“I’m almost positive that what you’re holding contains a biohazard that should only be handled while wearing a hazmat suit,” Sylvie said, unswayed by my argument that the specimen jar with some kind of sea creature was one of Grandpa’s favorites. “Add it to the donation pile and the NYU biology department can deal with it.”
Through her contacts, Sylvie had found a home for the more rare scientific paraphernalia at a museum of biological oddities in a gentrified corner of Brooklyn. Bessie had arranged for a secondhand bookseller to take the hundreds of reference books and make them accessible to niche bibliophiles who’d hopefully appreciate them as much as Grandpa had.
Some things were easy to let go of. Items that had always been there but that I’d never really seen—anonymous parts that composed a significant whole. Others felt like a merciless cutting of another vital thread that tied me to Grandpa. What now remained of his possessions were the most sacred, the things even Sylvie knew better than to try to evict. Grandpa’s notebooks, decades of painstaking observation now pared down to neat leather-bound rows stored in the sky-blue suitcase that began our journey together—I’d read them all one day, but not just yet. His tweed winter coat that I’d gripped onto as a child while he strode confidently through the sidewalk throngs, always guiding me to safety. The old leather overnight bag, his love and wisdom forever etched into every one of its wrinkles and scuff marks.
As the clutter diminished, the space grew bigger. Sunlight bounced off swaths of white wall long hidden by dusty objects and compendiums. Arboreal shadows danced on the hardwood floor, finally liberated from beneath the towers of bankers boxes.
On the top of the last crateful of books I was taking to Bessie sat The Insect Societies by Edward O. Wilson—I’d finally admitted to Sylvie that I’d probably never read it. But I could at least skim it. I picked it up and flipped through it, imagining Grandpa’s index finger poised at the top corner of each browned page, ready to turn it long before he’d finished reading it. I always liked to think it was a sign of his insatiable curiosity, forever wanting to know more.
Wedged between page 432 and 433 of the book was an old cardboard coaster from an Argentinian bar in the East Village. Since I’d never read the book, the coaster had to be at least thirteen years old. Someone had written on the back of it, but it wasn’t Grandpa’s neat capital letters. It was a distinctly loopy cursive that I recognized from the lone Christmas card I received every year without fail—from Bessie.
My sweet Patrick. I couldn’t ask for a better tango partner.
I stared at the heart dotting the i in Grandpa’s first name (a flourish that never appeared in my Christmas cards), and reread the coaster several times, unsure if it was better if the message was literal or a euphemism.
Grandpa and Bessie? Surely not. He was as much as a loner as I was—that’s where I learned it from.
But then again, Leo did mention that Grandpa asked Bessie’s advice when shopping for my first bra. Oh, God. Does that mean he’d seen Bessie in her bra? I tried to remember any other sign that might’ve hinted that their relationship transcended that of bookseller and devoted customer.
But also: Grandpa and tango? I’d never seen him dance a step in his life.
Suddenly his memory sat differently in my mind—and I began to see him not as a grandfather, but as a man.
54
As I lugged the crate four blocks to the bookstore, I convinced myself I’d play it casual with Bessie. There was probably a really boring explanation for it all.
“These are the last of the books, I promise,” I said, heaving the crate onto the counter as the coaster burned a hole in my pocket. “I really appreciate you helping me find homes for them all. It would’ve been so sad just to throw them in the recycling.”
“Of course, honey—I’m glad you asked.” Bessie’s beam felt as welcoming as ever, but I couldn’t help wondering if she had a different one especially for Grandpa. “How are you feeling with this whole cleaning out of the apartment?”
“Okay, I guess.” I’d been so busy that I hadn’t allowed myself to process any of my emotions. “A friend helped me with it all.”
I stopped to appreciate my last sentence—months ago, it would’ve seemed completely ridiculous to say that.
Coy, Bessie lifted her shoulder to her cheek. “Ooooh, that handsome young man you brought in here the other day?”
“Ah, no, not Hugo,” I said shyly, but secretly thrilled she’d mentioned him. In the weeks since, he’d texted me several times to tell me how much he was enjoying one of my book selections (along with several photos of Gus), and that he’d taken the job offer. We were planning to meet up when he was back in New York and take George and Gus to the dog park.
“I see,” Bessie said, her dimples deepening. “Well, he seemed like a perfect gentleman to me. I think your old grandpa would’ve approved.”
Tracing my fingertips around the edge of the coaster in my pocket, I debated whether I was invading Grandpa’s privacy. I’d just have to be subtle about it.
“Actually, Bessie, I found something while I was going through his things.” I slid the coaster onto the counter like it was contraband—I didn’t want to embarrass her in front of the other customers.
Bessie clasped her hands to her chest. “My goodness,” she said, laughing. “That brings back wonderful memories.”
Memories that were appropriate to share with a granddaughter? I kept my reaction neutral.
“Oh?”
“Well, you’ve probably already figured it out.” As she bent forward conspiratorially, I couldn’t help noticing the hefty cleavage peeking through her blouse.
“Figured out what?”
“That your grandpa and I were … special friends.” Bessie’s eyes darted around the room. “I think you younger folk call it ‘friends with benefits.’”
Her air quotes were very unnecessary.
I fought the urge to put my hands over my ears and hoped I wouldn’t live to regret my next question. “Did Grandpa like to dance the tango?”
She looked dreamily at the coaster. “He sure did. We went dancing every Thursday evening for almost ten years.”
“I never knew that,” I said quietly. He’d always told me he had a late faculty meeting on Thursdays. I wasn’t sure whether I should feel betrayed that he’d been living a double life or elated that he hadn’t been as lonely as I’d imagined.
“He always looked so happy when he was dancing,” she said, eyes shining in recollection. “Like he was allowed to shed his armor.” Bessie patted my arm. “You know, I remember the last time we went … before he passed. He’d just spoken to you on the phone a few days earlier—you were in Thailand, I think?”
I tensed. “Cambodia.”
“Cambodia, yes! Anyway, I remember he was just so happy to know you were off traveling, learning about the world. He couldn’t have been prouder of you and what you were doing. I know he regretted not being a better father to your mom, and I think it somehow gave him a sense of peace that he’d done right in the way he raised you. It was such a joy to see.”
The room began to spin as emotions flooded my body, the reality of the past few decades suddenly rearranging itself in my mind.
I pretended to look at my watch. “I’m sorry, Bessie—I’m running late for something.”
“Of course, don’t let me keep you, honey.” She squeezed my arm tightly, pulling me in closer. “But I’m always here if you need me.”
I walked all the way to the Hudson River and back again, trying to sift through what I was feeling. And to imagine what Grandpa might’ve looked like dancing—and flirting.
I considered again how I’d never asked him anything about his own life. I knew nothing of his fears, his challenges, his goals.