasn’t back here when video games came out,’ my father said. ‘And I don’t remember them here the one time we brought you guys.’