The camera panned left, and suddenly there he was, dear old dad, wearing a black T-shirt instead of the black turtleneck that he’d been wearing more than six months ago when I’d seen him in The Royal. He still sported a well-shaped beard. His previously close-cropped hair had grown into a modest Afro. Also as in the diner, he wore a large silver medallion on a chain around his neck. Back on December 29, I hadn’t been able to discern the nature of his jewelry; on the TV, it was clearly a peace sign.
The sight of Tilton in this context was so beyond expectation that I was both astonished and amazed, both my heart and mind quite overwhelmed. Like Miss Delvane, he displayed none of the righteous fury of the demonstrators among whom he moved. He seemed even to be somewhat bemused by their passion, and there was a certain wariness about him, his gaze continuously shifting here and there.…
I surprised myself when I said aloud, “What are they up to?”
Intuitively, based on my experience of my father, I knew that neither he nor Miss Delvane, nor Mr. Smaller, for that matter, was at the City College demonstration because they thought the war was immoral and hoped to end it. Something else must be afoot.
Although I expected next to glimpse Lucas Drackman and Fiona Cassidy, the news went to Detroit to dwell lovingly on the charred and still smoking ruins left behind by the recently ended riots. When I heard car doors slam and stood up and, through a window, saw Grandpa’s Cadillac at the curb in front of the house, I shut off the television.
When he and Mom came through the front door and called out to me, I called back to them from the kitchen, where I was busy setting the dinette table for dinner.
They had stopped at the supermarket to buy fresh-ground sirloin and other items. For dinner we enjoyed a tomato-and-cucumber salad, hamburger steaks, baked beans, and potatoes that Grandpa sliced thin and fried in a big iron skillet with butter and slivers of a green pepper.
At the table, as we ate, we shared the events of the day with one another. Two and a half months after Grandma Anita’s passing, my grandfather was able to smile again and on occasion even laugh, though there remained in him a sorrow that was obvious when he thought you weren’t looking and was evident to a lesser degree when you were.
I told them about Malcolm Pomerantz, how he had to work hard to convince me that he wasn’t a murderous stranger, how we had a lot of fun playing together, even if piano and sax made an odd duet. I didn’t mention my father on television, because I knew myself well enough to realize that if I talked about him, I might chatter on and tell them about Miss Delvane. I didn’t want to hurt my mother, and even though she had given up on Tilton, she might be wounded if she learned that Miss Delvane was with him.
48
Later, I was lying in bed with a copy of Robert Heinlein’s The Star Beast, which I’d started the evening before. The story was hilarious. The previous night, I’d giggled frequently while reading. But now I couldn’t get Tilton-on-TV out of my head, and scenes that should have made me laugh out loud could raise no more than a smile.
My door was ajar, and Mom appeared at the threshold. “Hey, big guy, you have a minute?”
“Well, I was about to get dressed and go bar-hopping, then take a jet to Paris for breakfast.”
“What time’s your flight?” she asked as she came into the room.
“It’s a private jet. I can leave anytime I want.”
“You’ve been saving your lunch money, huh?”
“And investing it wisely.”
She sat on the edge of the bed. “Are you happy here, sweetie?”
“In Grandpa’s house? Sure. It’s better than an apartment. It’s so quiet here.”
“Your room’s bigger.”
“A piano right in the living room. And no cockroaches.”
“It’s nice having the second bathroom, even if it does just have a shower without a tub.”
Putting the book aside, I said, “I miss Grandma, though.”
“I’ll miss her till the day I die, sweetie. But she left a lot of love in this house. I feel it all around.”
She picked up my left hand and kissed each finger. She always did things like that. I’ll never forget the gentle things she did, not ever.
“You like Malcolm, do you?”
“Yeah. He’s cool.”
“I’m glad you found a friend so soon. Which reminds me, someone came by to eat at the lunch counter today and gave me a message for you. She said you were the sweetest, most courteous boy, and I was so proud of you.”
“Who?” I asked.
“I never saw her before, but she said she lived in our building for a short while. Said she met you in the foyer and on the stairs a few times. Eve Adams. Do you remember her?”