I don’t have the best memory of my childhood. Not that my childhood was bad—it wasn’t—but I just don’t remember that much of it compared to a lot of people. My grandfather always stood out to me, which was strange, because he was never around very much. The few times that he came around for Christmas or some other family occasion, he seemed a kind but serious man. I remember him talking to me and showing me coin tricks, and I liked the sound of his deep, rumbling voice as he told me stories about far-off lands and fantastic creatures. I remembered liking him, and feeling sorry for him, because underneath it all he seemed very sad and tired. I knew that my grandmother had died not long before I was born, so I always imagined that was a lot of why he was sad. I say this all to explain that I had a limited but positive idea of my grandfather before a few days ago.
Last month, my parents were killed in a car accident coming back from a movie. I live two states away, but as their only child and closest relative, I got the call. The next few hours were a haze of travel and crying and shock, but I know that when I got to the hospital, my grandfather was there. Even as an adult, I was amazed at how large a man he was, and when he swept me up in a quiet hug, I cried against him for several minutes, welcoming the comfort.
We did the funeral arrangements together and agreed that we would come back in a few weeks to go through all of their things and get the house ready to sell. He had already made clear that regardless of whether they had a will or not, he wanted everything to go to me, but he would be happy to help and get to know his grandson a bit better. The funerals went well, as far as those kinds of things go, and I went back to my life. Last week I got a call from my grandfather and we agreed to meet up this past weekend to start going through all of their belongings.
I got to the house on Sunday morning, and the last couple of days have been a bit sad at times, but they’ve been a lot of fun as well. My grandfather is much like I remember him—a serious but kind man that enjoys talking and telling stories. And he has actual conversations with you rather than just taking turns monologuing, which is a rare commodity in my experience with older people or people in general nowadays. He wanted to know about my work, if I had a girlfriend, if I liked the area I lived in. He told me some about his days in the Army as a medic and then his time as a doctor. I knew he had been a pretty famous surgeon at one point, but that mostly stopped after his wife died. He still had a small practice and would sometimes publish academic articles, but he had saved much of the money from his early career as a surgeon, so he was comfortable enough financially that he could do what he wanted for the most part.
Much of our time was spent busy and in separate parts of the house or garage, so we would largely talk at meals and in the evening hours before bed. By the second night we were more comfortable with each other, and that’s when my grandfather started talking about his wife.
Even now, some thirty years after her death, it was clear how much he loved her and missed her. He started off by telling a story that involved her only peripherally, but soon he was just telling things about her. Funny stories, tales that illustrated how smart or good she was, little sayings she used to have. It was sentimental, but it was so genuine and heartfelt that I wasn’t uncomfortable. Seeing how much he loved her made me love both of them more.
I had no sooner finished that thought when his expression turned darker, like a ship entering sudden storms. He started talking about how she was taken from him, how that man, that thing, had killed her. I just listened, but internally I was wondering where all this was coming from. As far as I knew, my grandmother had been killed by a drunk driver. While that was terrible, he was making it sound like it was something else, like she had been intentionally murdered in some way. It was all pretty vague, but I could still see when he realized he was saying more than he intended. He looked embarrassed and apologized for rambling on, making some passing remark about how he had become the old man at the mall that will talk for hours about nothing.
I laughed and was going to reassure him that I was enjoying it, but he was already on his feet and looking at his watch. He had to be going, he said. Had to run into town to take care of a couple of things before it got too late, but he’d see me in the morning.
I found this all very strange for a couple of reasons. First, we
had just gone to town earlier that day and bought supplies and groceries
to last at least a couple more days. Second, it was nearing ten
o’clock, and aside from a gas station or bar, I doubted much would be
open in the closest town, which was relatively small and a good thirty
minutes away.
Still, he was a grown man and my elder, and it was none of my business where he went or what he did. Maybe he just wanted to go off and be by himself after talking about his wife so much. In any case, I said good night and he headed out. A minute later I heard his giant SUV rumble to life outside and trundle its way out into the night.
I went to bed, but though I was tired, I had trouble falling asleep. Part of it was sleeping in a strange place—this house had not been our house when I was growing up, so aside from visits I had never slept here for long. Part of it was worrying about my grandfather. My bed was next to a window on the upper floor, so periodically I would peek out to see if I saw any sign of his return. The moon wasn’t full, but was still bright enough to shine off the lawn and the trees that grew thick as they became woods and then forest. It was beautiful, and I knew my parents had loved it here. Still, it was too remote for my tastes, and if they hadn’t lived so far out of town they probably wouldn’t have gotten killed coming back from a movie. The thought made me angry, so I pushed it aside. Picking up my tablet, I started reading, and before I knew it I was asleep.
I’m not sure if it was the rumbling engine, the squeak of my grandfather’s driver’s side door, or some internal sense that something had changed, but I woke up some time later and looked out the window again. I saw my grandfather standing at the rear of his SUV, looking around for several seconds before opening the back hatch.
At first I couldn’t see anything due to the angle, but when he reached in and started pulling out the body, I saw more than I wanted. It was a woman, and as I watched, he pulled her out enough to pick her up in his arms and began carrying her into the trees. I know it was nighttime and there was a distance of probably fifty yards, but I could see it all very clearly. And with her hanging arms and lolling head, it was also clear that the woman was either deeply unconscious or dead.
I felt panic well up in my chest. I didn’t know what to do. Should I call 911? What if I was mistaken or he was trying to help her? Maybe she was drunk? But if he was trying to help her, wouldn’t he have either carried her to a hospital or at least brought her inside here rather than carrying her into the woods? It was all so strange, and the longer he was gone out of sight, the less real it seemed.
So I did nothing. I sat by the window, looking out for a number of minutes, and then just when I was about to give up, he came back into view, empty handed and picking his way between the trees as he approached the car. He shut the back hatch on the SUV with a shake of his head and then looked up, right at where I sat in the window.
When I first saw the body I had been careful to stay low and slightly back from the window. But time and shock had led to me paying less attention to how visible I was as I waited for him to return. And there was no doubt that he saw me now. As if to confirm it, he lifted his hand and gave a small wave. Feeling a strange combination of embarrassment and horror, I waved back.
As I’m writing this, it’s the next morning and I’ve spent the last several hours deciding what to do or say to him while listening out for the slightest creak of the floor or turn of the knob. He may not know I saw the woman, and I guess there could be some benign explanation, though that seems unlikely at this point. Either way, I hear and smell him cooking breakfast, and he’s going to be knocking on my door soon. I love my grandfather, but I don’t trust him, not any more. I think I’m going to try to talk to him, but at the first sign of trouble, I’m out the door. If I have more to report, and am able to do so, I’ll write again soon.
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