Higher ground

I rode in his immaculate truck to the lumber yard.  He held one steady weathered hand on the wheel and the other he used to drink his endless cup of coffee.    He is one of seven children, catholic, old school.

Most people have horror stories about their contractors; I feel as if mine could be my grandfather, albeit a rather young one as he is in his sixties.

My own grandfather is mucking about in Mississippi, making lives miserable.  At 93, he is cantankerous, ornery and unapologetic.  He blames the world for his lot in life, a lot so many would be lucky to have.

Robert, my contractor, reminds me of the grandfather I thought I had, before I became an adult, before I knew better, before.  He is a hardworking self-made man.  He took risks, but he took them holding his wife's hand.  He made money and he lost more.  Then he rebuilt his business and recouped his losses without forgetting who he was or where he came from.

My mother followed my grandfather to the casinos yesterday.  She said he must have been doing 90.  he angled for the closest parking space to the building.  That's where my mother caught him.  Cagily, craftily, he cackled and wagged a finger at her, "I was just testing you", he called out.  It is despicable.  He is a sad Faulknerian caricature, embroiled in debt and deceit, sidestepping as his wife lies dying.  He wails and moans, cries and prays.  My mother wants me to understand his pain, his terror at losing his beloved.  My sympathy has run dry.

Robert turned the truck into my driveway and then caught my arm before I tried to exit.  "Careful", he said.  "You could fall from there; let me back up to more level ground".  Too late, I thought.