Last Visit to Grandpa

A story about coming to terms with a painful truth

The strong and silent type, my grandfather. The peddle feels heavy as I drive to his house, it sits awash and marooned between two growing cities, waiting to be swallowed into relevance. Our Sunday dinners have had seasons of comfort but remained constant.

When my parents first died, Sundays were court-ordered. Later they became familiar and less required. I never used to understand why I couldn’t just stay there, with him.

His strength stands out most in my memories. He split logs, shifted large items with minimal effort, and tied my shoes with incredible knots, I usually had to gnaw free.

I need to roll down the window to free the anxiety. Breathe.

Yet his arms were safe, threatening, large, and hard but able to protect and restrict. We eventually grew close, in our way. I silently tried to become him. He would feed me moments and I gobbled.

“Take the kiss, don’t ask for it, feel it, let her know you’re man enough to make it happen.”

It made sense then. I thought I knew what he meant.

The yellow lines in the road chase after my car into the darkness behind.

Sharing the same name went from blessing to curse. I wasn’t Jerry Junior; I was Little Jerry. One of his ladies, Candace, stuck me with that nickname. She was number 3, one of the first. There were many. My envy for him feels septic now, deeply saturated & dirty.

Chill in my spine, press the peddle harder, this drive never felt this long. In college, I made this drive from upstate 100’s of times. I was grateful I stayed close to college.

We grew closer, He imposed his influence with ease and seeded me with silent confidence. “Exercise the body and the mind.” he would say, “any weakness is a weakness.” Push-ups over my textbooks, studying between laps. I allowed him to influence and harvest my ideas and organize them into bushels.

His strength both physically and mentally was as evident in me then as they are today. If he’s the Arnold Schwarzenegger of grandpas he made me the Joe Rogan of grandsons. Although, somehow he always seemed to have a finger on me and knew where I was and what I was doing.

When I announced I was going to work my way into law enforcement, his silence, silenced me. I sought pride and felt indifference, although, pride wasn’t easy to earn from him. At the time I wasn’t too surprised, he never liked cops. Whenever we got pulled over he seemed nervous and annoyed and would mutter under his breath. I remember him holding my FBI badge when I first got in. Looking at his reflection and polishing it with his breath. I wonder if that was him laughing at me.

The gravel driveway crunches as I stop. It’s Wednesday, he isn’t expecting me. I park off the side of the driveway in the bushes so he won’t see me coming. I cut through the apple and cherry trees that I had climbed, picked, and groomed my whole life as I approach my grandfather’s house with my gun drawn.

Smoke blooms curled from the chimney and I can smell his famous chai tea and chocolate croissants as I approach the back door. He sits in his lazy boy drinking the tea, the flame light flickers over his face. Distant sirens grow increasingly louder.

“I poured you some.” He says.

My cup steams on the table.

“Who are you?” I stand frozen in the doorway, gun fixed.

“My name is Jerry Donwright, husband to the late Dolly Donwright, father to Donny Donwright, and grandfather to you.” He sips. “I knew you’d figure it out.”

He looked proud.

“You’re a monster.” His look makes me hesitate, I used to work so hard for that look. “You took 23 women from their families. Mothers from their children.”

True anger can be felt in your toes, I press them into the earth, steadying the gun. I have never felt less grounded. “After Candace disappeared, I should have known.” I am disconnected, I feel like I am watching myself speak. The fire crackles and roars.

“You asked so many questions.”

He still wears pride on his face.

I scoff “Not enough.”

My eyes are fixed on his face, I feel guilty for enjoying the moment.

“You saved at least 11 women with your questions, inquiries, and visits. You knew.” His eyes glaze over. “You are the only good thing inside of me.”

That was the closest to I love you we have ever got. I felt the tears welling. “We need to go.”

The sirens can be heard much closer.

He stands, at 74 years old the mammoth man still towers over me. I move towards him, holster the gun and grab my cuffs. The movement causes my eyes to leak, and one splashes on his wrist.

“Tears aren’t…”

“…to be wasted or tasted.” I interrupt him as I grab his arm and spin him around, quickly cuffing him. He smells like warm flannel blankets on stormy nights, popcorn popping over an open fire. The moment hits me, and I drop my forehead into his back.

“It’s only in weakness can we show our strength,” he says.

I begin the march, forehead still nestled into the groove of his soft but muscular back. I say goodbye to the mornings on the lake fishing, to the games of poker with cigars and scotch, and the silence we used to share for hours in comfort. With every step, I let go of the confidence, strength, and security just having him in my life provided.

As we hit the grass out front, I lift my head to see all of the police cars. The lights look like amusement park rides buzzing and twirling through my tears. For a moment I am at the Spring Break Fair holding grandpas’ hand as he leads me through the crowd looking for the mini donuts.

However, the crowd is policemen, ill-looking faces as if fresh off a spinning fair ride. A feeling of relief was in the air. Most of the officers knew Grandpa Jerry since they were boys and an altercation wouldn’t have been easy for these small-town coppers. They all stand watching in silence, the whole force must be here.

A police officer grabs his arm and moves to put him into the back of the cop car. My grandpa turns to face me and has tears running down his face into his mouth.

That’s the last time I saw my grandfather, the Pine Haven Killer.

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Nicholas Simon is a writer and sales professional. He is a Canadian living in the Pacific Northwest with his wife and three kids. He writes short stories, articles, and other peculiarities that dawn upon him.