The Grand Mother
A storm began, and blew over as quickly as it had come. It was one of those summer storms that cleans the streets and washes the stink from everything. The kind that cools off fourteenth story apartments close to the roof, where heat conducts itself into a tangible part of the human business.
Since the storm, there was room for other things. Amelia decided to pay a visit to The Grand Mother, who lived in the apartment across the hall. The kind old woman had more than earned her nickname. In return for her kindness, Amelia took it upon herself to check in on Grand Mother from time to time. Did she need anything? Did the grocery boy try to cheat her again? Had maintenance come to repair the air conditioning? Amelia knocked on Grand Mother’s door, even though she knew it wasn’t locked. It never was.
“Funny,” Amelia thought, “all the times I’ve called her Grand Mother, everyone in the building does. That’s even what her mailbox says. I don’t even know the names of her children.” They had long since grown to die in wars or abandon her for more modern ways. “I’ll be sure to ask her before I go.” Amelia told herself “I wonder if she remembers.”
>The door opened to a smell of powder and AM radio violins that filled the room. The Grand Mother spoke.
“Oh Josie, won’t you please come in dear. Tea?” She smiled, turned quickly and returned to her chair by the window, by the radio, with a table nearby. All while still talking.
“Since you were here last, there are two more that I have now.” She stooped, like an old bird pecking for food, to pick up two porcelain figures from the floor and place them on the table. They were statues of dancers, fragile, stiff. Amelia had seen them before. The Grand Mother rose and hustled toward the kitchen, ignoring Amelia.
“Grand Mother,” Amelia had no problem using this name for the old woman. She denied the grocery boy’s tips for a week when he tried to discover her name. Most people never knew the name. Most people never asked. They never took the time. The grocery boy took the time. Grand Mother became upset.
“These Americans,” She told Amelia, “Where is their respect for elders, I should like to know? Especially these young ones with their rude questions!” She had been an American since her childhood in the depression, technically. Everyone else, to her, was an American.
“Grand Mother,” Amelia spoke up. The Grand Mother’s hearing was not so grand.
“I’d like to ask about your telephone message.” And what a strange message it was. It began with a long silence, mournful. The kind no one ever uses when speaking to an answering machine. After the silence, Grand Mother finally left her message. She said
“Josie?”, let fall another silence and then concluded with, “This is The Grand Mother . . .
This is The-” The beep cut her off.
“Do you remember what you called about?” Amelia asked, “I’m sorry I wasn’t in to take your call. I had an audition.” The Grand Mother smiled, seemingly illuminated with the answer, “Oh yes dear, I phoned because . . . ” The tea pot wailed from the stove. Skirts swirled. Grand Mother silenced it. “Tea?” she asked while pouring cups.
>Oh yes dear, I called about tea. >She hadn’t called about tea, this was quite clear to Amelia. But, these were always the reasons for her bizarre recordings: “the splendid song on the radio,” some half remembered relative’s birthday, the list went on. Every item on it was unrelated to phone calls. Never an explanation. The woman simply could not remember. Grand Mother never gave any indication of whom this Josie person was, only that Amelia fit the bill. Amelia: young, female, Josie.
Amelia politely sipped her tepid tea from the table in the kitchen. The kitchen was cluttered with too many unused cooking utensils, little spice racks, and miniature bookshelves for cookbooks. The room served as dining room as well. An old three-legged table sagged against a wall. There were three sides available for its four chairs. Amelia sat with her back to the sink, facing the window in the living room. She could see the soggy streets, steaming in humidity. Water was escaping. The old woman dragged a chair out and sat to Amelia’s left. Amelia stirred her tea and spoke.
“Grand Mother, I have come to say goodbye.” The old woman’s face lit up again. She heard a voice, a real voice.
“Oh, but Josie, why? Why, you have just arrived. You cannot leave just yet.”
“I know I just got her, and I can stay and talk for a while but ”
“Now then, that’s better. I knew you weren’t ready to leave. You haven’t finished your tea.”
“I’m not saying goodbye because I’m leaving . . . Well, I am. You know, this will be my last visit.”
“Nonsense Josie. You are still here. So, you could not have come to say goodbye. You’d have left by now if that were all, True? It is silly business to visit just to say goodbye and then walk out again.” As the sun began to set, orange dusk fell through the pale blue curtains. The light made Grand Mother look ruddy, not quite sick. Amelia, who was sitting farther from the window, did not receive sunlight’s youthful benefit. She did not need it.
“Josie, you look positively not well,” Grand Mother whispered, as if someone would overhear. “Is this visit about troubles with the gentlemen?” She grinned like a naught* child. “Have some tea to soothe the soul.” Amelia laughed, a little, and held out her cup to show tat she already had one. The gesture reminded Grand Mother of an orphan begging for money.
“No, gentlemen are one problem that I don’t have.” Amelia admonished, “I -” She was interrupted as Grand Mother began shoveling sugar into Amelia’s tea. Amelia didn’t continue. The woman wouldn’t understand. Instead, she stirred her tea, newly transformed into syrup.
“You’ll catch your death of cold waiting for the train in those ragged duds of yours. Don’t forget your gloves.” Grand Mother mumbled to herself.
>The problem, Amelia thought, wasn’t men, it was work. After a year in New York > she’d only landed one job, as a radio voice for a soap commercial. The monotone announcer rambled on about nasty, hard to clean grease, soap scum, environmentally safe soap concerns (a real haha) and the obligatory price negotiations. Amelia’s voice was the one that said “And it cleans!” in a bubbly fashion after every one of the announcer’s boring paragraphs.
Every audition, for every other possible job proved a failure. She was always too much unlike the director’s ideal: too tall, too thin, too happy, too much hair, too much room for improvement.
Her last audition was too much. The fat, bald director gave her four minutes to give two monologues. Her first was three minutes in length, the second, one. She had a two-minute version of the longer monologue prepared, in case length was a problem. The producer told her that a three minute/one minute combo would be fine. The director had other ideas.
He slid from his seat and slapped her with his bad, plosive breath.
“You try that three minute crap again, and you can kiss a career in theater goodbye.” Amelia kissed the slug. She didn’t know what else to do. “Goodbye.” she said. The Director had her physically removed. Amelia hated being forced to leave. But, she deserved it. So, she made up her mind. She really was leaving
>It was time to give up, go home, and shake hands with every friend and family member that had ever said she wouldn’t make it’ and say “Congratulations! I am a failure at the one thing in life that I enjoy. Are you happy now?” They would be pleased. She’d come to her senses and finally land that real job’ they want for her.
Countless fill in jobs at coffee shops in various parts of the big city would at least prepare her to wait tables back home. Her father ran the town’s only restaurant/gossip parlor. She could work there. She could introduce them all to the unfathomable wonder of cappuccino.
“That girl used to be an actress.” they would say, and leave her pity tips.
But first, there was the problem of saying goodbye to The Grand Mother. Even though she had no clue who Amelia really was most of the time, the woman was the only comfort offered by the entire city. With her, Amelia found a way to step outside of herself for a while, ignore reality. Grand Mother allowed Amelia to do what she loved best, act. It was an easy role, that of someone completely void of Amelia’s problems. Even the old playwright/director herself didn’t know the first thing about this Josie character, except that she was dead.
“Please Josie, don’t die again” she would say whenever Amelia ended a visit on one of the less lucid days. Josie, who didn’t exist was The Grand Mother’s only tie to reality. The woman lived for Amelia’s visits. And now that she was leaving . . .
There had been other Josies before. The grocery boy explained this to Amelia once. But, Amelia visited more often than the others. She had the time. Amelia was worried her vacant apartment might be refilled by a man, incapable of playing the role. Or worse, by criminals.
Grand Mother began humming, and put I away her tea things. Except when Grand Mother hummed it the tune was one that Amelia never heard. It was likely she’d never hear it again. Grand Mother probably invented it, made it the hybrid child from bars and measures of other left behind melodies. It sounded like music that should be sad. But, she sped it up, protesting the emotion. Grand Mother forgot Amelia was there.
She could have left then, “Get up and go out the door. She won’t even hear you. Get your bags and run for the bus. Run home.” Amelia was telling herself to leave, but the thought kept her seated. Heat was returning to the air. Movement was getting more difficult.
In a few minutes, Grand Mother would forget that she’d just had tea. However, Josie’s presence in the room would return to her. She would make tea for Josie. Amelia had to leave before that happened. She couldn’t bear another cup of sludge. She had to act. There aren’t enough tea times on earth to defer the inevitable.
>Grand Mother turned from the sink >and passed through the kitchen, oblivious. The old woman sat at the couch, adjusted the volume on the radio and modified her hum song to match that of the symphony. She stared out the window, expressionless. Amelia didn’t know this song either. She rose to join The Grand Mother.
“Josie dear! I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I’ve been here too long” Amelia thought.
“Hello,” she said.
The Grand Mother turned down the volume again, startled that it was even on at all. “You look positively not well, dear. What was it you wanted to tell me? You must have stopped talking.”
“Grand Mother, I came to tell you that I’m going back home.” Amelia put her hands on her knees, feet together. Her shadow was a broken line.
“Good then. See you tomorrow.” was the response Grand Mother gave, before turning to the window. Street lamps and police lights were stronger than the sun now. The day was dead.
“No, I’m going home, home, back to >Illinois >.”
“Strange, all this while I thought you lived across the hall, Josie. You come all this way?”
“No, I do live across the hall.”
“You don’t live across the hall . . . ”
“That’s right! Not anymore.” The end of sunset had returned Grand Mother to blue pale complexion. She continued Amelia’s sentence for her.
“If you did live nearby, you would come to visit more often. How are you Josie? You look positively not well. No one ever visits here anymore.” Amelia’s shadow broke for the door as she stood. She ran her hands down her sides, as if brushing away the moment’s dirt.
” I know Grand Mother, I know. But, the grocery boy visits every week, and the landlady has your doctor’s number. She’s volunteered to check in on you now that I’m leaving.”
Amelia looked to the door. But, again her thoughts kept her still.
“Please Josie, Don’t die. Your shoe is untied.”
Grand Mother rose to draw the curtain. Another storm was rolling in. There was no moonlight.
>Amelia took the chance to leave. >Grand Mother gave her the easy way. Nothing else had to be said. She always asks Josie not to die when she knows. She knew. The end of the act had come. Exit Josie, Stage Left. As soon as that door closed behind her, Josie was truly dead. Amelia, the only audience, cried as she unlocked the door to her own apartment, which was empty.
Her suitcase and a duffel bag full of clothes were the apartment’s only props. Her books and other things were pawned for bus fare, or rent money before that. Amelia was ready to leave for the Eight o’ clock bus. But, she had time to kill. It’s best not to kill time at a bus station, lest that time kill you. So she propped herself against the sack of clothes and sobbed a while.
People in upset states think the strangest things. Amelia wondered why The Grand Mother had told her “Your shoe is untied.” It was, in fact, because her show was untied. Who was left to tell her things like that now? She stared at the untied shoe. Tears cleaned her face. The drone of rain on the roof lulled her. Amelia fell asleep. She missed her bus.
The sleep was thicker that Amelia had had in a long time. Nothing woke her: no noise from outside, no angry neighbors screaming upstairs. She had no dreams.
Before Amelia awoke, she was vaguely aware of the telephone’s ring. It was probably her father, angrily asking when would it be more convenient for him to get her at the bus station, since she missed the last bus. Amelia remembered. She forgot to disconnect the answering machine, which beeped at the phones
“Best to let one problem solve another.” Amelia thought. She rolled over on her luggage and slept again. What really woke her was the sound of tine metal elevator down the hall. Its wrought-iron gate grated open. Amelia heard the grocery boy traversing the hall with Monday’s load. She stood, brushed herself off, and walked to the window. Rain still fell, but morning light was just coming through. It was almost morning! Amelia was shocked for a second. But, she knew about sleeping through her intended departure. It was too late for shock. She closed her eyes for what seemed like years. Thoughts settled back to her like displaced dust. Several minutes passed. Amelia saw nothing, she heard nothing.
The elevator clanged open again. The boy’s footsteps led back to it. Amelia was aware of that. His delivery was done. Amelia opened her door, propped it open with the suitcase and ran after the grocery boy. She wanted to ask about The Grand Mother.
>The phone rang. She stopped, remembered the answering machine and proceeded. Amelia had to ask the boy what time it was. She might still be able to catch the 6:00 A.M.
“RING”
The boy’s back was to her. Amelia’s head was spinning from sleep. The hall felt endless. Thoughts, still cloudy, ran together. She ran forever, to the elevator. “Ask the Boy for the time.” He was the only person she saw, mornings, with half a mind for time. The landlady would still be sleeping. “Drop off the key. Drop off the key” Amelia reminded herself.
“RING”
Amelia’s empty apartment rang resplendent with telephone screams. A first glimmer of Monday morning etched through the room. Amelia’s things sat by the door, waiting to leave with her.
“RING”
Amelia ran to catch the boy. And she did. The elevator gate began closing in between them. She only had time for one question. The phone was still ringing.
“What time is it?”
“Five-thirty.” The boy adjusted his clutch hold of the heavy bag. The elevator fell to the main floor, fourteen stories below. His delivery was done.
“Five-thirty, time to go.” Amelia announced. She ran back to her room, her luggage and the telephone’s demands.
“RING”
Hurriedly, she grabbed her bags and scanned the room for anything she forgot. Without anything to block it, the door began to close in front of her. Her foot caught it. If she’d forgotten anything, so be it .” house warming gifts for the next tenant(s). She decided to leave the answering machine, wait for it to answer while she stood there, bags in hand. She only had half an hour.
The machine beeped, left its message and then beeped again. Amelia removed her foot and darted down the hall. “Leave the key. Leave the key.” she reminded herself while waiting for the elevator to rise again. It arrived, opened and then enclosed around her.
Her fall homeward began.
She remembered: The grocery boy left with his delivery, he didn’t drop it off.
The message:
“This is The Grand Mother . . .
“This is The Grand Mother . . .
“Josie, you’re home.”
Tags: Fiction