Lily White Lies(27)

“Little one?”

Holding the door open and motioning with his free hand, he smiled as I stood and reluctantly headed for the door. “Little one needs a haircut,” was the only satisfaction he would give my curiosity.

A haircut—that didn’t sound so bad. It had to beat cleaning stalls and other disgusting farm related work, I thought, as I followed him to the barn.

Other than to tell me how to help him, Gramp remained rather quiet during the sheep’s haircut, or shearing, as he called it. He didn’t really need my help though. I did no more than stand at the fuzzy creature’s head while he ran the buzzing clippers across its body. If he found comfort in my standing there, then I was glad I stayed.

Giving the now-hairless animal a slap on the backend, he shooed it off once he had finished with his task. I looked myself over to make sure I wasn’t wearing little one’s hair.

Maybe because it had grown so quiet, maybe because I felt more at ease with him than I usually did, or maybe because I had a deep-seeded need to know, I found myself asking a question of a personal nature—one I normally wouldn’t have had the nerve to ask him.

“Gramp, was it always like this between you and Gram?”

“Like what... what are you asking, Sugar?”

I paused, deciding on the correct wording. “Was Gram always so… I mean, did she used to be like… how did the two of you make it so far, being so opposite?” I breathed heavily having gotten that out. Once said, I thought of a hundred better ways to ask the same thing.

“Was your grandmother always crazy? Is that what you’re asking?” His words came matter-of-factly.

“I didn’t say that!”

“Didn’t have to, Sugar. But yes, she’s always been one of a kind. If I were a pecan tree, she’d have to shake me every once in a while just to hear my nuts rattle.” He looked toward the sky as he pushed his sweat-dampened hair off his forehead. Shaking his head, he began, “Crazy, senile, eccentric, is there any difference really? Seems ones just a polite way of saying the other. But, who cares, right? It all boils down to the same thing in the end. Love—if you’re lucky enough to find it, you’ll die happy... crazy maybe, but happy. And if you never find it, well, you can be sane as sin or stupid as mud and you’ll die miserable just the same.”

Wondering if there was a point to his rambling, I giggled as I asked, “Gramp, what does love and being crazy have to do with each other?”

“If you have love, you can tolerate and even overlook someone’s flaws and shortcomings, if you don’t have love, those same things will grate on your nerves until you begin to question your own sanity.” Affection danced in his eyes, as he added, “I truly love that woman.”

I couldn’t help but smile. I suddenly found myself envious of the relationship they obviously shared.

“Did you always know that Gram was the only one for you?”

“Oh, your grandmother is the love of my life, but she wasn’t the only one for me—or my first love.”

Tilting my head to one side, eyes open wide, I asked, “Does Gram know that?”

“Sure she does. It’s not something we discuss over Sunday morning breakfast, but she knows.”

I thought about what he said. I couldn’t help but wonder how much of my past wasn’t at all what I thought it to be. The thought of either him or her with anyone else rocked the memory of my stable childhood. It had always been my assumption that during the period in which they married, you either picked the one you wanted, if you were lucky, or stepped into an arranged marriage and stuck with them from the start, for better or worse and so on. I thought of married-until-it-doesn’t-suit as a novel idea, something born to a new generation.

“How long were you married to the other woman?”

He looked genuinely surprised. “Hell Sugar, I never said I married her.”

I suddenly felt embarrassed. By assuming, I had created an awkward situation and didn’t know how to get out of it tactfully.

“I’m sorry, Gramp. When you said she was your first love, I thought you meant that you and she… were married.”

In an unexpected gesture, he took hold of my hand, as he began to walk toward the house.

“You like watermelon, Sugar?” His expression showed no emotion, as he looked straight-ahead, taking long strides, quickly closing the gap between the house and us.

“Yes.”

“Good.” He glanced at me briefly. “Let’s go have us some with our talk.”





Eight





...Until-death-do-us-part meant a future filled with dread and regrets. All that remained between us was the admittance of failure and the formality of a spoken goodbye...