UNTITLED MEMOIR

CHAPTER FIVE

On the third day of my visit with my son, I decided we’d spend the balmy afternoon at Buttermilk Falls Park. We were only a few blocks away from the park’s entrance when my cell phone rang. If Christopher hadn’t been sitting in the passenger seat next to me, I might have broken down and taken the call. Over the past forty-eight hours, my feelings of frustration toward Nick had lessened and I found myself missing him a little. I glanced down at my phone where it lay in the organizer between the seats, asserting that if it was Nick calling, I’d finally pick up.

“It’s Mom!” Christopher said. He could see the display, too. And the screen did, indeed, read MOM, but I had to explain to him that it was actually my mother calling and not his. Either way, it was a call that I wasn’t particularly overjoyed to receive. I let it go to voicemail.

A phone call from my mother was commonly unpleasant. She talked a lot but very rarely listened. Conversations with her were so unbelievably one-sided that I’d wonder why she bothered to pick up the phone and actually engage another human being in the first place.

A few days before flying up to Ithaca, my mother somehow caught wind of my upcoming trip and called me at home. She reminded me that Grandpa was still in the nursing home in nearby Groton and that I should make it a point to go and visit him while I was up there. I’d already planned to do that, of course, but, I didn’t waste time trying to explain that to her.

My mother, along with her sister Elizabeth and their three older brothers Bob, Joe and Ralph, had all voted unanimously to place Grandpa Rose in the nursing facility just over one year before. My private opinion was that the five of them had become overwhelmed with the arguments between themselves over who was going to do what for my grandfather, so they decided to let someone else do everything. Of the siblings, my Aunt Liz and her husband Ed were the ones with the most disposable income, so it stood to reason that they would have the final say, and they said my grandfather needed to be admitted. Not only that, their home in Lansing was where Grandpa had lived up until his move to the nursing home. Accused by at least two of my uncles that Liz and Ed were making the selfish choice, the truth was that their decision was purely a practical one. With his health declining as quickly as it was, Grandpa needed around the clock care.

My problem with my mother calling me was that I knew that all she would want to do was relate to me over and over again the most insignificant of details about my grandfather’s health and how hard it was on her and the other four kids. “It’s costing us a fortune,” she’d whine, even though I knew for a fact that she hadn’t once been in the position to contribute even one single dime to the cause.

My issues with my mother and her siblings, though, had no bearing whatsoever upon my own feelings for my grandfather. I adored the man. I always had. But talking to my mother about him, on the phone or otherwise, was an inevitable train wreck which I preferred to avoid. She simply couldn’t (or wouldn’t) understand how I could hold him in such high regard in spite of everything I knew about him.

Pulling the car through the entrance to the park, I decided to return her call to simply get it over with. I promised myself to limit the conversation to just ten minutes, fifteen max. I pressed TALK and braced myself for battle.

“Hello Mom,” I said, trying to sound as emotionless as possible. But it didn’t work.

“You sound upset.” She said. No matter how I’d have answered, she’d unfailingly open with something like you sound depressed or you sound tired. For some reason my mother felt the need to start every telephone conversation with a diagnosis.

“I’m fine,” I said. “What’s up?”

“You in New York?” She said. I could tell that she was smoking. I thought briefly about how much my mother smoking cigarettes had scared me as a kid. Worried that I was going to lose her prematurely to cancer, I’d tried to get her to stop by doing everything from taping notes to her cigarette case pleading with her to throw them away (“if you won’t do it for yourself, then do it for me!”) to spouting statistics I’d learned in Health class that described in graphic detail what a smoker’s lungs looked like. Once, as I sat complaining in the backseat of our old Chevy Nova that my mother’s cigarette smoke was flying directly into my face, she rolled up all the car windows and snapped back at me, “How’s that? Is that better?” Ultimately, my efforts to save her from certain doom blew up in my face, usually in the form of an angry outburst. “Stop telling me what to do, you little shit! Who the fuck do you think you are, anyway?”

“Listen, Mom,” I said, getting right to the point. “My time with my son is limited so I’d like to make this quick.” As expected, she took offense.

“Sorry to bother you, son,” she said sarcastically. My mother called me “son” only when she was angry with me. It was irksome how she could make the word sound like a derogatory slur when she wanted to. “I was just calling to tell you that your Aunt Liz called today. She says your grandfather has taken a turn for the worse.” My mother said the words your grandfather with the same loaded tone she used when calling me son. “They don’t think he’ll last through the week. You should get over there to see him as soon as possible.”

“I’m going tomorrow afternoon, Mom.” I said.

“Don’t sound so excited.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. Hard. Breathe. Don’t let her get the best of you. “If the only reason you called was to check up on me and make sure that I go to visit him, mom, the you can hang up now because I said that I’m going.”

“It’s just that I can’t afford to fly up there, so…” she began.

“Uh-uh. I don’t want to hear that shit. You certainly could have afforded it, Mother, with just a modicum of advanced planning. But, as usual, you chose not to. I mean, Christ, it isn’t like all of this came out of the blue. You’ve had plenty of time to get your shit together and buy a goddamned plane ticket.” I sighed deeply after that, realizing she’d gotten the best of me. She didn’t even have to try this time. The stress of my faltering relationship with Nick coupled with the tension between Marie and I had me on edge. It didn’t take much to push me off it.

“You can be so cold sometimes.” She told me.

“I learned from the best.” I shot back.

“You have no idea how hard it is for your mother to save anything,” she said. “I’m not like you. I didn’t get lucky and land a job in fucking Fantasyland.” Whenever she referred to my job as an actor at Disney World, she never failed to belittle its value. I didn’t have enough fingers and toes to count the times she’d told me angrily that not until the day came when I was forced to work a “real” job in the “real world” would I truly understand how difficult and unfair life really was. If you asked her, she would tell you that she was the innocent victim of a life filled with misfortune, bad luck and injustice. My mother truly believed that she’d played no part whatsoever in her own life or what had happened to her in it.

“How’s Christopher?” She asked suddenly. I gave her the benefit of the doubt and chose to regard her question as an attempt to extend an olive branch.

“He’s right here,” I said, looking down at him. He was occupying himself quietly with his Moses action figure. “He’s good.”

“How old is he now?”

“You know exactly how old he is Mom. He’s four, nearly five.”

“Well, you haven’t allowed me to see him in such a long time…” I heard her exhaling a lung full of smoke as she said this.

“You made your choice.” I told her.

“I can smoke in my own goddamned house if I want to, son.” She said.

“Like I said,” I repeated. “You made your choice.” There was silence between us then. Christopher dropped Moses on the floor. I leaned over to pick it up for him.

“Thanks Daddy.” He said. Mom heard him.

“Does he know?” She asked.

“Does who know what?”

“Does he know you’re gay?”

“He’s four.”

“He’s going to find out eventually. Don’t you worry about what he’ll think of you when he finds out?”

“You’re unbelievable,” I laughed bitterly.

“Has he met Nick?”

“You’ve never met Nick.” I reminded her. Then I sighed and answered, “The two of them get along great.”

“They should,” she muttered. “They’re almost the same age.”

“Okay,” I said, exasperated. “Great to hear from you, Mom. Gonna hang up now.”

“Wait.” She said. “You still there?”

“I’m here.”

“I know you resent me for not getting myself up there to see your grandfather, Dewey. Although, I don’t understand how you can’t see why my seeing him again would be difficult.” She took another drag on her cigarette. “And I know you won’t believe me when I tell you this, but I do understand why you love him. And I don’t hate you for that, son. Even though you think I do. That’s why I’m telling you now, go see him. Go right away if you can, honey.”

We said our good-byes and I hung up. I sat in the car, staring straight ahead at the falls. Moses sat motionless in my son’s lap as Christopher looked up at me. He sensed that our afternoon’s plans had just changed.

“Something important just came up, kiddo.” I said to him, turning the key in the ignition. “We’re gonna have to come back here tomorrow.” I was relieved to see that he didn’t seem too concerned about the sudden shift of plans. He went right back to playing with Moses.

“Okay, Daddy.” He said. Then he held Moses up to me and said, “Moses says it’s okay, too.”

* * *

Forty-five minutes later I was parking the car in front of the Groton Senior Facility. Sadly, the building looked as depressing and institutional as its name suggested. It was a single story cinderblock building with paint peeling off in places, revealing the layers of colors that had been chosen in years past. I pushed the button to bring up the convertible top and locked it into place. As I turned off the engine, Christopher said, “What’s this place called?”

“Depressing.” I said. I helped him out of the car and took him by the hand, walking us across the parking lot and into the front double doors to the lobby. Immediately, I didn’t like the place. I was pretty certain Christopher didn’t like it either. His grip tightened upon my hand and he scooted closer to my legs. Kids and the smell of dying people don’t mix.

To our left was a semi-circle of old people in wheelchairs. They were all turned to face what looked to be a brand new large-screen television mounted upon the far wall. They were watching The Maury Povich Show. Maury was about to reveal to his emotionally amped-up audience the results of a paternity test. The only black man seated in the semi-circle violently popped the the base of his cane against the tiled floor and yelled at the television.

“You know dat baby be his! Dat fool look jus’ like a damn tomcat!” He cried. I stepped up to the reception desk just as a rowdy cheer (and one disappointed groan) erupted from the group of wheeled geezers. “Didn’t I tell ya’all?” The old man hollered triumphantly. “Dat boy a got-damn tomcat!”

“How can I help you?” The receptionist said. She appeared pleasant enough. Nothing like those burly, gruff nurses you see in movies like One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. This woman had kind eyes and a bulbous little nose that made me think of Mrs. Santa Claus, or one of those gnomes that they sell in the Norwegian Pavilion at EPCOT back home in Orlando. She smiled wider when she noticed Christopher standing next to me. “Well, for Pete’s sake, look at you!” She cooed. “Aren’t you the handsomest little thing. My. I’ll bet those big blue eyes of yours just drive the girlies at your school wild.”

“I don’t like girls.” My son told her. I so badly wanted to quip, like father, like son, but I knew the joke wouldn’t be appreciated by anyone but me. She was right, though. Christopher’s big blue eyes and impossibly long lashes were always what people noticed about him and commented upon first. The brilliant blue hue he got from me, the appealing almond shape came courtesy of his mother.

“I’m here to see my grandfather.” I said. She pulled out a clipboard from beneath the counter and pulled a pen from behind her ear.

“Which fella’s your grampa?” She asked.

“Ralph Rose.” I answered. I noticed heads turn in the semi-circle across the room. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I heard one of them mumble God help ya, kid. I turned my attention back to the Norwegian gnome as she handed me the clipboard and showed me where to sign my name. As she took the clipboard back from me, she smiled and said, “It’s been a while since Mr. Rose has had any visitors.”

I took the sticker she handed me that read VISITOR and stuck it on the front of my shirt. “I know,” I replied, resentful that I was the one being made to atone for the neglect of the family members who actually lived within an hours drive of the place. I almost added, but I live in Florida, then thought better of it. What was the point other than to shirk my responsibility onto someone else? Wasn’t that exactly what I felt my mother was doing to me?

“You’ll find him in room seventeen. Straight down the hall. It’s the last room on the right.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Come on, kiddo.”

“Daddy, I left Moses in the car.”

“He’ll be fine. He’s a wizard.”

Heading down the long hallway, I remembered what it used to feel like when I would visit my grandfather at Christopher’s age. I always looked forward to it because I knew that it meant that there would be laughing. Lots of laughing. Making me laugh was an incredible magic trick to which only my Grandpa knew the secret. Mom didn’t know the trick. My little sister Sheri didn’t know it, either.

“Pull the handle,” Grandpa said to me once from the comfort of his blue La-Z-Boy recliner. He motioned toward the wooden handle on the side of his recliner which, when pulled, made the foot rest pop up. I pulled the handle hard and when the foot rest popped up, Grandpa farted. My face must have registered comical surprise because Grandpa began to laugh mightily.

“Did you see it?” He asked gleefully.

“What?” I said, intrigued.

“That tiny elephant! It trumpeted and ran beneath the couch!”

I was smiling at the memory when we reached the door to room seventeen. I pushed it open it, knocking gently as I did. I heard him say, “Yeah?” from across the room before I saw him. The room itself was dreary and small, with no room for anything more than the bed, a tiny bureau at the foot of it and one straight-back wooden chair in the corner. If you didn’t know otherwise, you’d take it for a dorm room. One that had hurriedly been emptied at year’s end by the last student who’d occupied it. Except for the three pieces of meager furniture, the room was completely bare. Nothing adorned the walls save one small bulletin board hung directly above the bed. Pinned upon it was a single greeting card and a couple of old photographs.

When I saw my grandfather, I was surprised to find that he was lying in the small twin bed that occupied the center of the room. He wasn’t wearing a green hospital gown as I’d expected. He was dressed as if at any moment he’d hop out of bed and head out for a round of golf. He wore a light yellow polo shirt, a black leather belt, cream colored slacks, black dress socks and what looked like a brand new pair of white sneakers, laces neatly tied. Even at his age my grandfather still sported a full head of hair, although it was now snowy white. I remembered that he’d always kept it evenly parted and combed to the side in a handsome wave, which is how he wore it now. For a split second I wondered whether he’d known somehow that we were coming. But I quickly scratched that as an impossibility. The fact was, my grandfather had always taken great pride in his personal appearance. I was heartened to see that this hadn’t changed. I guessed that getting dressed as though he had somewhere to go was my grandfather’s way of maintaining some sense of dignity in this miserable place.

“Hi Grandpa,” I said, not too loudly but with intent to sound as cheerful as possible. Grandpa turned his head on the pillow and I was relieved when he immediately recognized me. I’d prepared myself to do a lot of explaining in the case that he didn’t.

“Dewey,” He said in a moist, cracked whisper. “When did you get here?”

“I came to visit you,” I answered stupidly. I stepped into the room, Christopher trailed hesitantly behind me.

“Who’s that?” Grandpa asked when he saw my son. Clearly, he didn’t remember that he’d sent us a birthday card with a fifty dollar bill in it for Christopher’s first birthday. Regardless, this was Grandpa’s first time meeting my son in person. It had been more than five years since I’d last seen my grandfather, and pangs of guilt swelled within me. I stood Christopher in front of me with my hands upon his shoulders. I said, “This is my son, Grandpa. This is Christopher.”

“Oh?” He said. “How old is he?”

“I’m almost five.” Christopher offered, unsolicited. “How old are you?”

“Damned if I remember,” Grandpa said with a wink. “Older than dirt, is my guess.” He shifted in the bed and tried to sit up. I told him to stay where he was and pulled the chair from the corner to beside the bed. He looked at Christopher and asked playfully, “You got a job, kid?”

“No,” my son giggled. “But sometimes I help count the money after church.”

Grandpa turned to me then and asked the same question. I told him that I still worked at Disney World.

“You been there a while now, haven’t you?” He said.

“Since right out of high school,” I nodded. “It’s treating me well.” It felt strange talking to him about my job at Disney because I knew that he had absolutely no clue what it was that I actually did there. I tried explaining it to him years ago, but, the concept of improvisational street performance was completely lost on him. All he seemed to catch were the words actor and Disney, so for all these years I’d let him believe that I wore a Goofy costume and shook hands all day.

Christopher wandered the room aimlessly, running his fingers along the cinderblock walls and humming a tune from the Teletubbies cd. He’s such a good little man, I thought to myself. He’s bored out of his mind and doesn’t want to be here, but he doesn’t complain a lick. As though he’d sensed me thinking about him, Christopher walked back over to the foot of Grandpa’s bed. He stared at the white sneakers on Grandpa’s feet.

“Can I ask a question?” He said, addressing neither one of us in particular. “Why is he wearing new sneakers if he’s gonna die soon anyway?”

Without so much as a hitch, my grandfather replied, “Well, they jog in heaven, don’t they?” His brilliant response was just the most recent example of my grandpa’s absolutely flawless skill with comedic timing. Over the years, whenever anyone asked me how I got to be so damned funny, I always attributed my knack for clever, slingshot witticisms to him.

In many cases, when a child makes a comment as bold as the one Christopher had just made, most parents might cringe and hide, or at the very least brusquely reprimand the kid for his impudence. I, however, always made it a point not to stifle my son’s inherent tendency to be curious and to ask questions. Christopher’s frankness was just one more of the many things that I loved about him. I was probably compelled to encourage his precociousness for a couple of reasons. First, I felt that I needed to counter-balance his mother’s habit of constantly shutting him down whenever he expressed himself. (“Stop fidgeting so much! You ask too many questions! Get away from that creek, you’ll get wet! Don’t use that word, it’s evil and Jesus doesn’t like it!”) How I saw it, Marie was teaching our son that nothing he ever said or did was right, and I was greatly discouraged that I was already witnessing early symptoms of my son’s developing insecurities, especially when it came to making his own decisions.

My other motivation was surely fueled by memories of my own experiences as a child. I, too, was often criticized by the adults in my life for how I spoke, how I walked, even for how I chewed my food. The long term effects were devastating and I didn’t want Christopher spending half of his life recovering from the ignorance and cruelty of his elders like I’d had to.

For about an hour, I sat with Grandpa and we made small talk. I told him about the newest parade at the Disney MGM Studios and how much I resented being forced by management to march in it every day. The costume they gave me made me look like a Pop-Tart. Not just that, my parade duty was in addition to my regular street performing gig. It lengthened my work day (without any extra pay) by an hour and a half. Grandpa told me about how nice Margaret (the Norwegian Gnome) was and admitted to me that he thought she was a “looker.” He also bitterly complained that by doctor’s orders he wasn’t allowed to have candy in his room. He asked me if I would consider smuggling in a Hershey bar for him from the convenience store across the street before I left that day. I promised him that I would.

Soon, I could tell that talking was becoming difficult for Grandpa, and that he was tired. We attempted to fill the silence of the moment by chuckling to ourselves as we watched Christopher at the foot of the bed, intensely occupied with untying and tying again the laces on Grandpa’s sneakers.

For the first time since coming to visit him, it occurred to me that whatever decision I finally made wouldn’t only affect my relationship with Nick, it would also drastically impact whether I’d get to see my Grandfather again any time soon. I was thrown that I hadn’t realized it before then. If I chose to accept the offer, I’d be out of the country for God knew how long. And even though electing to go would mean leaving Nick behind, I’d always known in the back of my mind that he’d still be there when I returned. Grandpa, on the other hand, was nearing ninety and going downhill fast. My heart fell as it dawned on me that, unlike my boyfriend, my grandfather would most likely not be there when I got back. This could very well turn out to be my final visit with him.

“How’s your mom?” Grandpa asked, breaking the silence. The question caught me off guard. My first impulse when asked a question was always to speak the truth, no matter how uncomfortable it might sound to the person who’d asked. But, during one of my visits to my shrink (which my Disney benefits paid for, Praise Mickey) she posed that I might want to learn how to tell little white lies, justifying it by explaining that it’s okay to bend the truth if you’re saving another person from experiencing suffering. I decided to put her advice into practice now.

“She’s doing great,” I said. Little white lies. “She sends her love.” As soon as I said it, it was clear he didn’t believe it.

“She hates me, you know.” He said, looking out the small window on the west wall. His eyes appeared distant, as though he were seeing something from long ago.

“She doesn’t hate you Grandpa,” I said. Little white lies.

“If I were her, I’d hate me.” Grandpa looked directly at me now, his eyes glistening with tears. I knew my Grandpa as a man who would cry at the drop of a hat, so this wasn’t so unusual to me. He often cried whenever he talked about his family and how disappointed he was that they were all scattered to the winds, never really seeing one another unless someone in the family died. A guarded stoicism came over Grandpa, as if he were steeling himself against some approaching threat. “I tried to make it right. I tried. But she’s like me. Stubborn. She wouldn’t let me make it right.”

I felt the urge to bolt. I badly wanted to make up some excuse to leave, to stand up and walk right out of there. I wished now for my Grandfather to show me the bravado I’d found so compelling as a kid. Nothing scared my grandfather, and nobody pushed him around. He always got his way. If anyone opposed him, he would simply talk louder than they did. If they persisted, he’d yell. I wanted to be just like him when I grew up.

“I made mistakes, Dewey.” He whispered. He was wringing his large, thick fingers together, looking at me in desperation. I sensed an agonizing need in him and I nearly panicked.

What did he want from me? I knew the whole sordid story, of course, but what did he expect me to say?

“All my kids hate me,” he said. “I tried my best. I think I did, anyway. But it turned out all wrong anyhow.” Tears rolled down his cheeks now, and my heart ached for him. It occurred to me how torturous it must be to live for so long, only to come to the end saddled with such burdensome regret. He kept repeating again and again that he’d made so many mistakes. He cried hard for quite a while while I sat there watching him, wondering what the hell I was supposed to do.

It hurt to see my Grandpa like this. While my instinct was to run, I forced myself to stay here and face this. He needs this. I need this. I swallowed hard and watched helplessly as my grandfather searched for a way to cope with his pain. I willed my hand to reach out to him. It was a purely mechanical choice to do so. Physical contact had never been something our family practiced. Not in a healthy manner, anyway. I began to push the snowy white hair back from Grandpa’s sweaty forehead, acknowledging to myself how awkward this intimate act felt to me. To make it seem less weird, I imagined myself comforting my son when he was running a high fever, shaking with chills and sweating profusely. Rubbing his head hadn’t been uncomfortable for me. I felt that because he was mine, because he was my son, it was my responsibility to comfort him.

That’s what’s wrong with this family, I thought. No one ever takes responsibility for anyone else. Everyone in this family viewed the world through their own selfish eyes. And look where it gets you.

I searched for what to say to my grandfather.

“We’ve all made mistakes,” I said. He looked away from me. I wondered if he was aware that I knew. But it didn’t matter really. Not now. Grandpa placed his hand on top of mine and squeezed lightly.

“I have too many regrets.” He said. His voice cracked and it sounded for a moment as though he were choking on the words. The tears were unstoppable now, and Grandpa’s shoulders heaved as a torrent of emotion came bursting forth, unrelenting. All I could do was sit there and keep hold of his hand, letting him know that it was okay, that this was okay, and that there would be no judgment. As the storm began to pass and he quieted down a bit, I handed him his handkerchief from his shirt pocket. He’d always carried a neatly folded handkerchief in his shirt pockets. He took it and wiped his runny nose roughly, as if he were swatting a fly.

“Grandpa,” I said quietly. “You always took such good care of me.”

“I hurt people.” He sobbed.

I nodded slightly. “I can’t believe that you wanted to hurt anyone,” I said. “Things happen to us, things that hurt us, and then…we sort of…just pass that stuff on…” I paused a moment to see if he felt like talking. He remained quiet.

“Does your mother ever mention me?” He said.

Little white lies.

“Sure.” I said. I leaned in close to him and smiled. “You aren’t the devil, Grandpa.”

“But I feel like I am.” He said.

“You’re just a man,” I told him. He started sobbing into his hanky again. “But listen to me, okay? You never hurt me. You were always good to me. You were there for me when I needed someone strong, which was often, and you helped me to get through some pretty shitty times. I could never have made it without you. You’ve got to focus upon that instead of all that other stuff. You hearing me, Grampa? There’s nothing any of us can do about that other stuff now.”

“Your mom treated you rotten because of me.”

“Yeah,” I said. “And she’s still no ton of fun.” I gripped his hands in mine even tighter now. “But, here’s the deal, Grandpa. How Mom deals with her shit is her choice. What happened, happened. It’s done. You aren’t responsible anymore. I just want you to find some peace.”

“It’s unfair.” He said. I wondered what he meant exactly, but didn’t ask.

“Yes,” I agreed with him, sitting back in the chair. “It’s unfair. But, as you often reminded me, ‘no one said life would be fair.’”

“I told you that?” He said.

“You did.”

“I was right.” He sniffed. I got up and filled a paper cup with some tap water from the bathroom sink. I handed it to him. I sat back down beside him as he sipped it.

“After I leave this room and you’re here alone,” I said to him. “I want you to do something for me.” Christopher was standing beside me now, waiting to hear what I was going to say. “I want you to think of me, and all that you did for me, and I want you to say to yourself, ‘I did good.’ And then I want you to think about how grateful I will always be to you.”

If it had been a cheesy Hollywood film, the music would have swelled just then, Grandpa and I would have embraced amidst tears of healing revelation, and THE END would have slowly appeared upon the screen. But, instead, real life happened, which is never as dramatic or satisfying. Christopher and I said our good-byes, I kissed my grandfather on his forehead, and my little boy and I walked out of the room.

I glanced back and saw my grandpa lying there on the bed with his head turned to gaze out his window. I wondered what he was thinking in that moment. I wondered whether anything I’d just said to him had helped in any way to ease his pain.

As we left the nursing home, I decided to take my son directly to a Dairy Queen. We sat together in silence as we ate our ice cream. I sat in silence, anyhow. Christopher’s ice cream was melting down his hand as he narrated an entire scene in which the Mighty Moses bravely battled Satan. I sat there absently stirring my banana split into a messy milk shake, thinking about my grandfather. My thoughts wandered to other places, too. I thought about grandpa’s old Winnebago and the cross-country trip we took together one summer. I thought about the past few years I’d spent as a street performer at Disney. I thought about what it might be like to live in a foreign country. And I thought about Nick.

I wiped Christopher’s sticky hands clean with a damp napkin. As he squirmed impatiently on the bench, Moses appeared in my face and said, “I am the mighty Moses! And you must follow me to a new and exciting land!”

I’ll be damned, I smirked to myself as I lifted my son down from the bench. Moses is right.