Excerpt from the novel "The Evil Eye and Other Stories My Grandmother Told Me"

Grandpa

(1876-1957)

Already in his 70s and at least ten years older than my grandmother, my grandfather seemed ancient when I first met him.  I have few memories of him and my only lasting impression of his character is from my mother.  She was devoted to him, and I trust her judgment.

I never sought out my grandfather; he was different with something of the old world about him.  He was a stocky man, little taller than my grandmother at about five foot six.  But by comparison, she made him look thin.  He had an elegant white handlebar mustache that was perfectly shaped and slightly yellow from wax, and a bright bald head without a hair in sight.  He had been born in Italy coincidentally in the same town as my grandmother’s family, and had come to America when he was sixteen.  Even after nearly half a century in this country, he spoke no English.

On most mornings, he would be absorbed in his hour long preparation to leave the house to sit and watch over his property.  When I say his preparations, I misspeak.  It was my Aunt Babe’s preparations of him.  She would see that he put on his high collared white shirt, perfectly cleaned and incredibly starched.  The most difficult and dangerous task was buttoning the celluloid collar.  The button was tiny beyond belief and the button hole somewhat smaller.  My aunt would struggle with this one button with her calloused hands, the nails bitten to the quick from the nervous energy that would keep her alive and hard working for more than ninety years.  My grandfather’s face would turn red from lack of oxygen until finally the button was done.  The danger, of course, was her fear that he would strike out in pain which he never did or even worse that she would bloody his shirt with her fingernails and have to start all over with a another one.

A white linen suit, brown and white shoes - he had only recently disavowed spats - and a white straw hat with a yellow band completed his outfit.

Before he headed downstairs to the sidewalk, he’d have espresso with anisette.  One Saturday morning at age four and still in my underwear, I made it somehow to my grandmother’s kitchen while my grandfather was still about.  He poured me a cup of espresso to match his own and a shot of anisette to top it off.  I don’t know how I made it home, how I first encountered my father and why he left in such a hurry.  But when he reappeared a half hour later, I received the beating of my life.  I found out later, that my grandfather only survived with the protection of a few men in the bar.  My father was intent on killing the old man.  Luckily my father’s fury was so apparent that my grandfather had time to protect himself.  However, it took a half dozen men to subdue my father, who was formidable with his fists.

On more normal days, when my grandfather would sit at the corner ‘surveying’ his property, he would be the picture of the Italian land baron.  Passersby would tip their hats in deference to him and older Italians were obligated to stop and chat.  He was the daytime version of what my grandmother was at twilight, and no less deserving of homage.

It was, therefore, all the more incongruous that this elegant man with the white mustache, dressed in the white suit and hat should, from time to time, pull out a stained handkerchief and loudly blow his nose, his response to being addicted to snuff.

When I was finally old enough to cross the street without assistance, I was always underfoot, but usually at a safe distance from my grandfather who would come after me brandishing his cane if he felt I wasn’t behaving.  Sometimes the offense was real, as when I would bring my friends to view this out-of-time character.  I would make fun of his extravagant gestures and pretend to speak Italian which was all the more upsetting to him since, despite his patient attempts to teach me, I never learned the language.  He bought me a small Italian-American translation dictionary once, but I never opened it.

Sometimes the offense was subtler, he’d simply see the growing mischief in my eyes, and he would use more energy in those pursuits.  But I was fast and clever.  Instead of trying to outdistance him, I would take advantage of the fact that he was very near-sighted, and refused to wear glasses, by trying to blend into the tall grass in the yard or against a fence.

I’d have my best fun when my grandmother happened to be sitting on the back porch so that I could lead my grandfather toward her and then hide.  I could tell he was asking her to tell him where I was, but she wouldn’t give me up.  All the time this was going on, I’d make noises, so he’d know I was nearby whereupon he’d say something to my grandmother in Italian and they’d both laugh.  My grandfather had a wonderful laugh.  His face would become crooked from the smile and he’d show his yellow teeth while his eyes would almost glisten with tears.

When he left, my grandmother would say, “Richard, it’s OK!”  She’d think a minute about revealing the secret she had with my grandfather, but she never did.  Years later she’d tell my mother:  “Papa always said he liked Richard because he stood up to him and wasn’t afraid.  He reminded him of himself when he was young in the old country.”  Maybe I should have spent more time with him after all.

I remember that he spent the last months of his life in bed.  Among other more serious ailments he had gout, ‘the rich peoples’ disease.’  And the way my grandfather lavished sweets and rich foods on himself, it was not wonder that he was afflicted with it.  Actually, this disease provided the necessary bit of humor for my aunts to deal with the tragedy of my grandfather’s impending death.  Nonetheless my last times with him were heartbreaking.  Even though I was young, his was the first dying I was allowed to watch.  For many years I would think of death as the way my grandfather slipped into it.  I’d enter his room in the final days with as much fear as always.  But this time the fear was of what new look death had painted on his wrinkled face.

I would bend down to kiss his cheek.  It was always cool now, and the bristles were stiffer than I remembered since he didn’t ask my Aunt Babe to shave him every day as he always religiously had in the past.  He would smile the familiar crooked smile that seemed to separate his teeth from the rest of his face.  I remembered that his pajamas looked to be starched; his neck seemed to bind against the upright collar much as it had in his celluloid collared dress shirts, reminding me of the way he had looked in healthier times.  He’d speak to me in Italian.  I’d imagine what he was saying and nod or shake my head accordingly.  I wanted him to believe I had learned Italian and, for his part, I suppose, he wanted me to think I was fooling him.  This was the closest I would ever be to him. 

Death came quietly and gently for him.  He seemed to simply slow down until one day he stopped.   The room remained a shrine to his memory for years after his death.  I’d go in often, smell the stale, burnt tobacco still in his pipe and allow the visions of my grandfather to flood over me, seeing him, not in his bed, not in this room, but sitting outside at the corner dressed in white looking down into my face with that knowing twinkle in his eye.  “Volpetto,” little fox, he’d say.