was only mid-morning on a weekday. “Since they don’t have any hardware stores, I guess maybe I’d have to say the bookstore?” he replied, sounding a bit unsure in his answer.
I nodded enthusiastically.
Good.
This was good. He was directing the ship, something I knew he was good at and would happily take on as a challenge. Maybe it would keep him busy and distracted enough that he really wouldn’t mind the fact that we didn’t really have a particular mission to fulfill. Grandpa wasn’t used to idleness. Most things that he did served a purpose. Most of his encounters with the retail world were driven and focused around a need, rather than simply enjoying the scenery and exploring. The man didn’t seem to understand the concept of a stroll, much less window-shopping.
I glanced over at him. Maybe it was time to teach him, I thought, feeling a tiny smile creep across my lips.
“Books, yes. That sounds great!” I replied, hoping I didn’t sound overly bright or phony.
It might have seemed like a trivial thing, but I knew this first outing—just him and me—was much more important than a simple jaunt to the store to kill some time. It was an opportunity for us to connect, to establish some groundwork in areas that had for so long been unaddressed. There had never been a need before, really. Grammie had always been somewhat of a buffer, a cushioning element to his potentially sharp edges. True, he had softened greatly since my childhood, but Grandpa was still Grandpa, and there was still a gruff nature that hadn’t fully been sanded down, even in the mellowing years.
He smiled at me, starting to look a little more relaxed. I wanted so much to say something, to tell him how much I loved him and wanted him to be okay. To have him understand how full my heart was of love for him. To tell him how much I missed Grammie.
So many things I wanted to say; but I kept silent, fearful that I might break the spell and ruin the light mood.
“What do you like to look at when you go to the bookstore?” I asked, genuinely interested. I hadn’t ever actually seen my grandfather read a book. In fact, I had no earthly idea what he might want to read, other than the morning paper.
He shrugged. “I like to look at some of the magazines, especially the car racing ones,” he replied simply, eyes searching for a parking spot near our stated destination.
“I could live in a bookstore.” I sighed. “I love books. I just wish they didn’t cost so much,” I lamented.
“Well, one of these days, you’ll have a book in there. Maybe lots of books,” he said, sounding confident rather than conciliatory.
“Oh, I hope so. I really, really hope so. Sometimes it feels like I work so hard to get somewhere, and it all ends up as nothing.” I shook my head, suddenly feeling heavy. “Sometimes I think I’m being a complete idiot, doing what I’m doing.”
“Who told you that?” he demanded, sounding blustery. “I’ve read your articles, Dellie. Your mama sends them to me sometimes, and they’re really good.” He reached over and rested a big, gnarled hand on my thigh, patting gently. “Don’t let anybody tell you any different. You’ve got something.” He stopped suddenly, and I heard a tiny crack in his voice. “You’ve got something special.”
I felt my throat swell and my nose prickle with the telltale sign of tears. I wasn’t used to this kind of praise from him, nor was I used to seeing much that bordered on vulnerability from someone usually so in control.
“Thanks, Grandpa,” I said quietly. “That really means a lot. More than you know.” I took his big hand in mine, feeling its rough warmth as I squeezed it.
“I mean it. I wouldn’t lie to you, just ask me,” he said with a grin, reciting words I had heard so often from his lips. That was one thing you could always count on Grandpa to deliver—a rotating list of his standby lines and jokes. They were almost comforting in their predictability. Some things would never change; and sometimes, that was exactly the reassurance you needed.
We meandered along the sidewalk, passing glass storefronts with well-placed displays and mannequins dressed to the hilt in tailored dresses and vertiginous heels. I took mental notes and drooled inwardly, wishing I had the budget to dress like these plaster-cast women, wondering if I would ever be able to afford any of it and still be a writer. There were days when I particularly felt the squeeze of my paltry income, and going shopping seemed more like a minefield than a joy. It was a reminder of what I didn’t—and couldn’t—have. Once upon a time, I had enjoyed window-shopping. Now, it often felt like a punishment, an inaccessible carrot dangling maliciously in front of me.
I must have sighed out loud without realizing it.
“Why so blue?” Grandpa asked, suddenly pulling me back to the present.
I shook my head, not wanting to tell him what I was thinking or feeling. The last thing I wanted was for him to think I was wallowing in self-pity or somehow angling for him to buy me something. We were out, two adults exploring a whole new world; and I didn’t want him to feel like that didn’t mean something to me.
“I can tell something’s bothering you, but I’m not going to make you talk.” He kept his eyes trained ahead, the bookstore in his line of vision. “You want to talk, you just say so. I’ll listen.”
“Thanks, Grandpa,” I said, mentally breathing a sigh of relief. I reached out and slipped my hand in his as I matched my stride to his to catch up a bit. “You too. Anytime you want to talk—about anything—I’m here. I have two good ears for listening.”
“Me, too,” he said, giving my hand a gentle squeeze before turning his face to me. “See?” he asked with a mischievous wink. He grinned, and I noticed the slight movement of his ears, back and forth, back and forth, in a subtle wiggle waggle that he had always delighted in showing off to all of his grandchildren as we watched in childish wonder. Part of the magic of Grandpa—an irreplaceable element of what made him different from everyone else’s grandpa.
Peter Samuelson had magical ears.
The morning passed in an easy melting of hours. We drifted along together, separating to make our solo voyages from corner to corner of the bookstore, each missionless in our missions. And that was truly the point. We had random points of rendezvous as we traversed the sales floor, checking occasionally with one another to decide if we wanted more time or if either of us was ready to leave. We made our way through a stream of stores this way, happily floating along in a comfortable bubble of silence, tossing in an observation here and there, a random thought or memory adding color to the landscape as we passed.
And then, there it was—rising up before us like a beacon.
The glittering storefront of Victoria’s Secret.
To say the magnetic pull was undeniable would have been an understatement. It was like being sucked into a vortex. My feet propelled me forward in a steady march, seemingly of their own accord.
“If you want to go in, I’ll go just down a bit to that sports store.”
I snapped my mouth shut, realizing I had stopped dead in front of the store’s big window, with its proud display of sleekly simple mannequins decked out in alluring lace underthings and satiny smooth slips—cheerfully
