My Great-grandfather Turns Twelve Today
(c) 2003 Bill Dodds
Chapter 10
Bang!
All three of us looked over at the house
where a screen door had slammed. A little girl in a plain blue dress that came
down to the middle of her calves was hustling down the pathway from the side
door to the gate.
"Papa says..." she was screaming. "Papa
says..." She hopped up on the lower cross bar of the wooden gate and
shouted, "Papa says come in right now! He says..." And then she
spotted me and her voice trailed off.
"Pa says don't go hangin' on the gate, Sissie," Pat
answered but he was walking quickly toward the house.
"Who's that?" she demanded as Pat unlatched the
gate and swung it open, giving the little girl a ride.
"That there is Mr. Vaudeville," Pat said.
"He's come to entertain us on Charlie's birthday."
"Really!"
Charlie entered the yard and I followed. "What kind of
shirt is that?" she asked me as I walked by.
"A red one," Charlie said and she laughed.
Then she hopped down off the gate and ran up ahead of Pat.
"Mama, Mama!" she was yelling. "Mr. Vaudeville has come for
Charlie's birthday and he's got a red shirt." By the time she had gotten
all that out she had disappeared into the house. Pat followed her.
"Charlie," I said softly and he turned around.
"Is all this... real?"
He smiled at me. "Uh huh," he said. "Yep, it
sure is."
"But how long am I going to be here?"
"Not long," he said.
"CHARLIE!" a woman called from inside.
"How long is not long?" I asked.
"Not long is when it's time to go you'll kind of wish
you could stay longer."
"A few more minutes?" I asked and he shook his
head. "Hours?" No. "Days?" No. "Weeks!"
I was going to be here for weeks?
"A week," he said.
"A week! But what about my family?" I asked.
"They're going to miss me." I could imagine Mom walking into
Great-grandpa's room and me gone. Just disappeared in a flash of lightning.
"They won't even know you're gone," Charlie said.
"How do you know?" I asked.
"I just do," he said, adding, "This has been
the best birthday yet."
"Maybe for you," I told him.
"Ah, you don't know the half of it," he said and
smiled. "Come on."
We walked up the wooden stairs and into a little entry way
room. Coats and hats were hanging from hooks along one wall. There were some
old, muddy work boots on the floor beneath them. There was a door to our left
and another to our right. I could hear the little girl talking in the one to our
right, repeating her news.
"Charlie?" The woman's voice came from the room to
the left.
"Yes, Ma?" he answered.
"Wash up."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Is there someone with you?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Well, he's welcome to stay," she said. "Show
him where he can wash up, too."
"Just like a mom," I whispered. "First stop
for any kid is the bathroom."
"The what?"
"Bathroom."
"We don't have to take a bath," Charlie said.
"Just wash our hands. Come on."
We entered the room to the right and a bunch of kids and a
man were sitting at a long wooden table in the center of it. It was a kitchen --
a large one -- with a big metal stove on the left and counters and cupboards on
the right. Along that wall was a sink, too.
"Now who do we have here?" the man asked and the
room was suddenly very quiet.
"Mr. Vaudeville," said the little girl in the blue
dress.
"Hush, Sissie," another girl said. She looked older
than Pat.
"This is Michael," Charlie said. "He's a
friend of mine and a shirt-tail relative."
"Is that so?" the man said, standing up and walking
toward me. He was a little on the short side -- maybe five and half feet tall --
and wore work pants and a badly stained work shirt. He held out his right hand.
There was black under his nails and in the many creases on his fingers and the
back of his hand. He shook my hand and his skin felt thick, like the covering on
a basketball. His grip was firm but he didn't try to crush my knuckles or
anything.
I gave him a firm handshake, too. That was something Dad had
taught me. He had taught all of us. "Look a fellow right in the eye, give a
firm grip and say, 'How do you do, sir?'" Dad had instructed us.
"How do you do, sir?" I asked and he smiled. He was
missing a couple of teeth off on the side, up toward the front. The ones he
still had were yellow and were pretty bent. He had a bushy mustache.
"I'm doing just fine, son," he said. "And
yourself?"
"A little confused but just fine, sir," I answered
honestly.
"He banged his head, Pa," Charlie said.
"Let's see," the man said. He motioned for me to
step forward and he reached out and felt the top of my head.
"In back," Charlie said and his father touched me
gently back there.
"Well," he said, "I expect that bump's no more
than a robin's egg. You'll be all right."
"A robin's egg?" I asked.
"No bigger than a robin's egg, son," he said.
"Is that good?"
"Lot better than a hen's egg or a duck's egg, I
guess," Pat said and some of the kids at the table laughed.
"Oh," I said.
"That's quite an outfit you've got on there,"
Charlie's dad said.
"Yes, sir."
"Sissie here tells us you're in vaudeville."
"He was, Pa," Charlie said. "He quit."
"That so?" the man asked and I nodded. He narrowed
his eyes a little bit. "And Charlie says you're a shirt-tail
relative."
At least I knew what that was. I have a lot of relatives. The
close ones are called... Well, they're called close ones. But the ones that are
farther out on the family tree are sometimes called "shirt-tail
relatives."
"Yes, sir, I think I am," I said.
"What's your name, lad?" the man asked.
"Michael," I said.
"Michael Farrell," Charlie added.
"Well, Michael Farrell," the man said. "Tell
me who your mother and father are and tell me how I'm related to you."
My mind started racing. You? As near as I can figure out,
you're my great-great-grandfather.
Go to Chapter
11.
