Holding Hands in the Castro

When you hang around the Castro in San Francisco you notice any number of romantic couples holding hands walking down the sidewalks. Of course, you see guys holding hands with guys and girls with girls. And, yes, this is a heartwarming sight, especially for a Midwest boy like me. I remember holding hands with my boyfriend walking through the warehouse district in Minneapolis thinking that at any minute we could get the crap beat out of us.

But most of the couples you see with fingers entwined, couples strolling down Market Street or sipping lattes at Cafe Flore, are heterosexual couples. Yes, straight people. The number of sweaty palmed straight couples in the Castro far outstrips that of queer couples. It's not that there are more straight folks than gay folks around. No. I mean we're talking about the Castro. This is a place where the line to the men's room is longer than the line to the women's room. Where there are four gyms and not a single Gap Kids. No. It's as if heterosexual couples who walk through can't bear to lose physical contact with their s.o. As if, if they were just a man and woman walking next to each other, someone might think they were...gulp...gay.


One time, I saw a couple come out of a book store, and they were, omigod, without umbilical for a moment. He went blithely walking on, when she, with a look of panic in her eyes, came trotting up behind him and grabbed his hand. Grabbed it. Like it was the last life boat on the Titanic.

Now, I'm not against holding hands. And I'm sure het couples finger wrestle tons in their own neighborhoods too. It's just that a straight couple can't seem to walk through without clinging desperately to the other.

Is it fear? Are you afraid that if you appear unattached some strapping homo will come along and try to bring you to the dark side?

Is it insecurity? Do you think that if you let go of his hand he will suddenly be captivated by the thump, thump, thumping coming from The Cafe and you will lose him forever? Or a dyke on a bike will come and sweep her away and she will realize that you weren't that good in bed anyway?

I just want you to think about why you suddenly feel so lovey-dovey. Is it simply because your heart is warmed by the tenderness of his/her touch? Or is it because you are surrounded by a thousand fags?

Planted...part one

Grandma taught Jacob to cheat at cards. Well, she didn’t really teach him so much as led by example. Growing up with her, he learned to watch his back, to use his elbows to make a space for himself in the world. He learned to take care of himself. Still, there he was…

The cool breeze funneling down from Canada blew Jacob’s sandy hair into his eyes again. Though it was a sunny Sunday morning in early June, that breeze caused a shiver to run through him. He ran his fingers up and down the strap of the duffle bag slung over his bony shoulder and turned to take a final look at the yellow pickup that had dropped him off. He could barely see it as it disappeared around the tree lined corner back onto Third Street. He couldn’t believe he was standing in front of this porch again. Back in Thief River Falls. He bent down and scratched the ears of lab-collie mix that sat leaning against his leg, then slowly led Gus up three concrete steps, opened the porch door, and confronted the white front door of the house he grew up in.

He looked down. “Well, here we go, Gus.” He stood, tied his hair back in a ponytail, took a breath and knocked.

He could hear shuffling inside. A pale, liver-spotted hand parted the white curtains on the door’s window, and he saw pale blue eyes peering through: eyes that looked at him unblinking for a few moments. He shuffled back and forth on his feet. He could hear a latch being drawn and the door was opened.

“Jacob! What the hell are you doing here?” Grandma asked, her hand resting on the doorknob.

She had a floral housecoat on and a Pall Mall trailed smoke between her fingers. From the smell of it, she had just permed her white hair. Jacob was not surprised to see her braless. It was early, after all. The sight of her ample bosom swaying used to bother him as a teenager. Now, he just kept his eyes above her neck.

“Nice to see you, too, Grandma.” He stood with his feet planted solidly. “Haven’t seen you in awhile, so I thought I’d pay a visit.” He looked down to pat Gus on the head

“With your clothes and your dog?” She looked at him, her brows slanted, a half-smile on her lips.

“Yeah, well, I’m starting out on a trip, of sorts,” he replied, his lips pursed. Never give away too much, too soon, right, Grandma? Remember, you taught me that.

“You look like hell.” She flicked ashes in a plant next to the door. “And that smell! Don’t they have showers down in Minneapolis?”

Gotta admit, she’s right. He hadn’t changed his clothes in two days. He was still wearing the jeans and gray t-shirt he had on when he slammed the door to his apartment Friday night. With his free hand, he smoothed his hair back. And then ran a hand over the sparse, unshaven facial hair on his chin and upper lip.

“Yeah, sorry about that. It took me awhile to hitch here. Spent the last few hours in the back of some farmer’s pickup.” He lifted his t-shirt from his thin stomach, catching the scent of manure that lingered there. “Hey, do I have to stand here on the porch all day?”

“I guess you might as well come in.” She turned and led the way into the house, her ample form balanced on small bare feet visible below her housecoat. He watched her short steps from behind and was reminded of a big mound of Jell-O quivering on top of a small plate. “Leave the dog outside,” she said over her shoulder. He turned around and, with a last pat on the head, left Gus on the enclosed porch. He watched him through the window immediately curl into a corner.

The house still looked the same as when he was a kid: the olive green, sandpaper-rough carpeting in the living room, the pressed wood television console in the corner, and the pale yellow color of the walls. On the right, they passed the narrow staircase that led up to his old bedroom. He smelled the ever-present bleach and potpourri. It was all familiar.

Most of his memories though, centered on the kitchen they were walking into now. He remembered Grandma telling him that Grandpa added it onto the back of the house after they bought it in 1948. His grandfather had also made the thin, pine cupboards and painted them a gleaming, spotless, glossy white. Grandma had said that Grandpa repainted them every year until he died in 1980, two years before Jacob’s birth. When Jacob got old enough, the painting was his job. The cupboards barely closed now, they were so coated. The floor was tiled in red and black with little flecks of gray that hid the dirt, so Grandma said, not that there ever was any.

“Between jobs?” she asked as she opened a window to the morning breeze.

“Yeah, as of two days ago.” Jacob dropped his bag in the corner. “You know me…never want to be stuck in anything too long.”

“Mm hmm.” She glanced at him. “Have a seat. I was just about to have a glass of Mogan David. Want a bit?” She stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray on the linoleum counter. The morning sun coming through the lace curtains gleamed off the countless coats of varnish on the kitchen table. It was big enough to seat eight diners or, on Sunday nights, eight card players.

“Wine? Grandma, it’s only 10:00.” He pulled out one of the high backed wooden chairs and plopped down. He started massaging his left calf through his jeans. All of the miles of his trip converged on the cramp in his leg.

“And?” she challenged as she pulled a jug out of a brown paper bag and set it down on the table. “C’mon now, you know I’m no lush. One little glass never hurt anybody. Besides, this is the same stuff they just had at communion.”

“Brought home a bottle for yourself, did you?” He looked up smiling from his bent over position.

“You know, I put in hours and hours at St. Mathews, and they don’t pay me a red cent. They won’t miss a little bottle of wine. Besides,” she continued with a wink, “I’m the one who orders it.”

“Well, thanks, but I’ll just have some coffee. I’ve been up all night.” Yawning, he stretched his arms up over his head, but, noticing the large sweat stains in his armpits, put them down again.

“Suit yourself. You know where to find it.” She got a small, chunky wine glass down from the cupboard above the sink.

Jacob got up and got a mug from another cupboard, filled it with water from the tap, and put it in the microwave. He leaned back against the counter, crossed his arms and rested his chin on his chest. There was classical music coming from the radio on the countertop and a scent of lilacs coming through the screened windows. He almost dozed off. The sound of a chair scraping against the floor snapped his head up. Grandma was settling her large buttocks into the chair at the head of the table. Her chair. She took a sip of wine and stared up at him. He stared back for a few moments in silence. The ding of the microwave tore his eyes away. He fixed himself a cup of instant coffee and sat back down in the chair adjacent to hers.

He stirred his coffee, sipped it, got up to add some milk from the refrigerator, sat back down, stirred some more. His grandmother just sat and watched, one hand on her wine glass, the other on her thigh. He glanced up at her once, then back down at his coffee.

Finally, she reached over and lifted his chin to meet her gaze.

“So I’m sitting here waiting… What’s up?” she asked letting go of his chin. “I don’t hear from you in six months and then you show up at my door looking like crap and smelling worse. Something’s going on. What is it?” She leaned towards him.

He held his gaze level with hers, both hands grasping the coffee mug. “I left Travis,” he said loudly, swallowing back the coffee that rose in his throat.

She collapsed back against the chair and threw one hand up in the air. “Now, what the hell am I supposed to say to that?”

*************************************************
End Part One

Planted...part two

He stared at her in silence. He clenched his jaw and looked away.

“Nothing Grandma,” he told the refrigerator. “I don’t expect you to say anything about it… As usual.” He pushed his chair back. “I’m taking Gus out for a walk.”

He got up, grabbed the leash off the top of the duffle bag where he had thrown it and headed back out to the porch.

“Go ahead. Walk away…just like your mother!” he heard as he closed the front door behind him. As he slammed the door he heard her hacking her smoker’s cough.

He bounded down the porch stairs, dragging Gus behind him. Jacob was breathing rapidly, his eyes blindly looking straight ahead. At a whimper from Gus, he slowed, knelt down and petted the dog.

“Sorry, boy.” Gus licked Jacob’s face. He stood and continued at a slower pace. They walked through the dappled sunlight and the ringing of church bells. After several blocks of tidy homes, they came to the school Jacob attended from kindergarten to twelfth grade. He ran his fingers over the chain link fence that surrounded the vacant playground. The breeze whispered through a brightly colored play structure that Jacob didn’t recognize. Clangs came from the rope banging against the empty flagpole.

There was childish writing in chalk on the school’s brick wall. Writing on that wall. Was it still there? Jacob and Gus turned up an overgrown alley to where the fence abutted the school. In the shadows of the encroaching shrubs, there was a gap between the fence and the wall. He used to come through here when the gate was locked and he wanted to play catch with himself by bouncing a tennis ball of the school wall. Why am I alone in so many of my childhood memories?

He tied Gus to the fence, “Be right back, boy,” and squeezed through the space.

It was a much tighter fit than the last time he did this. Luckily his still lanky frame just barely fit. Once inside, he walked along the wall, past the stairs leading to metal school doors. He glanced up, half expecting one of his old teachers to fling open the doors and yell at him, Carsten! What are you up to now?! He looked closely at the brick wall next to the stairs. The morning sun, reflecting off the wall, warmed his face and made him squint. Yes, he could still make out traces of red paint in the grain of the brick -- just a faint reminder of the night he dragged Travis through the same gap and they spray painted their opinion of school administration on the wall. He smiled at the memory of that night. That was six years ago. Two weeks before graduation. Two months before they left together for the Big City, vowing never to return.

They almost weren’t allowed to graduate. When his grandmother got the call from the district office, she slammed down the phone, wobbled out to the garage and brought back a bottle of paint thinner and a scrub brush saying only, “If the brush wears out, use your fingernails.” He cleaned most of the wall himself on a Saturday, with little kids looking at him through the fence. Travis showed up and helped for the last half-hour. In a last act of defiance, Jacob had taken out his penknife and carved their initials in the soft brick at the base of the stairs. JCTH. Jacob Carsten Travis Hicks.

He crouched down. No, the brick was gone. The space had been covered over with cement. He ran his hand over the rough surface as if his fingers could see what his eyes could not. He closed his eyes. That roughness…it was like running his fingers over the stubble of Travis’s face. He jerked his hand away and his eyes flew open.

“Knock it off, Carsten!” he mumbled to his shadow. “This is what you wanted!” He quickly stood up, went back to the gap in the fence and forced his body through. His left hand caught on a piece of fencing on the way out, tearing the skin.

“Shit!” He dabbed at the trickle of blood with his already stained t-shirt. The events of the past months tumbled over him: the nights alone, waiting for Travis to come home, the yelling when he did, the final searing altercation that drove Jacob to stuff clothes in a bag, grab Gus and leave, not even taking their car. He’d wanted nothing that wasn’t his alone. Then to be greeted by his grandmother’s warm reception.

“Why did we come back, Gus? Why did I think anything would be different?”

Gus looked up at him, his head cocked.

“C’mon! Let’s get out of here.” He grabbed the end of the leash and walked briskly back to the small house.

He came through the front door without knocking.

“Grandma! I’m leaving!” No response. “Grandma?” There was no one in the kitchen. No one in the bathroom where he paused to put a band-aid on his cut. He looked through the kitchen window to the backyard garden. Deserted. The radio was now off, as was the television. There was not a sound in the house.

Fine. Makes it that much easier. He almost left a note, but didn’t know what to write. So he picked up the duffle bag, flipped the bird to no one in particular and headed back to the porch. With his hand on the knob, a thought occurred to him. What if…? His breaths came rapid and shallow. He turned back and dropped the bag again.

“Grandma?” he called again. He stepped into the bedroom off of the living room and looked to her bed, then on the floor. Nobody. Just piles of dog-eared books, Beowulf, Great Expectations…, left from when she taught English Literature at the community college.

Maybe she fell upstairs. He went back towards the kitchen and ran up the steep narrow stairs to the second floor. He looked first in the guest room and then stepped into his old bedroom. A wall of memories slammed him. His National Honor Society certificate was still on the wall, as were his rock band posters. The bookshelves held his old schoolbooks and even the quilt on the bed was still the same. That bed. He remembered sobbing in it when he was five, being held by his grandmother, refusing to go to school because he had to invite his parents to a school show. His parents.

Where is she, Grandma? When is she coming back to get me?
Shhh, Jacob. Shhh. Maybe she’ll surprise us both one day.

It was also on this same bed years later that his and Travis’ teenage friendship became something much more. Jacob pushed that memory away and turned to look at the CD rack facing the bed. It still contained the CD’s he didn’t take with him: the soundtrack to Men in Black and Disney on Ice among others. He chuckled when he caught himself humming one of the tunes.

He was about to leave, satisfied that his grandmother was really just gone, not gone, when he spied something different on his bed. There was a scrapbook he didn’t recognize sitting in the shadows on the pillow. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked more closely. No, he had seen this book once before. He recognized the faux leather embossed cover and the yellowed pages. When he was ten, he dug this scrapbook out from under his grandmother’s bed and furtively examined it.

In its opening pages, he remembered seeing a shining, smiling girl in pin curls and gingham. The captions read Clara. His grandmother. Where did that sparkling girl go? Further on in the album there were pictures of a sturdy young man, then pictures of the two of them together, his arms around her, their beaming faces captured in the flash. This was his grandfather, he guessed. As he paged on, he came to photos of his grandmother obviously pregnant, then holding an infant, then the child blowing out birthday candles, then his grandfather holding the toddler girl on his knee. He saw his own face in this girl.

Looking through the album now, smelling the musty paper, he realized that aside from the first few pages, there was no writing on any of the pages. No dates, no names. It was as if this album was to be viewed by one person only – a person who had no need to be told who or when. Turning the pages, Jacob watched his mother grow up. Watched her smile turn to a glare. He came to several pages where the pictures had been removed, leaving only the small, white cardstock photo holders to mark their existence. A large part of his mother’s life had been removed.

The next photos he came to were of him: snippets of his life from infancy to his high school graduation. There was even a copy of his birth certificate. Mother: Marie Carsten, Father: Unknown. When he turned to the last filled page, he stopped and stared. There was a clipping from the Minneapolis Tribune showing his name on a list of a softball league from three years ago and the program of a community theatre play he had been in last year. I never told her about these. How did she get them?

He heard the door close downstairs. The sound of Satie’s Gymnopédie 3 drifted up the stairs from the stereo. Jacob closed the album and sat listening. Hisses and pops came from the often-played record. After a bit, he heard a door open and close again. A rustling came from the backyard. He stood looked through the curtains. His grandmother had a shovel and was digging a hole in her garden. He turned and made his way downstairs, the album in his hand.
He dropped the album on the kitchen table next to a receipt from the Garden Center and went out the back door.

Where the house was modest, the garden was anything but. There was a large vegetable garden with a whole produce section of various plants just beginning to sprout. Lilacs and honeysuckle grew along the kitchen wall next to a large patch of lilies and gladiolas. The hole Grandma was digging was in the middle of the expansive rose garden. She used to spend hours and hours out here. After any one of their many arguments during his teenage years he could find her here, puttering on something and muttering under her breath. Puttering and muttering.

She had changed into tan stretch pants, a blue flannel shirt untucked and men’s work boots. As Jacob came up to her, she was leaning her considerable weight into the shovel. A cigarette dangled from her lips.

She turned her head as he came up, then turned back and continued digging. “I thought you’d be gone by now,” she said to the ground.

He stopped next to her. “You shouldn’t smoke so much, Grandma.”

She turned and leaned on the shovel, “I only smoke because it makes me feel like a bad girl. I was good for way too long. Way too long.” She dropped the shovel and picked up a potted rose bush at her feet. “At least you’re no goody-goody. Gotta say that for you. You run away. You don’t use your brains. But you didn’t turn out to be a goody two shoes.” She dropped the plant in the hole, got on her knees and began patting dirt back in place.

“I didn’t think you cared how I turned out.”

She looked up at him. Then with some effort, stood and faced him.

“Why did you come back here?”

“I… I…” Yeah, why did I? “I don’t know…I wasn’t thinking too clearly. I just had to get out and I could only think of going…home.”

Grandma smiled, almost to herself. “I thought it was the smartest thing you did. Getting out of this town. It’s not right for you. That’s the only thing I liked about that boy. That Travis. He got you out of here.”

“You never liked Travis.”

“No. No, I didn’t.”

Jacob looked around. Kicked the ground a bit. “What’ll you name this one?” Grandma named all of her rose bushes.

“Oh, I don’t know.” She scratched her hip. “Maybe ‘Gus’?”

“Not Jacob?”

“Naw, that’s Jacob over there.” She pointed to a large bush with red-edged white blooms. “Planted him six years ago. The first weekend I was alone in the house.”

Jacob looked at the rose bush, then back at his grandmother. She looked away.

“You should let Gus run around back here, instead of keeping him cooped on the porch.”

“Yeah, I think I will.” He turned back when he got to the gate and called, “By the way, it was my idea to leave. Not Travis’.”

Jacob left her there staring at him and went around to the front. He got Gus and then let him into the enclosed backyard. His grandmother was no longer there. When he came back into the kitchen, she was seated at her usual place playing solitaire.

“I see you found the scrapbook. I left it out for you.”

“Yeah.” He sat back down at the table. “How did you find out about the softball team? And the play?”

“We have the Internet up here, you know.” She shuffled the deck. “I just did a search for your name from time to time.”

“Oh.” That explains it. Kind of. The newspaper article he could understand. But the play program? How’d she get that? He started paging through the book again.

“You’re not a bad actor,” she laid down a card and looked at him. “I mean, you’re no Laurence Olivier or anything, but you’re not bad.”

“You were there?” His head snapped up from the book. “Why didn’t you say anything? Come down and talk?”

“Oh, you didn’t need a old lady bothering you.” She stood and filled a glass with water at the sink.

Grandma leaned back against the counter. “Travis called while you were out.”

Jacob collapsed back against the chair and looked over at her. “Did you tell him I was here?”

“No, I lied. I told him you weren’t.” Jacob smiled and started breathing again. “But he didn’t believe me.” She paused. “He’s driving up.”

*****************************************
End of part two

Planted...end

Jacob collapsed back against the chair and looked over at her. “Did you tell him I was here?”

“No, I lied. I told him you weren’t.” Jacob smiled and started breathing again. “But he didn’t believe me.” She paused. “He’s driving up.”

“When did he call?”

“Couple of hours ago.”

He could be here in five hours if he drives straight through. “Damn!” He pushed back his chair and stood. “Well, it’s time for me to go, Grandma.”

“Thought you might say that.” Wooden faced Grandma opened a drawer and pulled out a pack of Pall Malls. “So happy you could spend some time.” She shuffled to the stove, turned on the burner, bent, and lit up.

But he wasn’t listening. He was already headed to the front door where he had dropped the duffle bag. Gus started barking in the back yard, a low, plaintive yelp. Jacob walked back to the kitchen where Grandma sat smoking.

“There was another reason I wanted to come here. I mean…other than getting away from Travis.”

“Yes?” She flicked ashes in an ashtray without looking up.

“I wanted to tell you something.” He pulled on the strap of the duffle bag across his chest and shook the hair out of his eyes. “I talked to my mother.”

“Wh..What?” She stared up at him.

“Yeah…in Minneapolis. She… well, she called me out of the blue four months ago. Said who she was and that she wanted to see me. At first I didn’t believe her. But she knew too much. About me. About you. About this house. Then, when I saw her, I recognized her from the pictures you have.”

“You saw her?”

Yes, he had seen her. A dusty, twig-like figure, she came to the apartment and spent three hours. Their conversation was the exchange of strangers:

So, you live here with Travis Hicks?
Yeah.
He Lorna and Vern Hicks’ boy?
Yeah.
He your…husband…or somethin’?
Something like that.
To each his own, I guess.
I guess.

He remembered her eyes darting, never resting in one place more than a second. He could still see her hands, also never still: scratching her neck, pulling at her lip, running along the arms of the chair where she sat. Those eyes and hands, so like mine and yet so foreign.

“I saw her. She gave me these.” He took off the duffle bag, opened it and took out a white, business-sized envelope. He walked to the table and flipped open the scrapbook to the page missing photos. Into the empty slots he slipped five pictures. Two of his mother and a tall, lanky blond man. One of his mother pregnant. And two of his mother holding an infant. There were smiles in none of the pictures. Except for one: the one that remained in his back pocket.

He turned the album so his grandmother could see. She ran a trembling finger over the pictures. Gus was still barking. Jacob could hear him scratching at the backdoor. He strode to the window.

“Gus! Shut up!” He turned back. “He’s not used to being kept outside like that.”

“How was she?” Grandma was still looking at the photos. “How did she look?”

“Old. She looked old. And worn out.”

“Did she ask about me?”

“No, she didn’t.” Grandma looked down, her chin resting on her bosom. Jacob came and sat down again. “She just wanted money. She saw my name in the paper, like you did I guess, and tracked me down so she could hit me up. Some guy wanted her to go to Florida with him. She left a little while after she found out I was broke.”

Grandma patted his hand. Ash fell from her cigarette to the table.

He shrugged. “She’s not family. She just gave birth to me.”

There was quiet in the kitchen. Gus had stopped barking.

Grandma stubbed out her forgotten cigarette, stood, and walked to the kitchen sink. She scrubbed her already clean hands as if she could wash away time. “I don’t know what happened to her. She was such a happy kid. Then after her dad died, she changed. I didn’t know her anymore.” She put her wet hands on the counter and leaned her weight on them, her back to the room.

“I’m sure it’s nothing you did,” he said his voice barely audible in the silence of the room. Maybe it was…I don’t know. His grandmother was staring out the window, her mind obviously on a time when he didn’t yet exist.

Suddenly, Grandma shouted, “Omigod!” Her eyes were fixed out the window. She yanked open the blinds. “Stop! Stop!” she yelled into the garden. She turned and trotted to the backdoor stairs as quickly as her small feet and her large frame would allow, knocking over a chair and bumping into Jacob on the way.

“What is it?” Jacob shouted. “Grandma, what happened?”

He crossed to the window and looked at the sight that had propelled his grandmother out the door.

“Shit! Gus! Stop!” Then he too was running down the back stairs to the garden.

When he got down to the yard he had a clearer view of the havoc his dog had created. Gus was digging in the middle of the rose garden. Small clods of earth flew from his front paws as he dug at the base of a pink-blossomed rose bush. Well, this explains why he’s been so quiet the last few minutes. Jacob reached Gus at the same time as his grandmother. He tore Gus away from the foot deep hole he had dug. Jacob glimpsed the yellow-green of a tennis ball at the bottom of the hole, under the roots of the rose bush that was now leaning precariously forward. Grandma ignored the dog and collapsed on her knees at the base of the plant. She held the roots that now came loose from the earth. She didn’t seem to notice the thorns pricking her hands.

“Oh, God. Marie,” she choked. “Of all the plants, why Marie?” His mother’s name.

“Damn, Grandma, I’m sorry.” Jacob held Gus, who sat back on his haunches at his side, his dirty paws now still. “He must’ve been trying to get the ball.”

She wasn’t listening. She turned her brimming eyes up to him.

“Why do you always leave? All of you? Why do you always leave me here in this house? Your grandfather. Your mother. You.” She looked at the bush now in her hands, pink petals scattered about her.

Jacob pulled on Gus. He took the leash he had left on the back gate and tied Gus to the clothesline pole near the driveway. When he walked back to the garden, Grandma still knelt on the ground and held the plant on her lap. Jacob knelt down next to her and took the plant from her yielding hands.

“Look, Grandma.” He gingerly held the plant out. “The roots are still there. We can replant it.”

She looked up at him, her hands like dying birds in her lap. Jacob took the root ball of the plant and placed it in the hole Gus had dug. With one hand he began patting dirt into place. After several breaths, Grandma’s hands began pushing earth around the roots, her right hand touching Jacobs left, as together they held Marie in place.

Later they sat together on the porch, drinking Mogan David in the afternoon sun. Jacob had showered and put on a clean t-shirt and jeans. His damp hair was combed back from his forehead. He glanced at his watch. He’ll be here in a couple of hours.

“What will you tell him?” Grandma was still in her gardening clothes.

“The truth, I guess. That I thought I needed him, but I don’t. And that he obviously doesn’t need me.”

“And then you’ll send him packing!”

“You know it.” They clinked glasses. The swinging bench they both sat on creaked with the movement. Gus, asleep at their feet, looked up at the sound.

She chuckled. “How about a refill?”

“Sounds good.”

She pushed herself up and waddled towards the door.

“Grandma?” He set down his coffee mug of wine on the wicker side table.

“Hmm?” She paused at the doorway.

“You still have your Sunday night poker game?”

“Of course. Why?”

“Oh, I was just thinking of how much money we could rake in.”

She laughed. “Well, I’m glad you’ll be around. Those gals are finally starting to catch on to my tricks.” She picked a fleck of cigarette paper from her lip and turned to go into the house.

Jacob stood and stretched his arms towards the ceiling. He stepped into the sunlight and with his eyes closed let the warmth bathe his body for a moment. Reaching his hand in his back pocket, he pulled out the one photograph he had not reinserted into the album: a picture of his brown-haired grandmother smiling down at the infant in her arms.