In high school, once, I had the privilege of living with my grandmother, Honey.
She lived in an apartment above a gas station and monitored its patrons. Washing the dishes she’d pause, observing, “must be grass cutting time. They’re back with their red can again.” I looked up from my Husserl, “that’s surprising,” I said to pacify her and kept reading. “See how I dry, not leaving spots?” she led. “I see that,” I answered.
“You wash, well, I have to wash them again on account of the spots. Once they dry can’t just wipe them off. Need to re-wash everything. Shame given all that water.”
“It is,” I agreed from within my Husserl.
“That book must not be very good. Taken you awhile to finish it.”
She missed the past: her garden, Sunday drives, pot-roast, taking in the game with Merlin, my deceased grandfather. I was sad to watch her can vegetables she that same day bought from the grocery. She couldn’t, usually, switch on the television or find her glasses but intuited my slight wince. This is in June.
“I see you making that face, watching your grandmother like some feeble ward. Patrick, I’m canning and you’ll appreciate it when you’re hungry come winter months. Grandma won’t look silly then.” I was leaving next month, moving out. I didn’t remind her. “They will be good,” I agreed.
She mixed frozen green beans and frozen corn into the cans, sealed them in mason jars
and organized them within a color spectrum across the speckled formica.
“If you want to help, label the cans. Write it big or it’s no use. Tape’s in the drawer.”
“I’ll look,” I said, putting down my Husserl.
“Merlin made the same face—the one you’re making—when I canned in front of him.” Some jars were empty though still freshly sealed. I was in my room fixing the bronze screw on my glasses: “ You stopped halfway through,” she yelped from the kitchen, “didn’t label these one’s.” I labeled the empty jars, boxed them and followed her down to the cellar. “One of these days we’ll clean this area out. Not now though,” then she turned out the lights. “Did you hear something,” she asked, tilting her head with squinted eyes, “If that’s vermin the rent should be reduced. One mouse means a family. They’ll ruin our entire stock.” There wouldn’t be time to clean the cellar given my leaving the next month. I didn’t remind her.
“Rent’s down the middle,” she verified the first night, me still holding my duffle bag. “That second room is plenty big. Same as mine. Measured them myself. Figured you pay electric. I’ll pay gas. It’s about even.”
“Sounds fine,” I said, wanting water and having left the bus only minutes before.
She walked to the grocery on Saturday so I measured the two rooms. They weren’t even, not close. “Measure them yourself,” she said initially, “measuring tape’s around her somewhere.” It wasn’t so I secretly bought one.
I unpacked books that first night: the Husserl, Daybreak, Hegel, some Marlowe.
She walked in with snacks—ants on a log and tang—watching me: “That’s what the shelf’s for. They’ll be fine there,” positioning the tray. “Live through a war,” she advised, “wouldn’t need those musty rags, lugging them state to state. And that’s how I met Merlin too. Did good. Ask your mother; we tore napkins in quarters to save. One napkin per meal, all kids, your Grandmother Honey and Grandpa Merlin.”
“I enjoy reading before bed. That’s all.”
“Look out the window,” she said, ‘that’s my favorite book. Squinting all night at a dead tree, for the birds, Patrick—that’s for the birds.”
“Merlin use to have Reader’s Digest,” she continued, “on the bedside. Every night he’d read, get wound up, restless and not sleep. Had a small stack, bought them at Woolworth. He got all these ideas and fears. I said stop reading them so we can sleep.”
The thermostat was in her bedroom. October was colder than I anticipated. “Cold tonight, don’t you think?” I asked, wanting heat.
“And why do you think your grandmother Honey’s wearing a sweater? It is cold. That’s why I’ve got the sense to wear a sweater. It’s October, Patrick. Seasons change.”
I tapped on her door two hours later. “Grandma, it’s cold out here and in my room. Can we nudge the thermostat?”
She leaned back and peered at the thermostat, craning her neck from her upholstered rocker. I could see the dust film covering the circular grey thermostat, the plastic cover yellowed with age. She settled back down. “I’m not the slightest uncomfortable, Patrick. Thermostat should be fine. My sweater is warm,” she ended, continuing to knit, intermediately spooning her rum raison.
“Ok then,” I said disarmedly, leaving her room, noticing the two electric space heaters running on high. Her room was an incubator, the rum raison melting. I left her door open hoping to siphon the heat.
“Patrick, my door—please? Don’t want a draft breezing in . . . There’s more in the carton. Help yourself. Saw you eyeing my rum raisin,” she explained.
I called my mother three days later, saying it was cold.
“She’s paying gas and you’re paying electric?” she guessed, “Those space heaters run all night. Two of them.”
“I see.”
“Shouldn’t have agreed to that, Patrick.”
“I’m seeing that.”
Wednesday night and she’s at bingo. The VFW is three blocks south. She crosses the vacant gas station, I spring into her room and nudge the thermostat. The translucent needle meets seventy-one. Nothing happens. Ten minutes and nothing. I grab a broom and my jacket, down the back stairs and into the yard. I’m looking for the gas tank, where it’s buried in the back. I find it and unscrew the lid. I hear the hollow clank: wood on metal. No liquid muffles the reverberations.
Honey was fixing dinner. My room had one electrical outlet, enough for my desk lamp and clock—two relative necessities. I audit the kitchen, finding another outlet near my door.
“Honey,” I asked, noting two identical white boxes in each socket, “do we need both of these? Maybe a space heater could go there.”
“Absolutely not, Patrick. Those are carbon monoxide detectors. Whole house is liable to go up without them.”
“Without both of them?”
“That’s right. Both of them. Life is fragile, Patrick.”
“I see,” I conceded, looking for my Husserl.
