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The
Canteen
by
L.J. Chizak
I
am packing my bags to go back to college, my senior year, and
Gramps is in rewind. His doctors give him a couple of
weeks; his family, me included, gives him a month or more. We
know Gramps better. I want to delay my college return and visit
with him every day but the family thinks otherwise. They are
right. Gramps wouldn’t want me missing any college
just to see him die. I have spent the whole morning with
him determined to tell him but I couldn’t. I couldn’t
tell him what I have been trying to tell him for the past five
years. It isn’t Gramps. It isn’t me. It’s
the thing itself.
*****
I
remember that first Saturday of the month, five years ago, when I
was on a cross-town bus to the Sunrise Adult Home I had squeezed
my six-foot, two-inch frame into the last seat so that only
my red hair was showing. I was hugging a World War II
canteen, afraid that it would bolt out of the back window at the
next stop. I was gonna tell Gramps it was his. I was gonna
lie.
Did
I do this for a living? No way. I was an average
16-year-old kid who had never lied to his parents, believe it or
not, and certainly not to his grandfather. How did I get
myself into such a shitty mess? Unwillingly. Let me
start with Gramps.
*****
Gramps
was eighty-five years old and lived in the house that he and
Grandma had bought with his army severance. Grandma had died ten
years before. To me, he was as happy as any man free of
nagging women but not to Aunt Ruth, his twice divorced, red
haired daughter with a cat like body and just as bitchy.
“He
can’t live alone anymore,” Aunt Ruth declared at a
family dinner as soon as Gramps was out of earshot. “You
should see the place: dishes piled in the sink, clothes thrown
all over, dirty laundry in every corner and newspapers, God knows
how old, piled in stacks on the porch, in the living room, on the
stairs.”
Except
for the piled dishes, she was describing my room.
It
didn’t bother me when Gramps and I watched a ball game in
his ‘lived-in’ room. He knew his way around,
always had a coke in the frig and a large pizza delivered, extra
cheese no pepperoni. He had his own ideas about his place.
“If
they
can’t stand dirty
dishes, they
can clean them.”
“Right
on, Gramps.”
“As
for this house, they should live in the trenches, like I did
during the war. Then they‘ll know dirty.”
“You
got it Gramps. This place is a palace. You should see
my room.”’
“Does
your mother clean it?”
“No
way! She says ‘If you want to live like a pig, go
ahead but I don’t want to see it.’ She keeps the door
closed.”
“There!
Ruthie doesn’t understand how a man lives. She wants
me to throw out the newspapers.”
“The
ones on the porch?”
“Yes!”
“I’ll
help you Gramps, anytime you’re ready.”
“Josh,
they’re worth money.”
“Oh!”
“When
I was a kid, we went around the neighborhood collecting
newspapers. Everyone saved them. We’d take them
downtown and sell them at 5 cents per 100 pounds. Rags were
worth more, but people didn’t throw out rags. Now
everything is throwaway.”
“Mom
gives our old stuff to the Salvation Army.”
“Magazines!
We passed them around the whole neighborhood and then saved them
because we couldn’t afford the new edition. Now
everything is throw away.”
“Yes,
Gramps.”
“He
was almost 75 when Ma got him to retire,” Aunt Ruth
continued. “The doctors told him that if he didn’t
stop working, he would die on the job.”
Gramps
retired just when I entered peewee baseball. All of my
cousins were older and married. I had him all to myself. He
never missed a game. I was the only kid who had a full time
personal coach and he was honest with me. Once I hit a fly
ball right into Sammy Toggle’s mitt becoming the third out
and the end of the game, Dad and his brother, Uncle John, told me
what a great hit that was, so strong, so straight. Only
Gramps was honest with me. Sometimes, I thought, it
hurt him more than me, but always the truth.
“ A
great hit Josh, but too direct. You hit it right to him.
You gave him the out. Look for a hole in the outfield and aim
there. I’ll practice it with you.”
I
miss those days.
Gramps
loved professional ball. He organized the annual Father’s
Day sports outing –no ladies allowed. All the men of
the family went to a baseball game, ate cheap dogs, and drank
beer; popcorn and soda for me. We got home late.
“Happy Father’s Day,” he greeted the ladies
upon our return. Every time Mom and Dad went on a
trip, I stayed at his house. I would miss school as he and
I went off to the ballpark. While the other kids got a math
lesson, I got a fielding lesson.
“When
Grandma died, he became an old man,” Aunt Ruth said. “Now,
he has to lie down after dinner, a little shaky on his feet.
He can’t even leave the house without someone with him.”
Now
we watch the ball games on TV instead of going to them. He
doesn’t complain. So leave the man alone.
“We’ve
got to get him into a nursing home before he falls and breaks his
neck walking around all that mess,” Aunt Ruth concluded.
“Is
it really that bad or are you exaggerating just a bit?”
asked Uncle John, younger than his sister by 5 years, heavier and
with thinning hair.
“No!
Pigsties are in fashion, John,” she replied.
“Maybe
he just needs a little help,” interjected my mother seeking
to defuse an old sibling rivalry. My Dad, the youngest by
ten years, supported her. “He loves that old house
and he still feels close to Mom there. Maybe we could help
out.”
Mom
set up a schedule in which she, Aunt Ruth and Aunt Sue, John’s
wife, would take turns cleaning the house every week while the
‘boys’ would take care of the yard work. That
included me. Gramps was saved for exactly six months.
“He
was lying in that cold house for two days with pneumonia before
any of us knew about it,” Aunt Ruth began as soon as we
left Gramps dozing off in his hospital room. “He
could have died without any of us there.”
Uncle
John and my father were no match for Aunt Ruth’s meticulous
offensive. Every “but” was shot down, every
“what if” was answered and Gramps’ fate was
sealed.
“If
I die, I’ll call you, as long as it’s not long
distance,” came his voice from inside the room. Aunt
Ruth moved us down the corridor.
“It’s
settled,” said Aunt Ruth.
Gramps
would enter Sunrise Adult Home as a convalescent, then as a
resident, never to return to his home. Mom got busy
organizing the visiting schedule.
“Put
me down for twice a month,” I told her as she made up the
schedule.
“Now
what day is good for you, Josh?’
“It’s
hard to say. Mondays, Wednesdays, or Fridays I usually have
ball practice after school. Tuesdays I work, that’s
sometimes Thursdays too. Saturdays I hang out with the guys
after the morning chores around here. How about Saturday
mornings?”
She
parent-smiled me and I got first and third Saturdays, after the
chores were done. She and Dad took the second and fourth
Sundays, Uncle John and Aunt Sue the first and third, and Aunt
Ruth the second and fourth Saturdays to pay his bills and balance
his accounts.
Gramps
called the place Sunset. “This is the last stop, Josh.
Your sun sets and it’s all over.”
“Downer,
Gramps,” I said. “What’s up with Mr.
Simon, next door, the one who yells all the time?”
“Last
Tuesday, yelled himself dead.”
I
remember Sunrise as an open and friendly place. I would
splash through the front doors in my 505 jeans, white tee and
oversized Nikes and swing through the reception area. With
my I-Pod plugged into my ears, I would flap the nurses a wave to
sign me in while opening the door to the residence hall. I
was the darling of Sunrise visiting his grandfather. On a
Saturday afternoon, most of the residents were either in town or
the garden. Within ten feet, however, I crash into a
wheelchair.
“How
are those new teeth, Mr. Wittenberg?” I asked an old man,
toothpick arms rotating a wheelchair off my foot. “Give
me five,” I added as he lifted a shaky hand over a broad
black smile.
“Good
to see you again, Mrs. Debetto,” I greeted a fixed faced,
flaxen haired lady who grabbed hold of my sleeve and pulled me
toward her. “I know. Those are pictures of your
grandchildren. You showed them to me last week,” and
the week before that, and the week before that.
Mrs. Silverstein parked her walker in the middle of the hall
holding out her arms for the obligatory kiss. Her odor was
strong and I signaled the nurse. I finally got to Gramp’s
room.
“How’ya
doing Gramps?” I asked planting a kiss on his forehead,
jumping on the bed and flicking the remote.
“Had
no trouble getting in? Did they search you?”
“A
piece of cake.”
”Let’s
go Gramps,” I continued. “It’s the
Tigers and the Cubs, an interleague game. Have you been
watching this guy Sosa?”
“They
search everyone; afraid you’re sneaking in a bottle or
stealing something. They’ll do the same when you
leave.”
“No
search Gramps. Now what do you think of this guy Sosa?
Isn’t he the greatest?”
Gramp’s
mind followed its own tracks. I had to work to keep him
with me.
“Sosa’s
a light weight,” he answered. We were rolling.
Gramps’
two hundred and thirty pound frame was anchored into his old easy
chair as he stared at the T.V. His barrel chest heaved in
and out, supporting a rock hard head, a jutting nose and
satellite dish ears.
He
always sat in his favorite chair next to the double bed that he
and Grandma shared for 57 years. He had a long bureau
filled with pictures of the family, his three children and their
children. On the walls were pictures of his wedding, the
Purple Heart he received in World War II and a picture of him
shaking hands with President Eisenhower. The room smelled
of Gramps, musty wool, old cotton, and unwashed flannel.
That was the Gramps I knew, no other. Every visit we would watch
the afternoon games, football in the fall, basketball in the
winter, and baseball in the spring and summer.
“Everyone
is talking about McGwire or Griffey breaking Maris’
record. But I think it is going to be Sosa.”
“Is
he good enough to break Rudy York’s 18 hit per month
record?” Gramps asked.
“Yah,
sure he is. He’s going to break 60 this season.
That’s why everyone is watching him today. He’s
the greatest.”
“Just
like Ted Williams in the last game of the ‘41 series.
Everyone was hoping that he’d make .400. Do you
remember that one, Josh?”
It
didn’t matter that Dad wasn’t even born in ’41.
Gramps never let those small details stop him from telling a good
story.
“Yah,
Gramps.”
“How
are you doing? Still playing ball?”
“ Yep.”
“Gonna
break 60 this season?” he added with a wink.
“No.
I’m not there, yet. But I’m pitching a 5-1 so
far and I’m batting .300. When you gonna come
and see ‘The Kid’ play again?”
“They
won’t let me out of here to see you play.”
“They
would if you use the wheelchair,” I reminded him.
“Wheelchair,
shmeel chair. They say I need a hip replacement.
Bull! My hips are as good as they were sixty years ago when
I was defending this country,” Gramps said as he shifted
his weight in his easy chair. Check and Checkmate.
“Your dad promised to video one of your games.
Haven’t seen it yet,” he said stretching his head out
to make a point.
I
saw his determined profile. Mom says that I look like Gramps.
“You
both have that red hair, his less and grayer, and those same sky
blue eyes,” she told me once when we were talking about
Gramps. “You also have the same bone structure, the
same lanky walk, long arms and a real streak of determination.”
Outside
of the hair and eyes, I didn’t see anything else. I
had a long thin face, full of pimples. He had a long full
face, usually full of stubble and my ears don’t stick out
as much as his.
“Gramps,”
I said changing the subject. “You need some new
threads.” He always wore the same plaid shirts and
green pants.
“What
do you mean threads?”
‘Your
clothes, gramps. Your clothes are dated. They’re not
with it. This is what they are wearing, baggy pants and muscle
shirts.” I stretched out my arms so he could get a better
look.
“That’s
what I should wear?”
“Yeh!
You’ll look cool and with it – in the loop.”
“When
I was younger, I was cool and with it.” He mimicked my
words. “I cared about clothes and looks, with impressing
people and fitting in. Now I just care about life. If
not I would be a bigger fool than I was.”
“If
you say so gramps.”
“Josh,"
he yelled as the announcer started the line-up.
“Yah,
Gramps,” I replied, upping the remote volume with one hand
while fixing the pillows behind me with the other.
“Josh,
I have a need for you to get me something.”
“Sure,
Gramps, anything you want,” I said. His immigrant
speech was reasserting itself. “Back to the game,
Gramps. Sosa should be coming out soon."
“Josh,
I need for you to find something for me and I need for you to
promise.”
“Sure,
Gramps, no problem whatever," I said, still trying to get
the pillow to soften the carving in the old headboard.
I
felt a tight grip on my arm. He was out of his seat,
unsteady but holding onto my arm. I stopped with the
pillows.
“Yah,
Gramps?”
“I
want for you to find my old World War II canteen and for you to
bring it back to me the next time you come.”
“Sure.
As good as done,” I said as I tried to steer him back to
his chair. He was steadying himself on me. He was
having trouble managing reverse.
“Either
your father or John has it. Ruthie didn’t want anything
that reminded her of the war. She was so young.”
He
started to turn and swung me around with him, his grip still
tight. He wasn’t going to let go.
“Cool
Gramps, no problem. Maybe Dad or Uncle John could bring it
with them the next time they come. I’ll tell them,”
I said as I moved him toward his chair. The T.V. blared the
pitching stats.
“Hell
no!” he yelled nearly pushing me aside. “I ask them
and they forget. John said that he would bring my old radio, no
radio. I am still waiting for the video of your game, no
video. So much for John and your father.” I
regained my grip and started lowering him into his chair.
“You
I know won’t forget. Promise me, Josh. Don’t lie to
me. Promise me now!”
“I
promise, I promise,” I said as I felt his hand loosen on my
arm and the granite determination left his face. They were
playing the national anthem. He relaxed.
“Now
let’s watch the game, OK?” He didn’t
answer me.
We
watched the game for the rest of the afternoon, but his mind did
not follow his eyes.
“That
canteen saw me through Omaha Beach,” he said over the
announcer and cheering fans on the TV. “With Mae and
young Ruthie back in the States. That canteen was my pillow
in the trenches of Ardennes. It had a bowl on the bottom.
That was our plate, our bowl and sometimes our shaving mugs. It
was my writing desk at the Bulge when I promised Mae that I was
coming back,” he paused. “Half of us didn’t.”
“That
canteen is the only piece I kept after the war,” he
continued. He had never told me about the trenches, his
buddies, the living and the dead. “We would put our
canteens together to form a large table,” he tried to show
me with his hands, “and pretend that they were in a
Parisian café -- dining and all, with mortars flying
over their heads,” he told me with his hands as well as his
voice.
“We
were gods in Paris, after the war, flirting with the young dark
haired Parisian girls telling them that we had cognac in our
canteens.”
He
smiled as he told me the story.
“”I
didn’t flirt,” he added quickly. “The others
did. I had Mae and Ruthie back in the states.”
He sat a little straighter before he continued.
“We
had a reunion every five years and we each brought our memories
and played cards, exchanged stories, relived Paris, the trenches,
battles long forgotten except by us. We were young cocky
G.I.’s again. Hadn’t had a reunion in 20 years
now. They must be dead.”
I
remember wishing that I had something to say to him, something to
make him feel better, like he used to do for me after a bad
game. But I couldn’t think of anything. I just
sat there and listened.
When
the ballgame was over I got up to leave.
“Now
you won’t forget?”
“No
Gramps, you’ll have it here the next time I come, promise.”
He
gave me a hug whispering in my ear, “Thanks Josh.”
I left.
At
dinner that evening I told Dad, “Gramps wants his
canteen. Do you know where it is?”
“What
canteen?”
"His
old World War II canteen. That’s what he talked about
all afternoon. The canteen he took into Paris, the one he
used as a pillow, you know. He must have a million stories
about that canteen. I promised to bring it to him on my
next visit.”
“Oh
that old thing,” he paused. “I think it’s in
the old trunk in the basement. If its not there, then John
might have it.”
“I
hope it’s still here.”
“Tomorrow
we’ll start looking.”
After
church Dad and I went down to the basement and found an old
trunk. It had lots of army stuff but it looked more like
Dad’s than Gramps’. Rex, our Irish Setter,
joined us and started nosing the boxes set around the walls.
“Hey
look here, my old Army uniform,” Dad said trying on the
jacket and sucking in his gut. He didn’t button it.
Mom joined us.
“Why
don’t you throw that thing out?” she said. “It
hasn’t fit you since Josh was born.”
“This
uniform saw me through many a tight spot, my dear.”
“Four
years as the mess sergeant at Fort Bragg. What tight spot?”
“Serving
army food to hungry G.I.’s. That tight spot.”
Whatever
she took out, he put back in. Nothing left the trunk. No canteen.
“What
a mess down here,” Mom added eyeing the box that Rex had
searched. “The canteen might be in one of those
drawers or boxes and it wouldn’t hurt to straighten this
place out a little.”
Thanks
to Rex.
Dad
and I spent our whole Sunday helping Mom clean out every box and
drawer in the basement.
“Well,
I guess we don’t have it,” Mom said at the end of a
long afternoon which produced two plastic bags for the Salvation
Army and two more for the garbage.
Don’t
have it! A whole Sunday of cleaning the freaking basement and
“Don’t have it.” Dad was supposed to pull
it out of someplace and I would give it to Gramps. Over and
out. Done deal. No bother. Instead, a whole day wasted!
“Josh,
you could try Uncle John next Saturday, Dad said. “He
took some of Pop’s things for his Boy Scout troop. I’m
sure he has it.”
So
next Saturday I was on a bus to Uncle John and Aunt Sue’s
house. I had called during the week and Aunt Sue said that
there might be a few places I could look. One was down in
the basement, in yet another trunk. My search revealed only
Uncle John’s old Navy stuff, no World War II canteen.
“If
it’s not in the trunk, then it’s up in the loft,”
she added.
I
spent two hours up in a hot loft going through every box, but no
canteen. I walked back to the bus stop dusting off my good
jeans and wiping the sweat from my face.
As
I walked through the door of my house, Mom was on the phone,
placating Aunt Sue.
“He
left the loft a mess? Oh, my. I’ll get after
him for that. But Sue, do you think that you could have
possibly put the canteen away for safekeeping.”
Mom
held the phone a couple of inches from her ear and gave me the ‘I
don’t need this’ look. Mom politely thanked
Aunt Sue and hung up.
“ She
says ‘she doesn’t have it, never had it, and never
promised to keep it for anyone.’ And,” she
emphasized. “That you left her loft a mess.”
For
a full Saturday’s work, all I got were grief, a sermon and
no canteen.
“Well,
your last resort is Aunt Ruth,” Mom added. “She
was the one who cleaned out Gramps’ house after he went to
Sunrise. You’ll have to call her.” She
said with a slight smile that revealed the torture I would have
to endure.
Aunt
Ruth is a pain. She is as nit-picky as a librarian and
expects everyone to be the same. She berated me for an hour
because I couldn’t find my bat and ball when I was ten and
staying with her. Nobody knows where everything is all the
time, nobody except Aunt Ruth. I have a slim hope that she
will have it. She didn’t trust Dad or Uncle John with
any of Gramps important things.
She
answered the phone on the first ring and I asked her about the
canteen.
"I
inventoried and listed everything that went out of that house.
You tell your father if he thinks that I swiped anything I’ll
mail him the inventory and he can recount it himself.”
"He
doesn’t think that, Aunt Ruth,” I said.
“I
sincerely
hope he doesn’t
think that. I cleaned out that house by myself with no help
from anyone.”
Everyone
knew enough to stay away.
“Everything
good was stored with John, your father or me. I only threw
away junk. I didn’t throw away the canteen.”
“I
know that,” I interrupted. "I’m just
trying to locate Gramps’ canteen because he asked me to.”
“Well,
then ask your Uncle John. I remember him getting it for his Boy
Scout overnighters. If he doesn’t have it, then ask
your Aunt Sue if she sold it at one of her monthly garage sales.
I’m surprised that she didn’t garage-sale one of her
kids when they were still at home.”
I
thanked Aunt Ruth and got her to promise to look one last time
and I assured her that my father did not want her inventory.
In
my gut, though, I knew that she was right about the canteen.
I remember Uncle John asking about it for his Boy Scout troop and
Aunt Sue’s almost perpetual garage sales. I was also
certain that she sold it for a few bucks.
I
explained my situation at dinner that night. “We don’t
have it, Uncle John doesn’t have it and Aunt Ruth doesn’t
have it but promised to look around one last time.”
“If
Ruth can’t lay her hands on it immediately, she doesn’t
have it,” my mother said. I felt like it was my first
time up at bat and the umpire just yelled ‘Strike one’.
"I’d
be very surprised if Ruth finds it,” said Dad, strike two.
“Probably sold at one of Sue’s garage sales,”
he added. Strike three and out.
“Then
what am I going to tell Gramps?”
“That
you tried the best you could, Josh, and the canteen is gone,”
was Mom said. “Grandpa will understand.”
“But
I promised Gramps!”
“Or
tell him that you only had time to check your house. Next
month you’ll go to John’s. By the time you run
out of possibilities, he will have forgotten about it,” Dad
added.
“That’s
a lie, John,” Mom said quickly. “We don’t
lie, not in this family. One lie just brings on another
until the truth finally comes out and no one’s happy.
Josh has never lied to us.” She looked at me. I
nodded.
“I
was only trying to help.”
“You
gave one hundred and ten percent Josh. Grandpa could not
ask for more than that,” was Mom’s solution.
Mom
was right. I don’t lie, not really; exaggerate a little,
especially with the girls; but that is expected. I
especially don’t lie to Gramps. I gave 110 %. I
gave up two days, plus a call to Aunt Ruth. But Gramps
asked that I keep a promise. One hundred and ten percent
doesn’t cut it. Their solutions are cop-outs but how do I
explain that to them? My life is getting too complicated.
I
had one week to go and still had no canteen. Here were my
choices: I could tell Gramps that his loving daughter-in-law sold
the canteen at a garage sale. There goes any nice birthday
gift from Uncle John and Aunt Sue. I could tell
him that it might take awhile and give him a blow-by-blow
description. That was Dad’s solution. If Mom
finds out, I will have hell to pay. Or I could tell him
that I just couldn’t find it: the truth, not all of it but
not a lie. None of them includes the canteen and that was
the bottom line. I promised Gramps. I had to show up
with a canteen not an excuse.
I
was cursing my dilemma on the way to school when I spotted an
Army and Navy surplus store. Right on! I’ll buy a canteen
from the army surplus and give it to him on my next visit.
I had been saving for a snowboard so I wasn’t ‘without
funds’ as Aunt Ruth loved to call me. Dad had
described it to me as round with an olive green cover, black cap
and dark green canvas straps and Gramps’ name stenciled on
the back of it. That’s it. I was home free.
I would buy an old one, an authentic one, and I would put his
name on the back. He hasn’t seen it in years.
With his eyesight going and his memory fuzzy I could pull it off:
sort of a lie but a solution. It was either that or no
canteen.
I
entered the store smelling victory.
"I’m
looking for a real World War II canteen,” I said to the
ex-GI with ‘U.S. Army’ tattooed on his forearm.
“How much are they?”
“What
kind do you want?” he countered.
“What
do you mean?”
"I
have about fourteen different types of canteens used by the
military in World War II. Do you want to see them all?”
“No.
I want to see just the round ones, olive green with black caps
and dark green canvas straps,” I said, confident in my
precise description.
“Oh,
you’re in luck,” he said. He left and brought
back four different canteens. “That limits it to only
four. Take your pick.”
I
stood there, open-mouthed. All four were round but one has
larger than the rest. All had olive green covers but two
were green camouflage. They all had black caps but only one had a
silver security chain and double straps on the bottom. Also
all had “USArmy” on the front. Dad hadn’t
told me about that. If I got the wrong one it would be obvious.
Gramps would know.
“This
is it, eh?” I asked, hoping that he would say no and whip
out another from under the counter and tell me that this was the
one that my grandfather had carried into Paris on Liberation Day.
“These
were the most popular styles. Which one?” he
persisted.
“Well,
I’m not sure,” I said retreating from the counter
seeing my solution crumbling before me. “It’s
one of these but I am not sure.” I was now at the
door. “Thanks for showing them to me. I’ll
be back.” I left before he could ask any more
questions.
My
solution was no solution. I couldn’t ask Dad
which one might be Gramps’ because then Mom would find out
and she will not let me lie to Gramps. If I ask Uncle John,
he will tell Dad, who will then tell Mom, and Gramps will not get
his canteen. I needed to know which canteen is his. A
picture of it would help. Slam dunk, what a birdbrain! We
did have a picture of Gramps in full uniform down in the old
trunk. I remembered seeing it and with the canteen hanging by his
side.
I
raced home, down to the basement and into the old trunk.
There it was, right on top: Gramps in full uniform, a World War
II GI and the canteen hanging from his shoulder. It
was round and green with one or two straps across it. It
was too small to see any more details. I took it to my
computer and put it in the scanner. I enlarged it and
sharpened it. There it was, the canteen. It was the
smaller size, green camouflage, with two straps on the bottom and
“USArmy” on the front. It had a black cap with
a silver chain attached. I had it.
The
next day after school I went to the surplus store and asked to
see the canteens again. The guy behind the counter brought out
the four he had shown me the day before. I spotted the
perfect match and bought it. On the way home, I got some
stenciling that was very much like the type I saw on other
canteens and a black magic marker. I stenciled ‘SHERIDAN’
on the back and washed it several times to ‘age’ it.
I did it!
So
here I am on the cross-town bus off to see my grandfather at the
Sunrise Nursing Home with a bogus canteen held tight against my
chest.
“Hi
Gramps,” I said as I gave him the canteen, kissed his
forehead, hopped on the bed with the remote in hand.
“You
found it!” he yelled grasping the canteen with both hands.
He kissed it and brought it close to his face, sending his good
eye into every crevice and stitch and then back again to me.
“Oh
yah, no trouble,” I answered and tried to take his
attention off the canteen. “This is the All Star
game, Gramps. The American League against the National
League. The American League is gonna win; O’Neill,
Bernie, Jeter and Wells from the Yankees.” He wasn’t
listening. He held the canteen at arms length studying it.
“Hey,
you really have to see this line up,” I continued talking
faster. “The Yankees played the Mets last weekend,
the Subway Series, and O’Neill made another of his great
over-the-fence catches. Just like the ’96 Series.”
"Where
was it?” he asked, not lifting his eyes off the
canteen, his fingers rubbing his name.
“Aunt
Ruth had it,” I blurted out. “Dad thought he
had it so I cleaned up the basement to Mom’s delight, but
it wasn’t there. Then I went though Uncle
John’s basement and attic. They didn’t have it
either.”
I
described my tale of woe and wandering. I played up Aunt
Sue’s annoyance at the messy loft, and Aunt Ruth’s
offer to send over the inventory. I even described Dad
trying on his old army jacket, Rex and the boxes, and how Mom and
Dad wanted me to give up and tell him that I couldn’t find
it. I told him that I wasn’t going to come back
without a canteen but left out the Amy and Navy surplus store.
He shifted his gaze from the canteen to my face. He put
down the canteen. That was it, I thought. He didn’t
buy it.
“It
wasn’t in John’s Boy Scout things?” he asked
through his granite stare. “He wanted it when he was
scout master. Made him look authentic, he said?"
“No,
I really searched,” I answered quickly. “He
couldn’t remember ever using it.”
“And
Sue didn’t have it in a garage sale pile, did she?
She’d sell anything not tied down.”
“No,
she said that she was finished with garage sales and that she
never saw it.”
“So
where did you find it? Who had it, Josh?”
“I
told you, Aunt -- Aunt Ruth had it,” I stammered, fluffing
up the pillows, sinking deeper into them. “She looked
again and she found it.”
“Aunt
Ruth had it,” he repeated with a gentle smile on his face.
“Is that right?” he asked more to himself than to me
but I nodded anyway. “Good Old Ruthie probably had it
filed under ‘Canteen.’ ”
“I
guess so, Gramps,” I answered, rising a little to watch
him. He nodded and then settled back in his chair. A
broad smile connected his ears and opened wide his eyes. He
then got out of his chair, faster than I had seen lately, and
marched the canteen over to a corner chair. He gave it a
snappy salute and said, “Welcome back.”
For the rest of the afternoon, we talked baseball. When I
left, he gave me a big kiss and a hug. He pointed to the
chair and said, “Thanks for the canteen, Josh.”
I
nodded, “No sweat, Gramps.”
Next
I had to convince Aunt Ruth to lie for me. Sure, right.
Well, what did I have to lose?
“You
told him what?” she said at the other end of the phone.
“You told him I had it! I told you I would look again but
that I didn’t have it. You lied to him and included me in
your lie!”
“It
was either that or tell him Aunt Sue and Uncle John sold it at a
garage sale,” I quickly answered back. A silence
followed.
“Even
though she did, he doesn’t have to know that,” I said
breaking the silence. “I didn’t know what else to
do.”
“Did
he believe you?”
“Yah,
I think so. He gave the canteen a salute and said ‘Welcome
Home’.”
“Well
then, good work Josh.”
I
did it. I pulled it off.
I
am just finishing packing my bags and I pick up the picture of
Gramps in his army uniform. The one I had used to buy the
canteen; the one I am taking to college with me. For the
past six years, the canteen held a place of honor, on the chair
in the corner of his room. Everyone who came to visit had
to listen to at least one story about the canteen or Gramps as a
young soldier.
“I
wish you had never found that damn canteen,” Uncle John
said to Aunt Ruth one time. Aunt Ruth just smiled. I
think she enjoyed pissing off her brother more than keeping the
secret we both share.
I
had seen Gramps the day before. I had so wanted to tell him
that the canteen wasn’t his, that it was my canteen, that I
lied to him but I just couldn’t do it. I went into
his room and he was lying in his bed, his blue eyes half open,
his barreled chest heaving slowly up and down. When he saw
me, he gripped my hand and we just sat there. That was all
we could do.
Mom
and Dad have just returned from their visit and Dad comes in to
help me pack.
“How’s
Gramps?” I ask.
“Oh,
about the same,” he replies. "I don’t
think it will be long now. But he let out a secret.”
“What?
” I ask, the emotions of six years ago returning.
“You
know he hasn’t much left, materials that is,” he
answers playing each word slowly. “And we don’t
know anything about his will. You know how tight lipped he
is about his personal stuff.”
“He
always was. So what secret?”
“He
let it slip what you are getting in his will,” dad says
with a slight smile on his face.
“What?”
I ask, realizing this was just family gossip.
“The
canteen,” he answers.
“Why?
What did he say?” I ask still sensitive to the lie
that sits in the corner.
“Well
not in so many words,” Dad continues. “But he
alluded to it. When your mother and I went into his room,
he was lying on his bed, half awake. Your mother sat in his
big chair and I stood. He woke up and pointed to the other
chair. He told me to sit there but first, and I quote,
‘move Josh’s canteen.’ ”
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