Manuel ALVAREZ BRAVO / London 1980 by Bill Jay
GRANDFATHER.
“It seems like everyone is dying” the boy stated in the presence of his mother and aunt. They looked at each other puzzled, his aunt, visably annoyed and disgusted. What is it with this whinny, depressed boy? Auntie glared at her sister implying her inability as a disciplinarian and educator. Mother’s expression turned from that of concern at the sight of her disapproving sister, to that of genuine grief when she glanced at her son. Her little boy had been through a whirlwind in the past few days and she sensed his inability to put the pieces of his mind back together. His unwillingness to discuss the contents floating around the cavities of his splintered cerveau was a great cause of concern as well. “Why do you think everyone is dying?” she asked. The boy didn’t reply but stared at the tops of his shinny black shoes instead. Sitting in an over sized chair, hands tucked under his thighs, his feet swung in unison and picked up their pace as his anxiety grew. How he took comfort in his “uniform." Every day the boy would wear a simple black shirt paired with an assortment of neutral colored slacks. The bottoms of his shinny black shoes had been decimated by walks he had taken all summer long. Up and down the hill the boy would parade incessantly. A flurry of sentiments he could not decipher took the backseat to his explorations in his grandmother’s orchard at times. He would sit under his favorite tree and try, as best he could, not to think. When a thought entered, he gently push it aside by focusing on the sounds surrounding him. Once he stared at a single leaf and blocked the static for what seemed like a full minute. The tumultuous thoughts always came back to haunt him in the end. He longed for a life without introspection and doubt.
It had been two and a half months since the boy had been stationed by his mother’s side in Mexico. The entire holiday spent dealing with the finality of life. Mother had received a call about her dear father’s hospitalization and fled the comfort of her home to be by her matriarch’s side. Child in tow, they set off to Monterrey. The boy idolized his cousins in his native land. They had matured in luxury and intemperance. Their sense of entitlement and the way they comported themselves astonished and amazed him. He longed to be "just like them." Like any third world civilization, there are but two economic classes in Mexico: the extremely poor and the excessively affluent. His family’s demographic fit the latter. Mother had fled the safety of her domicile in Mexico to marry a poor "gringo” after her infectious love affair with the boy’s father in Paris became unsustainable. This displeased the family greatly. How they relished flashing their influence and power in front of her. What her son didn’t know was that she had traded her financial shelter for some semblance of normalcy. She needed to be away from the prying eyes and judgments of her sisters. The disappointments and criticisms expressed carelessly (and often maliciously) drove her away.
The boy faithfully sat by his grandmother’s side one evening as she watch her favorite telenovela. He was her favorite. He knew this. He cherished her approval. They were thick as thieves the two of them. They seemed to communicate their knowledge with a series of glances, smirks, and smiles. “Mijo, tell Señora Letti to fetch us a pitcher of water, will you?" He looked through his grandmother, smiled, and nodded his head. Without saying a word, he rose from his chaise and proceeded down the long hallway. As he rounded the corner leading to the kitchen, he looked into his grandfather’s bedroom. The old man had been home for the past two weeks. The family had chosen he should spend his last days in his home. Seniors had always scared the child for some inexplicable reason. He held his dear grandmother on such a high pedestal; however, she was the only one of "them” worthy of his affectionate love. Even in her old age, she was bewitching. The boy’s grandfather had never been present during the boys short life. Before advances in medicine in the field of mental health had made their way to Mexico, the Alzheimer’s had set in. Once a man checks out at a certain age, his descendants humor him and treat him as if he were simply a lamp fixture.
Standing in the hallway, arms swinging precociously by his side, the boy was the first to witness the death rattle. Grandfather’s body seized and lifted ten centimeters off the bed as he made the final sound. The child intrinsically knew his grandfather had passed, his heart collapsing instead of slowly grinding to a halt. The subservient and gentle nurse put her magazine down and said, “Señor Antonio! Señor Antonio, me escucha?" The boy stood shocked as the notion of the finality of life he had been wrestling with gripped him. Confused and bewildered he sprinted out of the home. Running across the garden, he sought the familiarity of his orchard and took refuge under his tree. There the boy let out a terrifying cacophonous shriek.
Something alien to the boy occurred at that very instance. The sound emitted from his small lips was so primordial and foreign to him that it caused his mind to splinter. It was as if he withdrew within himself and fully witnessed this new form of self-expression. Then came the stillness. The leaves darted to and fro, the crickets called to their mates, the swing creaked as it swung from his tree as the moon perched over the landscape illuminating it all. Completely still. Not a sound, not a whisper. As his mind continued in its absolute tranquility the boy reached for a leaf that had made its way to the ground, signaling the end of his summer. Every vein, every cracked edge, every missing morsel devoured by insects came into focus as he exhaled.
Making his way back to the home, thoughts came rushing back to the boy. Shock had given way to grief. He thought of all the missed opportunities to connect with the decrepit old man. The stories recounted around the dinner table about the resilient man, astute critical thinker, provider, and business genius would be all he would have to draw on when old age reached him. He would never experience this incarnation. It saddened him greatly as his lip began to quiver. Through the kitchen and down the hallway he went. When he reached his destination, the boy perched himself on his grandfather’s death bed, lovingly kissed his "patron’s” algid forehead, and told him he loved him.