be careful what you wish for

You were sitting on the steps of your grandmother's house, crying. I have known you since you were a chubby kid, skinning your knees while you ran from that house to the sewer and back again, convinced a clown lived down there. You once lost your bicycle in my backyard, under the Azalea bush. We found it after too many days, and only because your father came marching down the street, looking for his investment. Did you ever learn to ride a bike? 

By the time I saw you crying, I knew she had died. Gertrude told us. I also spotted you drive up the street last Sunday, a bit too fast for a neighborhood refilled with kids since we were last in the mix. Once you stopped, I noticed you were slow to leave your car. I watched from the window of my folks' coach house as you delayed reality. Yes, pot calling the kettle and all that. But still, it was sad. You seemed afraid to be here.

Two days later, we finally got to chat. I was late to the reception, the way someone who lives across the street has to be. One cannot time an arrival when no effort is involved. So, I showed up 27 minutes late, well after my parents. More than fashionable but less than rude. I immediately spotted you, on account of our heights. We were both towering over the others, just like we did at summer camp in the 1990’s. You were eating shrimp with tails, and the old people were commenting on your size. I almost laughed, but realized where I was. Jean was dead. I realized you'll probably never come back here. I plan to do the same when they’re gone. When they leave, why would we stay? 

You saw me, and I caught your double-take. I understood, because I am bald and fat now. I was once an athlete, and you were, too. Tall boys are practically forced onto the fields by those blockhead history teachers. Our fathers were too flattered to decline the invitations we received. We were not jocks then, and we sure as hell aren’t now. 

And now, you’re standing in front of me. “Robby,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks, Mike. It’s great to see you again. Did you drive in from Chattanooga?”

“Actually, I live here now,” I say. I hate admitting this, but sometimes it comes up.

“That’s great,” Robby replies. 

I nod, even though it is not great. This interaction is for him, not me.

“Well, thanks for coming, man. It really is great to see you,” Robby says. 

“Hey, we’re practically family,” I say. I can tell he finds my comment odd. I am odd. They never taught me how to keep friends for adulthood. Do they teach boys that now?

A woman approaches. It’s Gertrude. She is the neighborhood gossip, and somehow remains in great health despite years of negativity and anger. She sees me, frowns, and turns to Robby. 

“Rahhhhbeeeeee, hello.” Gertrude says while extending her stick arm, spotted by purples and reds. Everything on her is emaciated, except her pillowy lower tummy. 

“Gertrude,” Robby manages. 

I wonder how the hell he remembers her. If I ever left again, I would never remember anyone from here. 

“How are you?” Robby says. “How are your grandkids?”

Wow, I think. Gertrude’s grandkids used to play with us in the summer. We were a seasonal pod, stalking the neighborhood from Memorial to Labor Day in hopes of finding treasure in a tree hollow, or a new creek to wade through. One was named Penelope. I had not thought about those kids in years. It’s funny how names just pop into your head sometimes.

“Penelope went to Yale,” Gertude says. “All is well, Robby. All’s well.” 

I notice she does not mention what Penelope did after going to Yale, which must have been two decades ago. She does not mention the boy at all. 

“I suppose I need to call on your mother, dear. So wonderful to see you,” Gertrude says, and walks off.

Though I am sure Robby’s mother does not need or want Gertrude’s attention, it’s always nice when she walks away.

“Mike,” Robby says. “Can I ask you something?”

I say “of course,” and hope my Saturday won’t be spent moving Jean’s furniture.

“My grandma had a journal in her room, and it had a quote from you,” Robby replies.

“A quote from me?” I ask. My ears heat up, like I did something wrong. 

“Let me get it. Hold on one sec,” Robby says. He is off, threading his tall body through the crowd, his head bobbing past friends and family shoveling crab dip and petite fours into their mouths.

I do my best to stand still, as if comfortable in my body, but I have never mastered that look. I smile and nod at the wall a couple times, just in case an actual human is watching me from afar. This makes me feel worse. Finally, Robby reappears, with a small, leather journal opened and folded across his left forearm. He slides it under my plate of appetizers and points to the page.

“I wish we could stay here forever.” - Michael Bash, 1994

I laugh, and shake my head. 

“1994 was a helluva long time ago. I wonder what this is?”

Robby says, “That’s what I thought, too. Did you graduate high school that year?”

“Yes … I thought you did, too?”

“No, ‘95. I’m a summer baby. My parents held me back because of sports. Ha! Well, you know my dad.”

“I do,” I say. “Huh. Senior year. I wonder if I said that to her? Sounds like a yearbook quote. Funny that she had that in her room.”

“Well, she always loved you,” Robby says. “One of my earliest memories –  she would call me just before we came down for the summer, and she would tell me to spend as much time with you as possible. ‘Mike, the good tyke,’ was her nickname for you. Remember?”

“I remember,” I say. I do not tell Robby that I also remember my quote, and how it ended up in The Gazette that month. It was part of my speech as Class President. 

Robby looks down at the quote and looks up, smiling. 

“Well, congratulations,” he says.

I start to ask him what he means, but my brain catches up and stops my mouth, just as an electric something stings my heart and flips my stomach. I do not want to hear him say it. I cannot hear him say it.

So, I say instead, “I’m sorry for your loss,” and I find the door and cross the street.