I Don't Want to be an Assassin

Grandpa sat at the end of the table, a white teacup with blue swirls and gold trim in his hand. Frozen, halfway to his lips. He hadn’t moved in the five seconds since Edward had told him the news. He hadn’t even blinked. Edward sat at the opposite end of the table, wide eyes looking tentatively at his grandfather and then at anything else. 

Grandpa drew a shuddering breath, swallowed, and then smiled. “You are joking!” he said with a chuckle, and shook his head. “Oh!” he looked as if he’d just remembered his tea and finally brought the teacup the rest of the way, dunking the bristles of his mustache in as he slurped some of the too-sweet beverage.

“No,” said Edward, desperately trying to straighten the tablecloth in front of him to avoid eye-contact. “I’m not. Grandpa, I don’t want to be an assassin. I want to be a writer.”

Grandpa blinked slowly, watery eyes losing their focus slightly as the antique man took in the news. He set the teacup down with a shrug. “I get it. You’re a homosexual. It’s okay.”

“I’m not a— Grandpa, it’s got nothing to do with that. It’s just not for me.”

Grandpa’s eyes narrowed, piercing into him down the length of the table. He emphasized his words with three open slaps against the tabletop. “How can you—” Slap. “Not want to—” Slap. “Be an assassin!” Slap. 

The teacup quivered in its saucer. Edward was shaking in his seat, flinching lower and lower into a hunch with every slap. 

Grandpa jabbed a crooked finger at his grandson. “In nineteen-fifty-four I took three bullets above my heart,” the old man turned his pointer and stabbed his own chest. “And still it did not hurt as much as what you tell me now!”

Edward pulled away from the table as Grandpa began unbuttoning his shirt. “Grandpa, you really don’t have to—”

The skinny old man pulled his shirt to one side, showing the puckered scars below his shoulder. “Do you see the damage you have done?”

Edward grimaced, “I didn’t do those!”

Grandpa held up a hand, “Fifty-six!” he bellowed. “I was stabbed by a man on a baggage carrier.”

Edward gulped. “Grandpa, I really—”

But Grandpa was having none of Edward’s protests. “Thirteen times! Each one an agony, and still, it did not hurt as much as what you tell me now! Tell me you are joking.”

Edward took a deep breath, steeling himself against a further onslaught. “I’m not joking.”

“You’re not joking?!” Grandpa spluttered. “How can you not want to be an assassin? We have done it for generations! Eons!”

“It doesn’t make me happy,” said Edward, his voice coming out like a whimper.

Grandpa’s mouth snapped shut with a click of false teeth. “What was that?”

Edward cleared his throat, unable to bring his eyes up any farther than the teapot at the center of the table. “I said it doesn’t make me happy.”

Grandpa didn’t say anything for a long time, and the silence became so uncomfortable for Edward that he did look up just to judge the look on his grandfather’s face. The old man was wearing a funny expression, one that Edward wasn’t sure he’d ever seen on his grandfather before. It was as if the old man hadn’t ever considered Edward’s reasoning a possibility.

“Happy,” Grandpa whispered. “You’re not happy?”

Edward shook his head. “I haven’t been happy for a long time.”

Grandpa began turning his teacup around in its saucer, mouth hanging open as he pondered. “Writing makes you happy?”

Edward breathed a small laugh. “I don’t know. I think so.” He shrugged.

“Eddie,” said Grandpa, shaking his head. “Eddie. When your father was a boy, I did everything for him. I was shot many more times than I told you, and stabbed more again! And all of this was so your father could have a life worth living. And then you were born.” The old man’s lip began to tremble as he recalled his baby grandson. “Your father and I both would be stabbed and shot and burned a thousand times over if it gave you a chance to be happy.”

Edward sniffed, wiped a hand across his face to hide to tears that wanted to spill over. He laughed. “I’d be a bit happier if you stopped getting hurt, I think.”

Grandpa downed the last of his tea and set the teacup back down. “So, writing! Tell me more!”

Oh, Edward thought. This wasn’t going half as bad as he expected. “Well, I actually had no idea that you’d been stabbed by a man on a baggage carrier. I thought I could just spend a lot of time with you and share your stories. Or turn your stories into stories. You could remain completely anonymous, it would just—”

“You want to spend more time with me?” Grandpa was leaning forward now, eyes glowing with interest.

Edward smiled. “Well, yeah. Of course.”

Grandpa leaned back in his chair. “You know, Eddie, that would make me happy.”

Edward’s smile broadened. “Well, there you go.” But his smile faded when he noticed Grandpa was tapping his fingers nervously against the tablecloth. “What? What is it?”

“It’s nothing,” said Grandpa, then he sighed. “I just, I got you a shotgun for your birthday. I had it engraved and everything. Two barrels, side by side, very classy.” He turned his palms outward and shrugged. “And now I worry I should have got you a pen.”

Edward laughed. “Grandpa, I would love a shotgun. All writers should have a shotgun to display over the fireplace.”

“Perfect! I’ve ruined the surprise now, but you still have to wait,” said the old man. “Shall I put some more tea on?”

“Absolutely,” said Edward. “I’ve got nowhere to be.”

“I’ve got an appointment with Freddy Two-Finger in forty-five minutes, but I can postpone.” Grandpa smiled and pushed himself to his feet. Wooden chair grinding across the floorboards as he did. “I’m enjoying this!” he beamed a smile at Edward.

“Me too,” said Edward. And he watched his grandfather shuffle into the kitchen and flick the kettle on.