I tried to go back to the math homework, but I couldn’t concentrate. I slammed the book shut, went to the window, and watched Lila get onto her bike and start off. As she sailed down the driveway and out the gate, I realized that I felt like a prisoner, a prisoner of grief.
The dining-room table was barren and bleak without Lila, Willie, Uncle Bobby, or my grandmother Sanders and my great-aunt Sally joining us. These past few nights were all difficult. I know Grandpa was trying to look as comfortable and happy as he could. This evening, My Faith had made something we both loved, her special meat loaf and incredibly delicious mashed potatoes. They were practically the only potato
es Willie would finish. Usually, Grandpa drank wine with his dinner, but he wasn’t drinking any tonight. We had yet to have a private conversation about our tragedy. Usually, Lila was here or he was at work right after dinner in his house office, but tonight I could feel it coming, the way you could feel an impending thunderstorm. My whole body tensed up, and even the little appetite I had was threatened.
He didn’t start talking until we had been served our meal. He complimented My Faith, as he always did. Myra was having her dinner in her room. She was finally admitting to her aches and pains, and I imagined she was more exhausted than any of us, with the combination of grief and injuries.
“I have survived our terrible share of sorrow, Clara Sue,” he began, “by making myself work harder and do what I could to avoid thinking about it all. We’re never going to stop hurting over Willie, but we’ve got to do the best we can so that everyone we’ve lost would be proud of us. Right?”
“Yes, Grandpa.”
“So, you’re going back to school on Monday?”
“Yes.”
He ate and thought, and I ate, avoiding looking at the chair where Willie would sit. I knew I was eating faster than usual just to get it over with and hurry out. Would I avoid every place in this house where I could envision Willie?
“You don’t know,” my grandfather began again, “but one of your grandmother’s and my favorite charities is something called Angel View. It’s an organization dedicated to providing assistance to handicapped children. I mean, we do our share of charity contributions, but that one was at the top of your grandmother’s list. She even volunteered to work at their center in Charlottesville occasionally. I don’t think you knew that.”
I shook my head.
“She wasn’t one to talk about what she did for others. Unlike a lot of people I know, here especially, she just did it and didn’t ask anyone for any thanks or recognition. If anything, that embarrassed her and took away from the main goal—helping someone in need.”
I paused. I could feel it. He was leading up to something, something to do with the poisoned boy.
“It’s good to think of people other than yourself, especially when you’re suffering some disappointment or tragedy.”
“I don’t want to ever stop thinking about Willie,” I said firmly.
“Of course, you shouldn’t, and neither should I. We should cherish his memory, and I plan to create an endowment in his name,” he said. “You’ll be with me when we establish it.”
“What sort of endowment, Grandpa?”
“I’m not sure yet. Maybe a grant or an award. Maybe a scholarship at your school. I tell you what. You’ll be just as important to the decision, okay?”
I nodded. That sounded good. Uncle Bobby was right, I thought. I shouldn’t be so intolerant of how Grandpa was acting and what he was trying to do.
I could see that he was hesitating. He finished his meal, drank some water, and sat back. “I was thinking that you might like to go with me tonight to the hospital. I’m meeting with the neurologist about that little boy. He’s rather sad and I’m sure still very frightened. I have him in a private room, which is the most comfortable place he could be there, but there are no other young people. He sees only nurses and doctors,” he said.
I didn’t say anything.
“It would be nice if you spoke to him. He has yet to say anything to anyone,” he added.
I looked up. “What would I say, Grandpa?”
“It doesn’t matter. You can ask him how he is. Anything.”
“Why would he talk to me?”
“I don’t know. You’re a young person, too. Maybe he has a sister.”
“Well, where is she? Why doesn’t someone come to ask about him and take him home?” I demanded. I couldn’t contain my anger. “How do you just deposit your own child like some . . . garbage?”
He shook his head. “I’m trying to find out.”
“But you’ve run into a dead end.”
“Right now,” he said. “I’m still on it.”