Grandpa’s Wild Tale

CW: Contains themes related to death and suicide.

“I remember the night we... accidentally stole...”

“You stole something, Grandpa?”

Ronald was interrupted not ten seconds into his story. He’d started haltingly; he fidgeted with his hands. He was uncomfortable talking about this, but he was trying to make a point to his grandson; who had just been caught, along with his friends, doing something ‘nefarious’ at school.

“It was a long time ago. It was stupid and caused all kinds of trouble.” Ronald went on without acknowledging his grandson’s incredulous look and question. “There was a party, see. We were 16. We knew better. I know we did. And there were lots of people there. My friend Anthony...”

“Uncle Tony was there?”

Jesus, the kid was too smart for his own good. Ronald remembered being a pretty naïve 12-year-old. These days, the kids grew up way too fast. They knew too much. They’ve seen too much. Ronald carried on without acknowledging the question … again.

“... Invited us. He was older by 3 years, and he got invited to all the parties. Girls liked Anthony, he was very,” Ronald paused looking for the words. “Italian in the way he looked.”

“What does that mean, Grandpa?” While Ronald thought about how to answer that; his grandson added, “Daddy said you’re prone to ethnic slurs and to take what you say with a grain of salt.”

While it was true Ronald’s brain ceased being able to filter what came out of his mouth a few years back; he thought calling some of his friends the way he did, as when they were growing up together, perfectly fine. They were not ethnic slurs, just the way they referred to each other back then. He thought calling Anthony ‘very Italian’ was cleaned up from what he wanted to say; besides, Anthony called himself a “wop” all the time; why should Ronald have to clean up his language? Jesus, his son was such a fucking prude.

“He had those Rudolph Valentino good looks a lot of Italian men have,” he said, deciding to put a spin on his answer. In his day, the girls called Anthony “dreamy”. The Rudolph Valentino comparison he knew was a stretch; there was no way his grandson would know who the man was. And he didn’t.

“Who?”

“Anthony Garcia?” Ronald tried again. Same look. “Let’s just say Anthony got a lot of girls.” Ronald said abruptly. He took a deep breath. Talking to his grandson exhausted him. “We arrived. There were four of us: Anthony, Joseph, Harold and myself. Two wops, a Jew, and a WASP.” Ronald chuckled when he said it. Back then, when cliques formed around similar ethnicities; they’d been known as the United Nations.

“Grandpa.”

Ronald ignored the protest.

“We entered. We stayed a few hours, maybe more. I remember Anthony got laid...”

“What does...”

“Forget I said that. It didn’t take long. Anyway, as we were leaving the house party. Joseph said he’d seen this piece of art, a statue he liked. It was a lion fighting a bird, a falcon, I think. It was heavy, I remember that; and it was black-ish in colour: marble or bronze. Doesn’t matter. He’d seen it when we walked in. It was at the top of some staircase, and he was determined to take it. We all tried to talk him out of it; but really, we were all drunk and nobody put up that big a fight. I remember we stood watch as Joseph took it. We thought he’d walk it outside and leave it on the porch; or hide it in the bush. You know, like he was pulling a prank. It’s not like Joseph had a place to put it in his house; his parents were not well-off and...” Ronald searched for the word. Poor was demeaning, but what other could he use? Joe was also the angry one of the group, for good reason. His family life was not for his grandson’s delicate ears. Ronald skipped to the next part of the story without labelling Joe or giving too much of his backstory. Joe certainly was a cautionary tale, but it was too painful to get into.

“But to his credit,” Ronald continued. “He carried it home. All the way. Three miles. And that thing was heavy. Two days later, Harold got arrested for theft.”

Ronald’s grandson looked at him, wide-eyed.

“But Harold had nothing to do with it.”

“He’d stood watch?” Ronald said, wanting to gauge his grandson’s reaction.

“That’s not fair,” the boy said.

So the boy had a sense of right and wrong. Good. Ronald thought. He’s not lost to me. He carried on.

“The Wenger’s, whose party it was, insisted they saw Harold take the ‘objet d’arte’ - they were European, they talked that way. They were also German, and back then, we were all pretty sure they had Nazis in their family background. They told the police the Jew took it and Harold got arrested.”

“That’s bullshit?”

Ronald, a curser himself, was ok with the boy using the words, when appropriate; and he was right about this. It was bullshit.

“Harold spent a week in jail. The rest of us took turns trying to convince Joseph he needed to come clean and return the statue. Joseph was scared. He didn’t want to end up in prison. He watched movies about prison, probably because his old man had spent a year inside for something car related. Joseph insisted Harold’s parents could afford a good lawyer. Anthony was the one who finally reasoned with Joseph enough. Told him... The way of the world. I think he laid down the law with him.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means he made Joe understand, in no uncertain terms, what leaving Harold in jail would mean to all of us hanging out.”

“So Joseph gave back the statue?”

“Not immediately. He waffled a little longer, but he finally did. With an apology and an explanation. At first the Wengers thought Harold put him up to it. They called him a ‘dirty Jew’ and had other choice words for him. It took the rest of us to vouch for Joseph’s deed and Harold’s honesty. Back then, the Jews got blamed for everything... They were the immigrants of the day for blame. Back then, if you were a Jew or a nig...”

Ronald stopped his story. He knew he was going down a rabbit hole best saved for another time. See, he thought to himself, my filter does work; at times. But how could he tell his 12-year-old grandson the ways of the world back then? The hatred of the ethnics: Irish, Jew, Black... How America always needed a boogeyman to hate, so they felt better about themselves. How privileged he was / is for being white Anglo-Saxon, a descendant of the Mayflower.

How was this lesson to end? God, he hated his son at moments like these. Why did he have to join the army? Why did he volunteer? Why did he have to get killed? Leaving the boy fatherless... Even worse, how could a mother just abandon her son? She’d been so distraught over her husband’s death. She walked out into traffic. Though she still lay in a hospital bed on life support, she’d effectively killed herself. Leaving Ronald to look after his only grandson... And fairly miserably at that.

It’s been just over a year. Ronald, alone with this pre-teen, no backup. His wife, the smarter of the two, Ronald would freely admit, had been dead some... Ronald thought about her, 6 years. Damn you, Sheila. If I ever needed you, it’s now. He sent up a silent prayer for her guidance.

Ronald put his head in his hands. There was no one left to tell him: “Enough dad”, “Too much dad”, “He’s only 10, dad. That story is not for him.” And no one to bake the chocolate chip “healing” cookies that worked for scrapped knees, broken hearts or anything else that ailed you. He’d never learned to bake - hell, only Sheila knew the recipe.

Now, Ronald’s failing brain had to work things out for itself … It hurts so much. He knew they would take the boy away from him. Eventually. He knew deep inside they would. At his age, there was no way he’d make the boy’s 21st birthday. Combine that with the advancing cancer...

So far, he’d been able to successfully hide that from the social workers that checked in on them, but sooner, or later we wouldn’t be able to hide it any longer. With each round of chemo he felt weaker and weaker. If he didn’t impress values on the boy now…

Ronald shook his head, still resting it face first in his palms. He had to tell the boy the ways of the world now before he got too far into the shit. Like Tony had told Joseph. He had to get through to him before it was too late; teach right from wrong.

“Grandpa, you going to finish your story?” His grandson interrupted his negative thoughts. “What happened to the Statue? To Harold? To the Nazis and to race relations?”

Ronald pretended not to hear the last part. There is no proper way to answer that; but he could answer the rest.

“The Wengers accepted the statue back. Harold was let out of jail, but never spoke to Joseph again. He left to live in Israel some years later, became a general in their army. Battled for the independence of the country. Became a hero. On the other hand, Joseph ended up in prison, like his old man before him. But Joe... He died on the inside; his crime was worse than car related. His temper got the better of him and… I’ll leave it there.”

“Is the moral of the story crime doesn’t pay, Grandpa?”

“In a certain way. Yes. Once a thief, always a thief. Don’t go down that road... Full disclosure, I can also tell you the Wengers were arrested too, years later.”

“Really? Why?”

“This is where the story takes an odd turn. They were arrested for theft. That statue was a Rembrandt, stolen from a Jewish family in Germany and transported here. When I said the Wengers had Nazi tendencies in their family, I was not kidding... They had Nazis sending them things to hide. Turns out they liked the statue and decided to display it, thinking no one would find out. Joseph’s theft of the statue made the newspaper and someone recognized it as part of their family’s heirlooms from Europe.”

Ronald’s grandson’s eyes were as big as saucers. His mouth agape.

“What did the Wengers do when they were caught?”

“Mrs. Wenger cried. Mr. Wenger decried the state of Western civilization and our soft moral fibre.” He left the part out about the man shooting himself in the head in the middle of the street, after his anti-Western rant. Good riddance to bad rubbish, ran through Ronald’s mind – but he did not say it.

Now, both Grandpa and grandson sat in silence.

Ronald knew not what to say or do. He started a story he could not end. Sure, he’d reached the end. Joseph had gotten what was coming to him. The Wengers got their comeuppance. Harold stayed true to himself and got rewarded. Anthony and he had remained close friends; but how was any of this to help the youngster? What could he say to put the bow on the box? He was certainly no Aesop.

“I’m sorry, Grandpa...” Ronald opened his eyes, not even realizing they were closed. “I promise I’ll be more like a Harold than a Joseph ... And I promise never to be a Wenger.” His grandson wrapped his arms around the old man’s neck.

“You have to promise me you’ll be a good boy,” he finally said. He left the part about, I’m not always going to be around to bail you out, unsaid. This time. He was happy to see his brain-filter working today.

“I promise, Grandpa,” the boy gave Ronald’s neck a squeeze.

Ronald closed his eyes... He nodded. “That’s a good boy,” he patted his grandson’s back. “Now, who wants ice cream?”

“I know you do... Can I?”

“Of course. A good story always makes me crave something sweet.”

“Me too.” The boy said with enthusiasm.

“You get the bowls and pick the flavour. I’ll scoop.”

“You’re on Grandpa. I’ll be back.”

Ronald sat quietly and waited. The boy’s going to do all right, he thought, if I can just hold on a few more years.