Papa, Grasshopper, Notebook

“Do you have a word for me today, Grasshopper,” he asked.

“Indeed,” she said, beaming.

“Let’s hear it.”

“Perfunctory,” she said triumphantly.

He chuckled, “made it to the Ps, have we?”

“You’re stalling,” she challenged.

He sang, “per-FUNC-tor-ry, per-func-toooor-ryyy, you’re doing your duty, not what you pleeease. Hey! Per-FUNC-tor-ry, per-func-tooor-ryyy: it’s all blasé and c’est la vieee!” He clapped, did a quick spin, and pointed at her with both hands, waiting.

She cleared her throat dramatically. With a high-pitched British accent, she scoffed, “the princess gave a perfunctory nod, ending the jester’s performance and promising to issue a new challenge on the morrow.”

“No one likes a sore loser, my dear,” he chided, matching her affect with an exaggerated bow.

She left Papa’s office. She always enjoyed matching her 10-year-old wits with his 40-year-old ones, but, this time, she remained secretly distressed. She hadn’t mustered the courage to ask about the word she really wanted to know and, consequently, she still didn’t understand it. That word was “smitten.” Her teacher had used it earlier that day after the girl struck a boy for yanking her ponytail.

“Now, now,” the teacher snapped. “Must we smite the smitten, Miss Free” she asked, obviously not expecting an answer. Something about the teacher’s tone bothered her all day. She had checked the dictionary, but “must we [strike] the [people who’ve been struck]” didn’t make much sense. Now, missing her chance to ask Papa, she was doubly frustrated.

She marched back into Papa’s office, determined to ask her question. The office was empty. Hearing the exhaust fan whirring in the bathroom, she groaned, “this is gonna take forever!” She climbed on his desk and sat down to wait, immediately touching all the things clearly put out of the reach of little hands. She ran her fingers over the smooth, soft, leather-like cover of his small, black notebook. She loved seeing the curly blue lines of cursive squiggled endlessly across the cream-colored pages. She never knew what those strange looping symbols actually said, but it must have been important since he took the notebook everywhere he went. Picking up the book, she opened it. Surprisingly, it was empty. She thought for a moment. Then, as neatly as she could, she wrote down what happened with the boy, what the teacher said, asked what “smitten” meant, and asked why the teacher sounded funny. She placed the notebook on the front corner of his desktop and walked out.

From then on, the notebook lived in that exact spot. She wrote all important life questions in that notebook and Papa wrote an answer to every single question, without fail. When they filled up one notebook, he bought an identical one, starting a small collection of immeasurably valuable, black-covered Moleskines. As she grew, she wrote other things in other places and even got a few things published after she went away to college. Each visit home, she wrote at least one new question in the notebook. Before she left, her papa would answer every one.

The last question in the notebook still lingered in her mind. She had returned home on the weekend following her 41st birthday. After her family had filled their bellies with cake and ice cream and memories, she snuck into the office. As the others were heading to bed, she picked up the current version of their notebook (the only one on the desk) and wrote:

Today I am feeling a “little old.” This reminds me that you are quickly approaching “quite old.” Humans expire. What will I do without you?

A few days later, she read his response:

These transitions cannot and should not be avoided. Turn your face to the sky, Grasshopper, and roar from your soul. Let the ancestors know your papa bear is on his way! I am hoping for wings and Ellington and familiar embraces clapping me on the back. For a while, you’ll believe your heart is broken. This is not the truth. Take care of our family, stopping shy of destructive enabling. My spirit will surround you, bless you, and protect you as I always have. Look for things to get easier as I drop you fortunes from heaven. For God’s sake, keep writing. I will continue reading over your shoulder until we meet again. The emergency information is in the I.C.E. binder in the bookcase behind my desk. My will is there also. Always, your papa, Sampson Free.

Words were their thing. Without him, she lost them. She hadn’t written a single creative word since the day the pale man with the glasses pulled back the sheet to reveal her father lying on the metal table, dead. Now, she carried the last notebook with her everywhere, unable to add to it (or anything else) and unable to read anything except the last page. She still went to the trendy café where, sometimes, she had written. Now, she spent her time eavesdropping on the meetings the literary agents and movie producers had there. She absorbed their gossip, hanging on to loose threads of her claim on that life. She wondered when “easier” would begin and hoped she could somehow also absorb the love he’d poured into those pages.

She stood abruptly from her café seat and grabbed her bag. Several café patrons turned to look at her, alarmed by her sudden movement. She feigned a weak smile and placed the notebook on the table before heading to the bathroom. She could feel the tears welling and thought today’s victory would be to not cry in public, in public. The ten months since Papa’s death had gone by in a flash. It lived as one long, dreary haze of memory. She had felt the fog was clearing, now she wasn’t sure. She thought that his last answer should have included instructions to hydrate given how much crying grief involved. She laughed wryly as her tears dried. She washed her face and headed back to the table. Crossing the room, she looked up to see a smiling man sitting at her table with his hand on her notebook.

“Sir, I am certain I do not want whatever you are selling,” she warned, glaring and snatching the book from under his hand.

“No need to worry, Miss Free, sales have already been made.” the man said, his words tumbling out like machinegun fire as she froze.

“I’m Frances Mignon. I was hired by your father, Sampson Free, to complete the sale of the book he wrote based on the notebooks you wrote with him. So happy to finally meet you! Your father left instructions to give you some time after his passing. Now, let’s move forward. You’ll receive one of these for each section of the book you sign off on,” he said, as he slid her a card written in her father’s script and an official-looking check for $20,000. The card read:

Give me something to read, Grasshopper. Voila! Easier. Always, your papa, Sampson Free.

“So much for not crying in public,” she sighed, absorbing his love.