Brownstone Birthday

Every single year, I have to hear about her, my famous grandmother. I’m a senior now, so close to the end. Maybe this time, maybe this last time, the teachers finally said to one another, “Gee Myrtle, you’re right. Maybe we shouldn’t all ask him the same stupid-ass question.” But they ask anyway, like right now, in this second floor classroom that overlooks the concrete plaza where my dad says kids used to smoke before class.

Mrs. Wyatt is ridiculously tall. Her hair, a mop of blonde anxiety, covers her eyes. Her funeral parlor air freshener scent alerts you to her presence. Her heels cricketed over to the space just behind my desk. She wasn’t close to me, but I could feel it. A few girls in the rows in front of me shot nervous, backward glances. Mrs. Wyatt’s voice punctured the pause like a balloon being pierced.

“We are very fortunate, class. Literary greatness is such a rare thing. And to think that our town was once home to a poet of international stature. International. Think about that.”

She laid a hand on my shoulder. I really hate it when someone that I don’t know touches me. ”Mr. Swensel’s very own grandmother has more than one hundred pieces of prose and poetry published. She is…..” and so she carried on, until finally, her hand left my shoulder. She then plodded forward, but not before casting one last nauseating look of admiration in my direction.

My grandmother has a poem in the English textbook and everyone at my high school has to read it. She has hundreds and they’re good. Like they make you think twice. According to Dad, some school board person got the idea that kids in our community would be more inspired to go to college if they knew that someone from here had actually achieved fame from writing a poem instead of playing basketball or baseball. They petitioned the state and special Illinois English text books were made to include the poetry of Janet Swensel-Luccia.

Grandma lives in Chicago, far from her shithole roots. ‘Luccia’ comes from husband number two. Dad once said, “She not only changed driveways, she changed cars--just to remind everyone she never lived here”.

The last time I saw her, Grandma Swensel-Luccia made me promise that I would be her guest for my 18th birthday. It’s coming up Monday and I was about to get sprung from this stupid class.

“Johnny Swensel?”

A hall monitor was in the doorway. Mrs. Wyatt took the slip of paper and scanned it, before releasing me with an icy smile. I pulled on my letter jacket and snagged my backpack. A few minutes later, I walked to the curb outside school. Dad waited in his car. He was on his phone when I got in, but laid it in the console when I opened the door. I wasn’t surprised to see just him. Mom was having a crisis or something. Dad was trying to hide it from me, but I knew. I was better at keeping secrets than either of them.

I spit out a “Hey” as I slid into my seat.

Dad asked: “Did you clear everything with Coach Bleidorn?”

“Yeah. I’m coming back on Monday, right?”

“Yes. Your train ticket is in your duffel. You’ll be home in time for practice.”

I looked in the back. My duffel sat next to one of those hanging bags.

“Dress clothes?”

“She’s got an award ceremony tonight. You’ll be her date. Do you remember how to knot a tie?”

“I can YouTube it,” I replied, wiggling my phone.

My phone vibrated. Dad had his eyes on the road but kept making small talk. I glanced at my phone.

Heard you skipped town. When will you be back?

I hesitated, but then answered. IDK

The reply came. K, miss you

I didn’t respond.

I wanted to, but I wasn’t sure how.

Then a little later: Are you still deleting my texts, lol?

I deleted the text and slid my phone in my pocket. The hum of the interstate took hold of me.

My dreams are always whack. My psych teacher said dreaming in third person means a person is incomplete. We see how people see us or maybe how we want to be seen. In my dreams, Coach Bleidorn and Dad never recognize me. I dream in robber vision, like someone has stolen my life.

Dad woke me. I looked up at the high windows of Granny Swensel’s narrow but tall townhouse. Art Deco, she called it. I once asked Dad if my grandpa’s name was Art.

“Mom, we’re here,” Dad said through the buzzer.

In reply, the door simply came unlocked.

I was wondering where to put my bags when Granny S called to us from the landing. “Johnny, a car will be outside for us in an hour.” I stopped to hug her. Dad waved goodbye. He and Granny exchanged something in a look but she shooed me upstairs before I had time to ask.

On the ride to the ceremony, she sipped her cocktail. The ice sparkled. She was so serene and unlike anyone I had ever known.

Once in the auditorium, Granny left me in the second row. The suit I wore felt like a different skin, but a skin I could get used to. The guy next to me leaned over and whispered, “The second row is where it’s at. The front row is for snobs and shitbags who want selfies with your grandma.” My phone buzzed, so I pulled it out quickly to look.

Hey, I know you’re prob busy.

Going to the lake in a few weeks

I need to get on the water. We can get some boat time

No pressure

I put my phone back. I loved the lake. It was peaceful, us alone on the boat.

Granny took the stage. I’d always enjoyed hearing her read. I knew the Granny S story from Dad. Tonight, as she spoke, there was this sadness I didn’t expect.

On the ride back to her brownstone, the ice cubes in her drink clinked like chains.

Back inside, I started up the stairs when Granny suddenly inquired, “To bed so soon?”

“No, I was just going to change.”

“Don’t. Come join me for a spell.”

I took a seat in her den, a reading room with a little deck that gave a view of the river. Granny came in with a new drink. When she sat down, I noticed she had something else: one of those nice journals with a strap. She slid it over to me.

“I’m not going to be here forever.” My mouth opened but she quickly added, “Oh no--my health is fine, but we’re never guaranteed tomorrow.”

I didn’t know where this was going. I shifted in my seat.

She slid the black notebook toward me. It was a Moleskine. Classic and timeless, like Granny.

“Open it,” she directed.

I freed the pages from the band. Granny continued, “Those are my collected poems, every single one. Do you remember tonight when I was asked to read my first poem, the one which catapulted me to national fame and recognition?”

There was an edge to her voice that made me nervous.

““The Last Brown Leaf”,” I answered in acknowledgement.

“Yes,” she said. It is featured in every anthology because it is the poem that put me on the literary horizon. I am rewarded handsomely for each of those publications.

Would you like to see the original draft?”

“Of course,” I replied. The journal was dated. There were notes in the margins, little drawings and dried flowers. Granny’s hidden, dreamy side that was eclipsed by her present day fame. I found the pages marked 1956. “The Last Brown Leaf” wasn’t there. I kept looking. There was an untitled poem I had not seen before .

Fleeting warmth from a coffee pot

for two

that not long ago rested on a table

for two

A booth seat where only crumbs nest

where you asked

would I wait for you?

Suddenly, I had this urge to look at my phone. I knew better than to do it now, but I also realized something surprising. I felt this way because of the poem.

“I like this more than “The Last Brown Leaf”,” I remarked. “Why didn’t you choose it?”

“I was the same age as you. I doubted myself,” she said, rather sadly. “I didn’t think a girl could write a winning poem.”

“So when did you write “Last Brown Leaf”?” I asked.

Her response startled me. “I didn’t.”

She looked into the distance, eventually seeming to force herself to look at me, and then continued, “His name was Eddie. Eddie Bissel. He was older than me. I admired him because he always carried books and scribbled in a Moleskin. He died after the Korean war. We shared poems, necked and smoked. I don’t know what you kids do today but we had a thing, I guess. He left his poems with me. His family had moved away. I thought I never would. It was impulsive, last minute self doubt. Every day, I feel like a fraud. I kept writing and publishing as a way to be worthy of the success.my cowardice began. These ceremonies are excruciating. Checks arrive like clockwork. Large checks and they are tainted by my moment of dishonesty.”

I pointed out that the ceremonies didn’t just honor her initial poem.

She smiled in response. “You’re kind, but I need to make amends.”

From the back of the journal, she pulled out an envelope. In it was a check for

twenty thousand dollars made out to me.

“What it this,” I asked? “I can’t.” I was stammering.

“You’re my only grandchild. Yes, you can because I have signed over my royalties for Last Brown Leaf to you. Use it however you see fit.”

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I didn’t respond, but I must’ve looked down because somehow she knew.

It seemed like an eternity before I finally acknowledged her gesture. “I don’t know what to say, other than thank you.”

She placed a hand on the Moleskine and said softly, “When the time comes, this, too, is yours. It is everything I am Johnny. The truth and the lies.” She gently replaced the strap. Time had worn the texture of the cover. She centered the red bank book on the journal. Granny was both less of a mystery now and more.

In my pocket, my phone buzzed a reminder of the unread message.

“The greatest lie we tell is who we are, Johnny,” Granny said out of nowhere.

“I don’t think you’re a bad person because of that poem,” I said.

“Thank you, love, but I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about you now.”

“Me?” I asked, as a thick, syrup like wave of discomfort washed over me.

“What is his name,” she asked?

“Uh, his...him,” I was stuttering.

“Someone has been trying to message you since you arrived.”

I couldn’t look at her.

“Johnny, my greatest regret is that I doubted myself. Be true to yourself.” She then kissed me on the forehead and was gone.

Monday, Dad was waiting for me at the train station. Before we made the final turn onto our street, I said, “Tony is going to the lake for spring break. He asked if I wanted to go. They’re getting out the boat and skis.”

Dad smiled and said, “I didn’t know you could waterski.”

“I’m ready to try it.” I then opened my phone to reply.

I’m in for the lake

Missed you