American Grizzly
Grandad’s visits grow more distressing. Like watching time-lapse video of seeds speeding toward sunflowers but in reverse. Each visit he’s a touch more ashen, wilted. One step closer to the dirt. It’s upsetting for my son, Lonnie, who at eight is smart enough to know that if Grandad quit the stimulants things might improve but not wise enough to comprehend his tenacity. None of us are.
I don’t leave them alone anymore. Lonnie’s too spooked. This leads to tragic confusion. He asks me to give them room but not so much I actually leave it altogether.
Grandad leans down. He pats Lonnie’s head, leaving his hand there. He slides it down his cheek. Lonnie hesitates, and I swoop in. But then he reaches up and mirrors the gesture. He skims his own hand over grandad’s prickly beard. I’m unsure where such motions lead.
“I got in trouble at school,” Lonnie says, still grazing the whiskers.
“For what?” Grandad asks, his fingers skeletal glass.
He was handsome once. There’s a picture on my dresser. He’s standing beside a pickup truck, shirtless, woolly, an icy stare ten miles off. Rugged. Sixties era Paul Newman. An extinct breed.
“He bullied someone,” I say, kneeling next to Lonnie.
Now I know how he got that look. He lived through the kind of shit that turns a boy unsmiling in photographs. The kind he put me through. The kind I vowed to hide from Lonnie. What some perceive as stoicism is trauma.
Grandad curves his hand down Lonnie’s cheeks, past all his soft, flabby skin, and finds his chin. He clamps it there, raises his eyes for inspection. “Guess they don’t make bullies like they did in my day.”
I try tugging Lonnie away but he braces.
“How’d your jaw get so hard?” Lonnie asks.
“Ever hear of a Ryoba saw?”
“Huh?” Lonnie says.
Grandad starts laughing but can’t finish. His emphysema flares. A sharp gasp followed by eruptive coughing. The hand drops from Lonnie’s chin. He stumbles into a corner where the convulsions continue.
“What should I do?” Lonnie says. I think he’s asking me, so I pull him closer, but he squirms away, steps toward Grandad. “What should I do?” he asks again.
“He can’t hear you,” I say. “It’s for the best.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Lonnie says, louder.
“You don’t want it.”
I hug him tight, but he wriggles.
“You’re lying,” Lonnie says.
“His way is…” I can’t find the words.
“I don’t believe you,” he says.
Grandad staggers. He backs against the wall, wipes the phlegm from his mouth. One massive breath, then silence. The floorboards creak. They’re old and need replacing. Tears seep from his eyes. They’re not emotional, but involuntary, pulmonary. He’d be the first to tell you. It’s incredible humans can spot the difference without even speaking. Separates man from animal. The truth is written there on his muculent face and whether I want it or not, Lonnie has his answer.
Simon A. Smith teaches English to high schoolers. His stories have appeared in many journals and media outlets, including Hobart, PANK, Whiskey Island, and Chicago Public Radio. He is the author of two novels, Son of Soothsayer, and Wellton County Hunters. He lives in Chicago with his wife and son.