Overturn
the Sandbox, the Rock Garden
(continued)
By Brian Cooper
The
smaller stones of the garden, even those of about fist size that
George had stacked two high around the edge, to establish a boundary
and discourage erosion, had been displaced. They lay scattered
in the grass, fragments of a long forgotten city. The hollow itself,
the former rock garden, now a patch of slick black earth, was
overrun by centipedes, large black beetles, and daddy longlegs.
Slugs clung to the undersides of turned stones.
Neither
Cathy nor Tyler noticed George until after the beige stone had
slipped from their grasp and back into the hollow. Cathy looked
up, wiped the sweat off her face with her bare forearm. She nodded
to George. "Maybe you could help."
He
sneered and coughed a hoarse laugh.
"Grandpa!
This is the last place to look!" Tyler only looked up for a second,
then knelt behind the beige stone, and positioned his hands to
push. "C'mon everybody, one more try."
"Well,
George?"
"Why?
Why are you doing this?"
"I
guess it's none of your concern, George." She got behind the beige
stone and pushed.
George
snorted, turned his back, and stalked back into the house, slamming
the door behind him.
Cathy
and Tyler moved the beige stone out of the hollow.
"Well,
it isn't here, either."
George
pulled out of the garage in his burgundy Buick, drove down the
driveway without looking at his wife and grandson, turned into
the quiet street and soon vanished behind the pine trees. Cathy
listened to hear the engine roar when he turned onto the main
road.
Cathy
lay diagonally across her bed. Tyler lay in the stripes of sunlight
beneath the shuttered windows. They were lying on their backs,
bouncing conversations off the ceiling.
"When
will my mom get to come back?"
"Seven
months."
"Seven
months still?"
"Still."
"OK."
"A
long time."
"Yeah."
Tyler closed his eyes. "Grandma? Thanks for helping me look for
the van."
"You're
welcome."
"I'm
not that sad about losing it anymore."
"Good."
"I
think I am getting to be too old for toys."
Cathy
laughed softly. "You do?"
"Just
a little bit. But I want to talk about something else now. Did
you notice all the bugs under the rocks?"
"Yes,
they were strange-looking weren't they?"
"Uh-huh,
and do you think they knew each other before that?"
"No,
no, I guess not."
"Me
neither. But it looked like they were having a big party!"
“Mmm,
yes.”
"Grandma,
do you think Grandpa’s mean?"
"Mean?
No, do you?"
"I
don’t think so. But he was acting mean out there. He’s mad at
me."
"He
doesn’t understand what it’s like to have an imagination. And
he’s mad at me, not you."
"Oh."
"But
he’s a nice man. And he does love you."
"OK."
The
air-conditioner came on, and they fell silent.
Timmy
cleared his throat and sat up. “Grandma?"
"Yes,
Tyler?"
"I
still miss my mom, but I sort of think of you as my mom now. And
I guess that means Grandpa is my dad."
"You're
a good boy Tyler."
"Yeah,"
Tyler smiled, rubbing his hands over his bare arms, "I am."
They
heard the creak of the door from the garage, the shuffle of George's
feet, the crinkling of a plastic bag.
George
stepped into the bedroom. "I'm back," he said softly.
Cathy
sat up and looked at him, rubbing her eyes.
"Tyler,"
he said, approaching his grandson, and reaching into the bag,
"I got something for you."
Tyler
accepted a brightly colored cardboard and plastic package containing
a toy van, black, with flames on the side.
"It's
the new model," George said, "with doors that really open."
Tyler
separated the plastic from the cardboard and let the van fall
into his lap. He picked it up and spun a wheel, opened a door.
Inside, he found a faceless driver, plus a spare tire, a toolbox,
and a coil of rope, all molded from one piece of red plastic.
He looked at his grandmother first, with a wry grin, but then
turned toward his grandfather, and stood up, beaming. "Thank you,
Grandpa," he said, neatly wrapping his arms around George's waist,
squeezing once, and then releasing.
"Oh,
you're very welcome," George replied, mussing Tyler's hair. With
a contented sigh he sat on the edge of the bed and leaned back
to kiss his wife.
That
night, in bed, he asked her, "Do you think I did the right thing?"
"The
right thing?"
"You
know, buying him that toy -- you don't think it'll make him foolish
about money?"
"Oh,
my George, my George, you know when you've done something nice."
He
raised his knees and grabbed her hand. "Yeah, I guess I did. Did
you see his face? He looked awful happy."
"He
did."
"I
can get him to help with the rock garden tomorrow after church."
"Yes,
and I'll help, too."
"Oh
no you don't. You can just read a book where I can see you and
bring us lemonade."
"That
sounds--" she paused to yawn, "--nice. Oh, I'm tired." She turned
into the pillow and closed her eyes.
"Oh,
and one more thing -- you were talking about the time we went
to Virginia Beach? Well, I still -- still don't remember any --
secret cove -- but, well, I made us some reservations, so guess
we'll see. Four nights, hotel right there on the beach, you know."
She
opened her eyes. "Are you sure?"
"In
August, before you start school."
"Are
you sure?"
"Of
course, I'm sure. Aren't you happy? I thought you were saying
-- I mean. . ."
She
put one arm over his chest and pulled herself up to kiss him twice
on the cheek. "Yes, thank you George, thank you."
He
grunted happily and closed his eyes.
George
had nearly fallen asleep when his wife's sobs broke the still
air. She was sitting up, barred with moonlight and the shadow
of the shutter.
"Cathy!"
She
fell on him, cried "George, George!" into his bristly chest.
He
put his hand on her head and stroked her hair, down to the base
of her neck.
"Oh
George, oh George, I’m sorry, George."
Again,
he put his hand on her head— and stroked her hair, down to the
base of her neck, repeating this gesture until she stopped crying,
and rolled over to sleep.
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