Jones, Ella

A Late Afternoon Visitor

Ella Jones

(October, 2013)

My grandmother clears her throat with determination. I didn’t notice her come in, but looking up from my book, I see her sitting in her favorite rocker across from me. She’s wearing a hippie-style floral shirt, olive-green bell-bottoms, orange flip flops, and a vintage Phillies baseball cap. I’m surprised I didn’t hear her outfit enter the room.

“Whoa, Grams,” I say, my heart flipping over. “It’s so good to see you.” I know I’m wearing the same broad smile her visits always evoke. “You surprised me.”

“You were reading, as usual,” she says, a mock rebuke in her voice. “No wonder you didn’t hear me come in. You know, you’ll ruin your eyes reading without a light on.”

“My eyes are already ruined,” I tell her, taking off my reading glasses and turning on the lamp to dispel the October dusk. “Besides, if I read too much it’s your fault. You’re the one who always read to me and took me to the library.”

She clicks her tongue and gathers her lips in a tuffet of wrinkles.

I smile, remembering summer days spent at Grams’ and Granddad’s house. She was the thinker; he was the doer. Granddad was always puttering around, fixing stuff, tending his garden, and keeping their old Victorian house in prime condition. Grams was the philosopher. We’d sit together on the porch swing, sipping homemade lemonade, and discussing the important minutiae of life. She'd tell me to be true to myself and not worry about what the other kids thought. She and I always had a special connection. We understood each other as well as any two people on Earth. Every kid should have such a childhood.

“So what are you reading today?” she asks, nodding at my book.

“Persuasion,” I say, pulling on my cardigan.

“Ah. Jane Austen.”

“It’s my favorite.” I know my smile is a bit sheepish.

“I seem to remember that the first time you read it you didn’t like it. You said Anne Elliot was mopey and moony and you didn’t care if she lived happily ever after.” We both laugh at the child I once was. We always laugh when we’re together. “But the book seems to have . . .”

“. . . grown on me? Yes, it has.” I know this pleases her. Persuasion is her favorite Austen, too. “I think reading Jane Austen with you is one of the reasons I decided on an English major in college.”

“Good choice. I know some people think you should choose a major that will lead to a career, but I think you go to college to get an education, not a job. And what better major than English?”

“Well, it certainly isn’t a vocational degree.”

“Don’t you worry. With your brains, you’ll do fine.”

I sigh, thinking about my “career” working at an indie bookstore for little more than minimum wage, supplemented by teaching a few English as a Second Language courses at the local community college.

“Speaking of Austen, have you ever noticed that all of her heroines get married at the end of the books?” Gram's eyes twinkle with mischief.

Okay—we’re on that topic. “True,” I say, “but we don’t know whether they all lived . . .”

“. . . happily ever after?” She shakes a finger at me as she finishes my sentence. “I’m confident she wouldn’t create those wonderful characters and not give them happy marriages in the chapters left unwritten,” she says, cocking her head.

“Maybe,” I say. “Jane Austen was once engaged, but she never married. Maybe that’s why those books all stop at the engagement. Maybe she didn’t know how to write about happily married people.”

Grams shrugs, then locks her eyes on me. She is not to be deterred. “So is there a special young man in your life these days?”

“Sadly, no.” I’m not really sad about it; I’m just sorry to disappoint her.

“Well, you’re not getting any younger, you know.”

You have no idea, Grams. I reach up and pull my graying hair into a knot.

“While books can be good company,” she continues, “there’s no substitute for a life mate.” She sits back and knits her fingers together across her tummy. “Look at Granddad and me.”

I let out an involuntary sigh. “Not everyone is as lucky as you and Granddad,” is all I can think of to reply. “Tell me, how is Granddad?” I say, trying to change the subject.

She looks confused for a moment. “He’s happy.” She looks upward past her wrinkled brow. “He sends his love,” she says at last.

“Thanks for that.” I smile, thinking of the black-and-white wedding photo that now sits on top of my dresser. Grams in a long white dress—Granddad, with a full head of hair, standing tall in his Navy uniform. They got married just as World War II began. My dad was on the way before Granddad shipped out. “Give him my love, too. I miss him.”

Grams nods. “Then why don’t you come to visit?” It isn’t an accusation; she seems genuinely confused.

Her question pulls at my heart. “You two—moved so far away, Grams,” I say. “But I think of you every day, and I’m always thrilled when you come back for a visit.”

“Florida isn’t the dark side of the moon, you know,” she says, raising one eyebrow.

She’s right. It isn’t, but . . .

"Have you seen Lucy lately?” I say, hoping she’s visited my little sister.

“Oh that Lucy!” she says, slapping her knee. “She said the funniest thing the other day. What was it now? . . . Oh I forget, but she’s such a little card.”

Yep—that’s Lucy. If she’s a card, she’s the Queen of Diamonds. Gorgeous, funny, talented. She married a zillionaire high-tech geek who sold it all and “retired” at thirty-eight. They moved to Bimini with their two kids and priceless designer dogs. She’s certainly living happily ever after. But I know she misses Grams as much as I do, and would love a visit. For some reason, though, Grams never goes there. Maybe she just doesn’t know how to get to Bimini.

Despite Lucy’s good fortune, I know I’m the lucky one. By the time Lucy was old enough to spend time at Grams’ and Granddad’s house, they’d moved to a retirement community in Florida. She never got to help Granddad weed his garden or harvest the sunflower seeds he grew to feed the birds. She never got to spend days in the library or read with Grams on the porch swing.

“You’ve always been special to me,” Grams says, winking. “And I love our little chats.”

I sense she's getting ready to go. My eyes fill and there’s a lump in my throat. “And you’ve always been special to me.” We grin at each other like a pair of carved pumpkins. I look at my grandmother’s sparkling eyes and crazy clothes. To her, I’m still nineteen, still that college sophomore deciding to major in English, still with a lifetime of possibilities ahead of me.

“And all I want is for you to be happy, dear.” Her voice cracks just the tiniest bit.

I consider my life. My marriage fell apart before the first anniversary, and my only other serious relationship ended in a lot of heartache instead of the life-long happiness she had with Granddad. But I remain true to myself, and at forty-seven and single, I have a great circle of friends. I’m using my English degree doing work I love. I live in a ground-floor apartment in their old Victorian house, tend Granddad’s garden growing sunflowers to feed the birds, and sit on our porch swing to consider the minutiae of my life.

Then I look at Grams. She looks just as she did on that terrible day in 1985 when she and Granddad were driving along Highway 19 and were T-boned in an intersection by a truck driver blinded by the setting Florida sun. As bad as that day was, I soon discovered that I didn’t really lose them both. Grams still comes by every now and then—just to reassure me with her smile and remind me that I’m special to someone who is special to me.

“Don’t worry about me, Grams,” I say as I watch her fade from view. “I am happy . . . happy ever after.”

Ella Jones loves this time of year, and has found it inspires in her the strangest of stories. She has chosen a black cat as her author photo. Some think this is bad luck, but she prefers to think of it merely as a dear pet--or perhaps her muse. Ella loves a good ghost story--or even a mediocre one. She hopes you'll enjoy it, too.

Happy Halloween, everyone