You Read It, You Can Keep It

Grandfather's have an irritating way of dying on you. When we got the phone call from his neighbor, mom cried and dad went silent. Mister-always-has-an-opinion suddenly didn't have one. Death doesn't care if you have an opinion. You can't argue with death. I was Gramp's only granddaughter. I didn't know what to feel.  

The last time my dad and Gramps talked was three Thanksgivings ago. It wasn't a stupid thing like you see on social media where some kid turns over the table while everybody's still eating. It was my dad and Gramps raising their voices slightly as they stood outside on the deck. I heard my dad say something about Mexicans taking people's jobs. By the time mom got up and opened the door, Gramps walked through it, face set hard, and walked silently through the living room and out the front door. That night, mom's and dad's voices were raised as well. Gramps never set foot in the house again. 

Gramps and I never spent a lot of time together, but we did fish at least once a month in the spring and summer. For those last three years, we never talked about what happened. Gramps talked about books. Always books. He even carried books fishing. Had them in a ziplock bag. I never saw him read once on any of our fishing trips, but he brought one anyway. I'm not sure why people who read are always trying to get other people to read.

Three days after Gramps died, we had the funeral. We all went to the reading of the will at some lawyer's office. Gramps left his tiny old house to my dad and uncle. He left some personal items that wreaked of nostalgia to my mom and aunt. He left me all his books and their contents, along with a small, black leather journal. It was smooth, but worn, and smelled like old people. For some reason, that little black notebook reminded me of the books he would take fishing. I hate crying in front of people. 

I was sad Gramps was gone, but a little miffed at being left all the books. His last attempt at getting me to read, which I was never going to do. Period. I wasn't one of those fancy-shmancy people that sips coffee and talks about politics and philosophy and stuff. I went out with friends. I had a life. I read over some of his journal entries. Notes on stories and a few entries that hinted at the old man liking his old, neighbor lady. Gross. I skipped to the last pages and there were two entries: 

1 - Read, my love. Every chance you get. Read.

2 - When you read it, you can keep it.

A few months later, my dad lost his job of twenty-three years, not to Mexicans, but to Covid. First they cut back, then they shut the whole thing down. Just like that. In four, short months the voices were raised again in my parent's bedroom. My dad couldn't find a job and we were two months behind on our mortgage payment. My dad and uncle finally came together on selling Gramp's house. 

My job was to box all the books. I could sell them for whatever I wanted. I'd seen books at yard sales for one or two bucks apiece. Gramps had two bedrooms, and the second bedroom was all books, floor to ceiling. I could probably make three or four hundred dollars at a weekend yard sale.

I stood in the middle of that miniature library, smelling the mustiness that all books eventually carry. I didn't understand why some people liked books so much. One day, when I mustered the courage to ask dad what he and Gramps had argued about, he mumbled something about Gramps reading one too many books and walked out of the room. So here they sit; the very reasons a father and son didn't communicate in their last few years together. I shook my head and grabbed one at random. It had a colorful spine. Amusing Ourselves to Death was the name of it. I carelessly fanned the pages.

Something caught my eye. I did it again; slower this time. I stopped. Flipped back a couple of pages and spread the book open. I had almost missed it. In the crease of the book, at the start of chapter 6, was a crisp ten-dollar bill. I slowly flipped through to chapter 7. Another. I turned to the front and went chapter by chapter. Eleven chapters. A total of $110. I plucked a ten out and was about to pull out the rest when I remembered what Gramps wrote in his fancy, little leather journal. When you read it, you can keep it. I had thought he was talking about the stories. I put the ten back. Fine, old man. I'll read this stupid book for $110. No problem.

I was reveling in my good fortune when it struck me. I looked around the room at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. I spied a thick book and plucked one out called 1Q84. Thirty-one chapters, $310. I picked five more at random and began crying. It's funny how tears can mean different things.

There was $20,000 in the first two bookshelves. Dad had wanted to grab money from a few books to get straight on the house payments, but I said no and so did mom. Gramps left me the books and their contents. I told dad if he wanted the money so bad, he could read some books like I was doing. He refused, so he had to wait on me to finish. I took my time. I was feeling like maybe I understood Gramps a little more each day.

It's been a couple years. Gramp's house never sold, so I'm living there now. I just finished Russell Brand's Revolution and I left a bunch of crisp, five dollar bills for whomever checks it out at the library next. I read a lot nowadays. I also write down my thoughts and ideas in my little, black leather journal. Mom called yesterday and told me she caught dad flipping through one of the books I gifted him last Christmas when he thought no one was looking. He also got a new job last month. His new boss is Latino. I am so happy. 

Thanks, Gramps.