I told her everything quickly, including my suggestion I remain behind and live with her and Papa George. We hadn't even moved from the doorway before I had it all said.
"Oh," she said nodding. "So that's why she was asking me about George's condition. Well, come in a moment," she said.
"Where is Papa George?" I asked, not seeing him in his favorite oversized chair watching television and smoking. Before she could reply, I heard his heavy cough from their bedroom.
"He's a bit under the weather tonight," she said. "The doctor wanted him in the hospital, but you know Papa George. He wouldn't go. When did you say you were going?"
"Today! Right now!"
"Right now? But she never said . . . Right now?" The realization shocked her almost as much as it had me. Her small hands fluttered up to her throat like two little song birds. She shook her head in disbelief.
"She wants you to keep our things until we send for them," I explained.
"Of course. I'll take good care of everything. Oh Melody," she said, actual tears flowing from her eyes now. "We'll miss you. You're the grandchild we never had, the child we never had."
"I don't want to go," I wailed.
"You got to go with your mother, honey. She needs you."
"She doesn't need me," I said defiantly. "She has Archie Marlin:"
"Archie Marlin? Oh." She took on a look of disapproval and sadness, her eyes darkening.
"What's going on out there?" Papa George called from his bedroom.
"You better go say good-bye to him." The way Mama Arlene said it put an icicle in my chest, chilling my heart. I walked slowly to the bedroom doorway and gazed in.
Papa George looked tiny under his comforter. Only his head, crowned with that stark white hair, showed. He coughed violently for a few moments and spit into a metal tray at the side of the bed. Then, he took a deep breath and turned to me. "What are you women jabbering about?"
"We're going away, Papa George," I said.
"Who's going away?"
"Mommy and me. . . and for good," I said.
He stared, took another breath, coughed a bit and then pushed hard to get himself into a sitting position. "Where she taking you?"
"We're going to see my daddy's family. They live in Cape Cod."
The old man nodded. "Well, maybe that's best. Leaving on quick notice, though, ain't you?"
"Yes. I haven't said good-bye to any of my friends and I haven't been to the cemetery yet."
He thought a moment and then reached over to his night table drawer. He took something out and beckoned for me to come closer.
"I want you to have this," he said and handed me a gold-plated pocket watch. I had seen it once or twice before and knew that on the inside was the inscription, To George O'Neil, Ten tons of coal! "It still keeps good time," he said. When the watch was opened, it played one of Papa George's favorite tunes: "Beautiful Dreamer."
"I can't take that, Papa George. I know what it means to you."
"It will mean more to me to know Chester Logan's little girl has it now and forever," he said, urging me to take it. I reached out and clutched it in my hand. "This way, you won't be able to forget me."
"Oh Papa George, I can't ever forget you," I moaned and threw my arms around him. He felt so small, all skin and bones, and his hug was barely anything. I was shocked. It was as if he were wilting, disappearing right before my eyes.
He started to cough again and pushed me back so he could lower himself under the blanket. I waited for him to catch his breath.
"Send us postcards," he said.
"I will. I'll write every day."