The Leaf Bath

Harold was not really into these visits with his grandfather. Once a month, no matter what he was doing or how he felt about it, his mother drove him to his grandfather’s lame, smelly apartment in the sad neighborhood where she had grown up. Harold couldn’t really understand why his grandfather still lived there. He wasn’t like, really poor or whatever. Harold and his parents had a nice place in a sweet neighborhood on the south side. His grandfather must be living like this by choice, which had to show he was crazy or like, really challenged, you know?

Harold had gotten used to it, but it was boring and weird. There was only one, cool part. Sometimes, his grandfather would spill the tea about his aunt or his uncle or even his mother. He was pretty careful with those stories, but sometimes he got excited and forgot. He would usually do that if he was smoking, which he always told Harold that he wasn’t really doing. When Harold’s mother asked him about the smell of smoke on his clothes, he was supposed to say that people had been smoking outside of his grandfather’s apartment building and that Harold had to wait a long time, because his grandfather had trouble with the intercom system and couldn’t buzz him in right away.

Stories about his grandfather having trouble with technology always made his mother smile and try to hide it. Harold knew that his mother respected her father. She really meant it, too. But she liked stories about things he screwed up or got wrong. It often struck Harold that this was really mean, but he couldn’t say exactly why. His grandfather seemed to know it, too. That was why he had given him that lie to tell his mother.

His mother dropped him off. This was the day for another visit. She tousled his hair in the car.

“You be nice to your grandfather!” She always said this. It was the right thing to say, so she repeated it.

“What is nice, Mom? I mean, I know its basically like, don’t be mean to the old guy. But how do you know something you say, or do, is nice?”

Harold’s father hated this kind of conversation, especially when he was about to drop Harold off somewhere and get on with stuff he liked doing. That really drove him nuts. Harold’s grandfather had encouraged him to try it, but then cut it out for a while. Then, when Harold’s father did something really annoying, he should do it again. It had worked. Perfectly. Harold still couldn’t figure out why his grandfather stayed in his stupid apartment.

His mother liked this kind of thing, though. She was really smart, actually. She had gotten out of this neighborhood fast, and the fact that his father’s family had huge tech money didn’t hurt. She was pretty cool.

She looked at him and smiled. Harold could tell she was proud of him when he sounded smart.

“Nice is a feeling, Harold. Don’t make your grandfather feel like you don’t really want to be with him. You love your grandfather, don’t you, Harold?” Her left eyebrow always jumped up when she asked him a serious question. He knew he had better have a good answer. It couldn’t be the usual answer, either. She paid attention, and she could remember like, everything. His grandfather had told him this one time that his mother had always had a better memory than anyone he would ever meet. He respected her, too, actually.

“Yeah, I guess. I should, shouldn’t I? He’s your dad, and you made me, so he got the whole thing started.” He laughed.

“You’re a good boy, Harold. Don’t mess that up,” said his mother. She straightened his collar. She licked her thumb and adjusted his hair. Harold always thought that was a bit weird, and kind of gross. It made her feel better about something, Harold knew that. He wasn’t sure why she felt bad about it in the first place, though.

Harold got out of the car. He waved to his mother as she drove away. He looked at the street. There was a big pothole a few steps away from the entrance to his grandfather’s apartment building. There was trash and dog poop on the lawn. A homeless guy was looking for bottles in a dumpster across the street. Harold sighed.

He buzzed his grandfather’s apartment. It took a long time for his grandfather to answer. It always did. The homeless guy across the street found something he really liked. He started shouting like he had won the prize on some reality show. Harold felt a bit scared.

“Harold, I hope you know I’m very old. This could be our last conversation.”

His grandfather always answered this way. He liked---Harold wasn’t sure what to call it. His mother liked it too. It wasn’t just saying the same things. It was saying them and knowing you were doing it, on purpose. Was it a ritual? Was that the word?

“I know, grandfather. Push the button, okay?”

The door buzzed. Harold got into the elevator. It smelled like fresh pee. It usually smelled a bit like pee, but not like this. It was so gross. Somebody had carved what looked like a huge penis into the wall of the elevator, right above the buttons. That was new, too. Was it the pee guy?

His grandfather was making tea. With like, leaves and everything. He was always doing that when Harold arrived. Harold often wondered why his grandfather didn’t just go all the way and like, make his own clothes or churn butter or something.

“The phone stayed home, didn’t it, Harold?”

“Yes, grandfather. I don’t like, look at it all the time, you know. I’ve had it for a long time. I’m used to it.”

Harold was getting tired of this part of their talk every month. He knew his grandfather could remember having it before, but they went through it every time.

“Yes, yes. That is why leaving it is so easy for you, isn’t it?”

Harold guessed that was kind of weird: he hated being without his phone. He didn’t like that feeling. Especially because he had it every time.

“Yes, grandfather. May I please have some tea?”

His grandfather liked it when his manners were all like, proper or whatever.

“Yes, Harold. It will be my pleasure to serve you some tea. You know, I think I would like to smoke while we enjoy our tea, but of course, you know that’s impossible.” His grandfather winked at him.

“Why do you—I mean, why did you smoke, grandfather? Aren’t you afraid of like, cancer and stuff?” This would really catch his grandfather off guard. Harold was a bit bored.

His grandfather smiled and sniffed the tea. “You know, Harold, some leaves are most comfortable telling their secrets to water. Would you be interested in drinking the bath water of an old, dying man like me?”

Harold grimaced. “That’s gross, Grandfather!”

His grandfather chuckled. “Right. But this tea will be delicious and full of small, exciting secrets. Some leaves are most comfortable telling their secrets to fire. I would certainly like to learn something from that kind of leaf just now. If only I had that kind of leaf around...” He winked at Harold and opened a drawer. He pulled out a soft pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

“Keep an eye on the tea, Harold. Let it relax and talk with the water for a while before you fool around with it.” He walked to the window and opened it. Then he opened the soft pack, pulled out a cigarette and lit it. He took a long, thoughtful drag. He exhaled out of the small window.

“I gave up smoking because I know it is frowned upon, and bad for my health. But I do miss these talks with the leaves, I’ll admit it. You know, Harold, animals like us are different from leaves. We tell our secrets to one another, not water or fire. Talk is clumsy and often unclear, but it is our way of sharing our secrets. Whom do you share your secrets with, Harold?”

Harold knew his grandfather wanted his secrets, and it was probably safe to tell him things; his mother almost never had a serious talk with his grandfather, as far as he knew. He thought that was why she brought him here on the regular: it was recon.

“My Dad is kind of annoying, Grandfather. He doesn’t seem to care about anything but work. It’s like, just being myself, I’m a stupid distraction from his spreadsheets and stuff.” Harold sniffed the tea. He had to admit it: his parents drank tea all the time, but it didn’t smell like his grandfather’s tea at all. Compared to this, his parents’ tea was like…dirty dish water.

His grandfather chuckled again. It sounded rough, like, phlegmy. Harold wondered if his grandfather was really sick. His grandfather always talked like he was going to die tomorrow, but it might be true. Harold was surprised by how sad that made him feel, just for a second.

“Your father works hard. That is why you and your mother will never want for any material thing. That is good, I suppose. But your father’s heart belongs to his work, not to you or your mother. She knows that, but I see what you mean. It will be hard for you to understand and accept.” His grandfather put out his cigarette. He went into the tiny bathroom and flushed the butt. He washed his hands carefully in the gloomy little sink, which was the same color as his false teeth, and came back into the kitchen. He patted Harold on the shoulder and took special care pouring the tea.

Harold sipped the tea. It was like, really good. It always was. “Where did you learn to make tea like this, Grandfather?” He had never asked before, and felt sort of stupid thinking about that: the tea was always, well, excellent.

“Your great grandfather, my father, was raised by tea: growing it, preparing it, buying and selling it. He taught me all kinds of things about tea. When a stranger came into the shop, my father would look him or her—I should say ‘them,’ too, now, right Harold?—up and down, wink at me and whisper the name of a particular variety of tea. He was never wrong. He couldn’t stand the Earl Grey people, but he was polite and charming with everyone.” His grandfather sipped his tea and smiled.

His grandfather gestured for Harold to sit down on the old, smelly sofa. Harold did. He watched his grandfather sit down. It was a long, complicated process, like folding an umbrella when you got out of the rain. Harold sighed. So did his grandfather, but with satisfaction rather than sadness, once he was situated on the sofa.

“These are your secrets, aren’t they, Grandfather? So like, you’re telling them to me? For real?”

His grandfather sipped his tea and tapped Harold’s hand. “You’re a good boy, Harold. You’re clever like your mother, though you haven’t a memory like hers. If you didn’t have that phone, you would soak up secrets like a sponge. You’re curious, like my father. You know which sort will please each one.”

Harold thought that was pretty cool. His grandfather had a way of telling him things about himself, like he was bragging to a friend about Harold, right in front of him.

“What was Grandmother like, Grandfather?” Harold’s grandmother had died just before he was born. He’d seen pictures and stuff. His grandmother always looked like she was mad and trying hard to hide it.

His grandfather put his mug on the coffee table and ran his fingers through his hair. “Your grandmother was good at observing, like you. She used what she learned to criticize and complain. I learned a great deal from her, but it is a relief to be able to put on a shirt without disappointing her.”

Harold thought about that for a second. His mother was sort of like that, but she caught herself before she said really mean or bad things. Harold sometimes wondered what it would be like to be able to read his mother’s mind, like an alien or a superhero. It would probably be like, so depressing.

“That’s what I meant about figuring out which variety will please each one, Harold. You can use your knack for that kind of thing to make money, like your father. Or to criticize, like your grandmother. Or you can decide to use it to cultivate each one, to allow each one to grow in the style that best suits the sort of person that person is. I think that was what your grandmother was after, really, but she could have been kinder.” Harold’s grandfather winked at him.

They drank their tea and thought. That was another cool part of these weird visits, Harold thought. Silences with his grandfather weren't awkward. They were full.

The light through the window grew orange. It made his grandfather’s face look like a page in an old book to Harold. "That was a nice chat, Harold. Thanks for listening to a dying old man.” His grandfather got up slowly, collected their mugs and put them on the kitchen counter.

“It’s a shame you can’t smoke anymore, Grandfather.” Harold winked.

His grandfather laughed. It sounded strong and healthy, like his memory was laughing for a second instead of his old, slow body.

“You say something nice to your mother for me, Harold. Make her some tea, sometime. Listen to what it lets her say, understand?”

Harold nodded. He gave his grandfather an awkward hug. His mother would be downstairs by now.