This is another short story first published yesterday over at the Substack page of the Soaring Twenties Social Club. Please check out the write-up by Thomas J. Bevan, club founder, at the page here:
The rickety ramshackle porch tacked to the little dark house made my heart sink into my shoes but there was nothing for it. I had to go.
I climbed the two steps up to the porch, stepped around the newspapers lying there, thought better of it, turned around and picked them up. The smell of fresh cut grass wafted over from the neighboring yard. The grass in Mr. Granger’s yard had not been fresh cut in weeks.
I turned around, raised a shaky fist to the screen door, and knocked. Bits of once-white paint flaked off onto my knuckles.
Nothing.
I knocked again, harder.
Once more, banging the bottom of my fist on the door with a feeling somewhere between frustration and panic welling up in my stomach.
Please don’t be home. Please don’t be home.
The inner door opened. Mr. Granger filled the doorway. He had a wispy head of white hair and small watery eyes in a bulbous, unpleasant face.
“Well?”
“H-hi, Mr. Granger. I’m Alan from across the street—”
“I know who you are. What do you want?”
Not thinking it a good idea to try to match his brusqueness, I continued meekly. “My mom told me to come over and help you in your garden on account of your ankle.”
I glanced down at the ankle, hidden by his pant leg but he clearly had no weight on it.
“Hm. I don’t need your help. Go away.”
I stuck my foot between the doorframe and the swiftly closing door, a move I once saw a Fuller Brush salesman use on my mother. It hadn’t ended well for him. I hoped my luck would be different.
“Get your foot out of my door.”
“Please, Mr. Granger.” I thought I’d try the straight up truth. “I don’t want to be here any more than you want me but my mom said that she owes you, though she wouldn’t say for what, and she heard about your ankle and that I better not come back without helping you with your garden or whatever else you need so I have to do this whether you like it or not.”
“Hm. Nosy people blabbing about my ankle. This is why I don’t help people. They always want to thank you. Bothersome. Annoying. Rather be left alone. Fine.” He opened the door. “Don’t take your shoes off yet. Run down to the store and get me a half gallon of milk, whole milk, none of that skim nonsense, coffee, ground, I don’t want to bother grinding it, eggs, a chuck steak, butter, a couple oranges, a loaf of bread, and that’s it.” He shoved a few bills into my hand.
I was there and back almost before he closed the door. Putting the groceries down, I knocked again.
“It’s open.”
The room wasn’t dark but it wasn’t bright either, gloomy despite the sunny day outside. There were no lights on but the blinds let in a little light. The room was shabby but clean. There was an easy chair, frayed at the edges, and a black and white television. It smelled musty but not bad, just old.
Mr. Granger was sitting in the chair, bulk leaned back, legs splayed out. A reporter droned on the TV.
“Get that stuff in the fridge, will you?”
Like the living room, the tiny kitchen adjacent was clean but tired, old. Yellowed wallpaper curled at the corners. The grout on the countertops was dark. A tiny stove stared across at an ancient refrigerator.
Food put away, I went back to the living room.
“What else do you want me to do?”
“Shut up. I’m watching the news.”
I bristled. “You don’t need to talk to me like that. I’m just trying to help.”
“I don’t want your help. I didn’t ask for your help. You can go anytime. You’re familiar with the door. Use it.”
I started heading toward the door. I stopped.
“What do you need done in the garden?”
“You figure it out.”
I rolled my eyes.
The garden was a lonely tomato plant, clumps of lettuce that had re-seeded themselves in various places over the years and some thyme, a perennial my mom had told me so don’t rip it out at the end of the season. I wondered where they had come from. I didn’t think Mr. Granger had ever eaten tomatoes or lettuce or put fresh thyme on anything.
Not sure of what else to do, but positive that I couldn’t go home without something to show for it I grabbed the tool like a flathead screwdriver lying near the back of the house and I started pulling the weeds that choked vegetables and grass alike.
Most were dandelions. Some were a foot tall and had prickly spines. These I worked at from the root so I could grab them without pricking my fingers on the quarter-inch spines. My fingers were quickly covered in dirt. The pile of weeds got bigger and bigger and the yard started looking pockmarked as the weeds left golfball-sized holes behind after I pulled each one from the ground.
After the hundredth or two hundredth weed, I stood up to stretch my back. I rubbed my numb knees where the grass had left deep impressions in my skin.
The shadows cast by the trees in the neighboring yards were lengthening. Hunger gnawed at my belly. I dropped the tool next to the back porch and went inside.
The TV was still on. Mr. Granger was snoring in the easy chair, head back, mouth open. Not wanting to wake him, I crept past the chair, opened the front door, locked it from the inside, and closed it behind me.
The next day I brought our push lawnmower across to Mr. Granger’s house and cut the grass in the front yard. I thought I saw the blinds twitch out of the corner of my eye but Mr. Granger did not appear.
A few more days went by. Each day I glanced at Mr. Granger’s house as I got home from school. The blinds were still shut, the house dark. My initial trepidation having been overcome, I felt a strange attachment to the grumpy old man.
The next day I decided to go back. After school, I bought some milk and a loaf of bread with my own money. I knocked at the front door but there was no answer. I went around to the back and knocked. Still nothing but a faint sound, probably the TV.
I summoned my courage and thrust aside the awkward, shameful feeling that you get when entering someone’s personal space uninvited.
The kitchen was dark and empty. Same for the living room. The TV was not in fact on.
“Is that you, kid?”
The voice came from behind a closed door off the living room, a door I had hardly noticed before.
I opened the door slowly. “Mr. Granger?”
“Yeah, yeah. Come in here and help me.” Mr. Granger was sitting on the floor, leaning against the side of the bed. He was in a t-shirt and boxers. He had a world weary look on his face, the look of an old man tired of being old and embarrassed not by his condition but by needing to ask for help.
“Tweaked my back getting out of bed and my damn ankle is still acting up. Not as strong as I used to be, kid. Don’t get old. Well don’t just stand there.”
I smiled and hurried over to his side. Putting my arms around him I heaved up as he pushed off of the nightstand and eased him onto the bed.
“Looks like you need my help after all you cranky old bastard.”
The words came out before I could stop them. My eyes went wide. He cast a sharp look at me, narrowing his eyes. I thought he might hit me.
Then his eyes crinkled and a harsh croaking hearty laugh rolled out of him, wave after wave, now ebbing, now rising again. Tears formed in the deep wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and eased down his round cheeks.
Deeply relieved I smiled then started laughing too.
“Ah, well shoot, son. You got me there.”
He heaved himself off the bed, steadied himself on the nightstand, and walked slowly to the bathroom. “Ah, back’s a bit better.”
“Do you—”
“No, I don’t need any help in here.”
I went out to the kitchen, put the sweating milk in the fridge, and sat down at the little table.
Mr. Granger emerged twenty minutes later, dressed and clean shaven leaning on a cane and still favoring his injured ankle. He gestured for me to follow.
We went out on the front porch. He pulled two lawn chairs from somewhere and opened them, directing me to sit.
He sat with a sigh. “That’s better.”
We watched the quiet shady street. One car passed. Another. A man with a massive bloodhound went by, leash taut, the dog walking him. It was quiet, peaceful.
I was a little apprehensive, not sure of where to put my hands or what to say, if anything, but I wasn’t afraid of Mr. Granger anymore.
“Nice day,” I said.
“Mm.”
“What did you do to help my mom?”
He was quiet for a moment. “Look,” he said, pointing across the street. “She’s calling you home. Must be dinner time.”
I stood up. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
He looked straight ahead. “She’s waiting for you, son. Never make your mother wait.”
“Alright. See you tomorrow?”
“Sure, son. Sure.”
I jogged down the steps and across the street. He was still sitting there when I went inside.