For as long as he could remember, his grandfather had returned from work every day during the week and entered the house through the backdoor by the garage so as not to interrupt the rest of the family at dinner. Dinner was as regular as the seasons, always at six o’clock, and like most events in the life of the family, was mandatory for all members and carried great significance and tradition. The arrival of his grandfather occurred consistently at 6:45, just late enough for him to miss the ending of the meal and walk down the hall to his room where he would disappear until his reemergence at some point later in the night. By that time, Robert was always in bed and never saw him come out to stand at the kitchen counter and eat his meal over headlines of the evening newspaper. For the first years of his life, Robert was convinced that his grandfather was a special being who never ate except on special occasions such as weekends and holidays. Robert could not figure out why his grandfather never came home early enough to join them at dinner, for his position in his company was such that he made his own hours, but an unforeseen problem at the office always held him back long enough that they would set aside his plate on the kitchen table and cover it with a paper towel so it was still warm when he finally ate later that night.
When his grandfather did dine with the family on weekends, his presence infused the meal with a suffocating, intangible formality. While eating, his grandfather never spoke except to ask for someone to pass the butter or the salt and always tucked his napkin tightly into the collar of his shirt as if it were part of his outfit. Robert was surprised he did not put it on first thing in the morning just to be prepared for dinner, and to prevent any premature spills on his clothing. If a comment was made about the weather, or the state of the town government, or the new fence the neighbors had just put up, the rest of the family would raise their heads from their plates and eye each other excitedly to see if anyone would respond. The uncertainty only lasted for a few seconds. The old patriarch would clear his throat and look straight down at his plate as if he were studying the exact form his broccoli made against the blue pattern on the china, analyzing its angles and contours, and quietly ask for someone to pass the pepper even when it was sitting next to his own hand. The question lingered in the silence until it was absorbed in the still air and disappeared into the floorboards.
Robert would never admit it to himself or anyone else, but the meals were easier without his grandfather’s stern presence at the head of the table. He secretly dreaded the formality of weekend dinners and customary Sunday brunch, though his devotion to the unity of his family made him feel guilty for not reveling in the chance to spend time with the only people he really loved. It was a conflict that he never could rationalize; if he loved his family as much as he felt he did, why did he feel so uncomfortable in their presence? He felt as if the people with whom he lived every day were strangers. Why did he sit quietly when he was bursting to speak and tell them of the things he had done at school and the books he had found in the attic that he knew were his grandfather’s that he had read and ached to ask questions about? They knew nothing of his talent, he thought. He had many stories he yearned to tell them at dinner, to see them laugh and finally break the silence of the oppressive room and then tell him what a smart boy he was and see his grandfather smile.
As Robert grew older, he became used to the disparity that grew between the casual dinners during the week and the ceremony of the weekends. He rarely saw his grandfather except at these weekend meals, for he was busy with school and work, and his grandfather continued to employ a variety of excuses to make allowances for his consistent absence from the life of his family. Robert worked his way through high school with the praise and attention of his grandmother as his constant reinforcement, but still desired even the slightest bit of interest from his grandfather, which was never given.
Robert applied and was accepted to every college he thought was interesting enough to merit his enrollment and, when the time came for him to choose, picked the alma mater of his grandfather, but still no glimmer of notice was given. His last summer at home flew by in a haze of excitement and apprehension and on the last night before he left, he arrived early to the dining room to help his grandmother set the table and prepare the salad for the first course. When she realized that she had forgotten to buy enough vinegar for the dressing, he volunteered to run to the store to purchase more before the meal. He walked through the kitchen out into the hall next to the garage but stopped when he heard footsteps approaching the door from the opposite side. He froze – who was in the house? Surely it wasn’t his grandfather, he was home far too early to be ready for the meal. He breathed deeply and opened the door and to his surprise, found his grandfather leaning over the hood of his car writing something in a tattered book. When he saw Robert, he quickly stood up and shut the book. He motioned to Robert to come closer and placed his hand on his shoulder. Robert took the book from his hand and, not taking his eyes off of his grandfather’s face, opened the front cover:
Robert –
Good luck. You make me very proud.
S. H. II
“This is for you. I saw you reading my books, and I saved this one for you, for when you left. I hope you like it. I did when I was your age.” He coughed slightly and took his hand from Robert’s shoulder, placing it in his pocket. Rocking slightly back on his heels, he coughed again, paused, and strode past him into the house.
