Last Bites
by Jared Ward
The old man smelled of formaldehyde. It wasn’t since parachute pants and Purple Rain that he’d sniffed it, spearing dead frogs in biology, so maybe the memory was off, triggered by a sense of unnatural preservation instead.
“Good to see you, grandpa,” Jim said, patting the hump in the old man’s back.
“Didn’t expect you.” His grandfather pointed to the foot of his bed. “You’ll have to sit there,” he said, dropping into his weathered rocker.
He sat and looked from one white wall to the next. Along the east side was a door, half opened to a bathroom with silver rails around the toilet, and a sink with two cabinets below. There were a few pictures on the walls, one of Cindy with him and the kids, must’ve been three years old.
“Love what you’ve done with the place,” he said.
The old man snorted. “Can barely see anyway.”
Jim smiled. “Like my old dorm room.”
“Only cleaner,” the old man said.
“No posters,” Jim said. “Next time I’ll bring some.”
“Next time?” the old man asked. “Been six years, how long you think I’ll stay?”
Jim laughed. “I’ll get you a Zeppelin. Maybe a Floyd.”
“Who’s Floyd?”
“Fine,” Jim said. “I’ll find Lawrence Welk.” He pictured the blank west wall with a crushed velvet poster of Lawrence, white bubbles shining beneath a black light mounted to the ceiling. Toss in a lava lamp on the nightstand and a wooden incense burner for good measure.
“Won’t hold my breath,” the old man said.
“Doesn’t matter,” Jim said. “Couldn’t see it anyway.”
The old man took a drink from his glass on the table. “That reminds me, keep your mouth shut about Lisa.”
“Who’s Lisa?”
“My nurse. Sticks me in the ass twice a day with a needle,” he said. He rattled the glass back down on the table. “Looks good to me, don’t need to hear different.”
Jim pictured a spanking hot nurse, blonde in a tight, white, button-down dress. Pictured the old man, Grandpa Silva, with a schoolboy crush. “In the ass?”
“Twice a day.”
“She like Lawrence?” he asked, and the old man laughed.
Twenty minutes later there was a knock on the door. They had caught up on the latest product line of Jim’s company, how the market for cheap outdoor furniture never dipped, how the boys were dodging their schoolwork. They caught up on the pros and cons of rice pilaf versus garlic potatoes, and the seating arrangement at Thursday Night Bingo.
When the old man asked him how Cindy was, Jim said fine.
“Talked to your dad the other night,” said the old man. “He told me.”
Jim shrugged, rose from the bed. “Thirsty?” he said. He reached past his grandfather, lifting the glass from the table.
“Sure,” said the old man, and the door knocked as Jim reached the sink.
“Mr. Silva?”
“Hey Lisa,” said the old man.
She opened the door, standing in the frame as florescent light shone on her dark hair. Jim watched her arm extend from her baggy green blouse, one plump hand bracing the door.
“Ready?” she said.
When Lisa had gotten his grandfather out, Jim went to the north wall where the pictures hung. His brother, finishing college. Little sister, with her husband and baby. They’d been here, probably three times this year. His parents, looking grayer than he remembered. His own family, where he could almost see the lie in Cindy’s smile.
In the middle was a collage of quotes, mounted and framed under glass. He recognized them from the old man’s eightieth birthday, just four years ago. His aunt came up with it. Eighty memories for eighty years, split amongst all of them.
To JK Silva, read the engraved plate at the bottom. From his family.
He ran his fingers across the glass, tapping his favorites.
I remember you stomping the fire from our fireworks, his dad wrote. It was the Fifth of July, Steve and I were finishing our stash out on the tracks. One landed in the ditch, which was overgrown and dry, and lit up at once. You ran into the flames and managed to stomp them out before we burned the neighborhood down.
He remembered the story, how his grandmother would always shake her head. Boys and their fires, she used to say, before the cough came and took her.
His fingers flew, skimming the surface of memories. That night he’d wanted to kill Cindy. Just write two, he’d said, I’ll do the rest. He knew he should have read hers before she gave it, should have just written all ten and signed her name to a couple. Thanks for the laughs, read one, and You make a mean stake, the other.
He came across his own, about sitting with cousins while Grandpa told stories. It had made him smile to write it, almost as much as when his brother called Cindy out on her spelling. Like the one you would burn at? Her lips had pursed like they did when she didn’t find something funny.
I remember having the Japanese exchange family over for dinner, wrote his Uncle Steve. It was the afternoon of their visit, and I asked you “when the Japs were getting here.” I had been watching John Wayne movies about World War II, and didn’t realize “Japs” was an insult. But you never got angry. That taught me two things – don’t punish ignorance, and discipline with patience.
The tapping of glass echoed in the well-lit space between walls.
The old man returned thinner, hollowed cheeks not quite masked by the smile. Jim smiled back, positive there was very little ass sticking in the twice-a-day ventures, more positive his grandfather didn’t care to discuss it.
Lisa helped him into his rocker. Her smile revealed a lower row of crooked teeth and her skin was pasty. She smoothed back the old man’s hair, said she’d see him tomorrow.
“Hey,” Jim said as she walked out the door. “You like Lawrence Welk?”
“Who?” she said, and waved good-bye at his mumbled reply, door clicking behind her.
He turned to see the old man watching him.
“Do you know why you’re here?” his grandfather said.
“Look,” he said, and “No,” said his grandfather. “Do you know why you’re here?”
He wanted to say he was sorry for not visiting sooner, that the three hours seemed longer with the job and the family. He wanted to talk about football and the upcoming season. He wanted to talk about anything but Cindy and the stockbroker from Portland, about his boys being whisked eight hours away.
“No,” he said.
“You came to hear a story,” the old man said. “This story.”
“One day a boy was hunting,” he began, rocking slowly, curved wood creaking. “His father and older brother had been killed by Pawnee arrows three summers before, and the hunt was now his. He followed deer tracks to the edge of the forest. It was dark beneath the branches.
His mother was hungry.
He was hungry.
He went into the shadows, tracked deep in the woods.”
Out the window, Jim saw the sun sinking. He would be driving home in the darkness.
The old man went on.
“The boy ran deeper. A cry pierced the air, and he stopped. The cry of a woman drifted through branches.
He caught a glimpse of black hair. The boy was scared. He began walking away.
‘Where are you going, boy? Stay here with me,’ said the voice, and a cold breeze blew across his neck.
He ran again, as fast as he could. Rain fell, night came, but still he ran. The cold breeze blew at his back.”
“Grandpa,” Jim said, “I don’t think this is the story.”
His grandfather looked at him.
“I don’t see how this’ll help,” Jim said.
The old man arched his brow, cleared his throat, and continued rocking.
“After many miles, he tripped on the root of an elm. He was tired. He closed his eyes, face on the earth.
Dead leaves crunched nearby. A twig snapped. He kept his eyes closed. A warm breath blew on his cheek. He opened his eyes, and a wolf hovered above.
A low growl rumbled in its throat. The cold breeze blew, and the wolf howled. The breeze passed and the boy sat up.
‘Why are you here?’ asked the wolf.
‘I followed deer,’ said the boy. The boy looked at the darkness and trees. ‘I’m lost, but I’d like to go home.’
‘Follow me,’ said the wolf.
So the boy did, and just before sunrise, they reached the long rolling prairie. When he turned to the wolf, it was gone.
That night, like many to come, the boy ate with his family. At the last bite of meat, the last bite of corn, and the last bite of bread he stopped.
He walked to the edge of light, where the fire didn’t reach. The food, he knew, would be gone by morning. He’d believe his wolf ate it or not.”
The old man stopped rocking. He stared at his north wall, covered in pictures.
“What does it mean?” Jim asked.
The old man said nothing.
“Is Cindy the woman?”
Silence.
“Who’s the wolf?”
It was quiet for another moment, then the old man said, “Sometimes, James, you just need the story.”
He drove three hours home in the dark. Talk radio static echoed in the space between lightpoles. Deer crossed in the shadows, though he felt no urge to chase.
Inside, his home was still. He came through the garage, into the kitchen, path lit by the tiny lights on smoke alarms, glowing switches, and the digital clock of the oven. The refrigerator light seemed blinding in contrast when he opened the door.
He stared at the bottle of ketchup, the gallon of separating milk, the mystery tin foil. “What the hell was that story?” he said, shaking his head.
He shut the door and went to the cabinet, reaching for the last cup of noodles. He tore off the plastic, added water, and punched Quick Start on the microwave.
Counting down the minute forty-five, he looked where the tv should have been.In front of the couch that was gone. Under missing pictures on the wall.
He knew he was supposed to feel bad about those. The one thing he helped with, wrapping each one in tissue to protect the smiles on his boys, frozen wedding poses, and the family portrait from church. Taping the box closed, he’d added more padding, just in case.
He’d carried it out to the front and was standing on the top step when her phone rang. Can’t talk now, she said, and even he was surprised at how far the box flew, a slow, graceful, end-over-end arc that seemed to slow time. Until it landed. Then time, and everything inside, shattered.
Now his walls were as bare as his grandfather’s. More.
“Come again?” the old man had asked as they embraced at the door.
“Sure,” Jim said. “Another six years.”
“Come to bury me, then.”
Jim had smiled. “Sooner then. Promise.”
“Don’t forget my poster,” the old man said.
“Never,” Jim said. “Lawrence, right?”
“Floyd’ll do.”
“Of course,” Jim said. “Can barely see anyway.”
The old man laughed.
Jim had stopped before shutting the door and stuck his head in. “Almost forgot,” he said. “You were right.”
The old man looked up from his rocker.
“About Lisa,” Jim said. “She’s a knockout. Be good to her.”
The rocker had creaked as the door shut.
His noodles beeped. He grabbed them and walked out back. At the end of the yard, sycamores loomed.
“Any wolves out here?” Only cicadas. Steam rose from the noodles. “What the hell was that story?”
He looked into the shadows, at the darkness between trees. Looked for a fire burning nothing. For a glimpse of black hair. He looked for wolf eyes glowing yellow in the night.
“Am I the boy?” he asked, closing his eyes.
He listened for rain, to chase him to shelter. Listened for rustling leaves and the snapping of twigs. For a howl or the cry of a woman’s lost spirit.
“Am I the boy?” His voice carried to the trees, echoed back.
Hot liquid shook over the lip of the cup, stung his clenched hand. He turned the bottom up, swallowing hard as his tongue and esophagus burned. Steam drifted over the bridge of his nose and dissipated into the night like a warm breath in winter. When there were a few noodles left, he stopped. He walked toward the trees until he reached the shadows from where the moon touched their tallest branches. Searching the darkness one last time for glowing eyes, he set the cup in the grass, turning on the light as he went back inside.