December Park(7)

Finally, having resigned to the fact that my grandfather was a stubborn old mule of a man, the Takahashi family delivered one final letter to him. I’d seen this letter as well. All it contained were the directions for the appropriate cleaning, storage, and maintenance of the samurai sword. If they couldn’t have it back, at least they could ensure that it would be properly taken care of.

However, it was not the sword or the other items of similar interest my grandfather dug out of the garage on that day in August. What he produced was a worn photo album with a leather cover, held together by rubber bands. It was filled with black-and-white photographs from the war and the year he spent as a lifeguard in Australia. He took the album to the yard and tore up the photographs and spread them like confetti into one of the metal trash cans.

At the time and in my na?veté, I attempted to ascribe some symbolic meaning to this humble act but could not, for the life of me, understand what it could be. I had no other choice but to ask my grandfather why he’d destroyed his photographs. With the practicality of a mathematician, he responded that the nightly recaps of the rising tension in the Middle East on the news merely reminded him that he had old junk stowed away in the garage and he was well overdue in getting rid of it all. It was nothing more symbolic than spring cleaning.

Seated around the dinner table, we ate while the television droned on in the den. My grandmother had parted the curtains over the kitchen windows in case my father returned home from work. As was the pattern, upon seeing the headlights of his sedan turn in to the driveway, my grandmother would rise and fill my father’s plate, timing its placement on the table perfectly with the sound of the front door opening in the foyer. On these nights my father would wash his hands in the kitchen sink, then join us for dinner, still in his shirtsleeves and necktie.

Since my father rarely returned home before dawn on the evenings when he was called out, he would not be coming home in time for dinner this evening, yet the curtains remained parted and my grandmother remained vigilant, as she was not one to break tradition.

“How was school?” my grandmother asked.

“It was okay.”

“Anything interesting happen?”

Since nothing interesting ever happened, I relayed the story Peter had told me about Lucas Brisbee coming to school wearing fatigues and carrying a rifle, only to be tackled in the school parking lot by the gym teacher.

My grandmother shook her head. “Why would someone do such a thing?”

“It happens all the time, Flo,” said my grandfather. “It’s nothing new. All you hear about is kids taking guns to school, shooting up classrooms, and building bombs in their garages.”

“It wasn’t like that,” I said.

“Probably saying he was shell-shocked from the war,” my grandfather went on.

“But he wasn’t in the war. That’s part of the story. He was living over in Woodlawn the whole time.” Despite my incredulity while listening to Peter tell the tale, I found I had not only relayed the story with as much excitement and authenticity as I could muster, but I suddenly believed it wholeheartedly.

“Like in Vietnam,” my grandfather continued, not hearing me. “That whole Agent Orange fiasco. Everybody’s always looking for an out, looking to blame someone else for their problems. Don’t you think there was enough to complain about in the South Pacific? But you don’t hear me complaining, do you? And if you can’t blame the war, you blame your parents, your upbringing. Or the music you listen to.”

“But he wasn’t in the war,” I reiterated. “He—”

“Who?” My grandfather drew his wiry eyebrows together. He looked like someone suddenly asked to solve a complex math problem. “Who’s that?”

“The guy who came to my school.”

“What guy is this?” he said, though the corner of his mouth curled into a smile. He had been playing with me after all.

I laughed and said, “Forget about it.”

Headlights rolled down Worth Street, which prompted my grandmother to spring up from her chair and stare out the window. She continued to watch even after it was evident it was not my father.

“I’m going out tonight,” I said finally.

“Oh? Where’s that?” asked my grandmother.

“Peter’s house.” It was a lie. I didn’t like lying to my grandparents, but I couldn’t tell them that we were all going down to the docks to watch Michael Sugarland sink the homecoming cow.

“You want me to give you a ride?” my grandfather offered. He was always concerned about me walking around at night, even before the disappearances.

“That’s okay. I’ll take my bike.”

Despite the fact that I was fifteen and a half, which meant I was old enough to have my learner’s permit, my father had made the executive decision that I was still too irresponsible to have anything of the sort. I knew I faced a whole new battle once I turned sixteen and was legally eligible for my driver’s license.

My grandmother retrieved the pot of coffee that had been percolating for some time now. She set about filling two mugs while I carried my plate to the sink and washed my hands.

“Dress warm,” she said. “It’s cold out tonight.”

“I will.”

“And please,” she said, the tone of her voice slightly different, “don’t forget your curfew.”