Remember how I said I was going to write a story based on the news article I found a couple weeks ago about the oldest man in Tokyo? Well I've written it and it's the first time I've been able to write something somewhat decent since I finished Milo's blog.

So here, it is. Inspired by a true story. A Rose for Grandpa.

 

A Rose for Grandpa

 

            Grandpa goes out sometimes at night, after the sweets shop is locked, when the street is empty, while I’m warm under my blankets. He’s made friends with the latenight tobacconist. That’s someone who sells you cigarettes. Momma says cigarettes are what killed Grandma six years ago when my hair was still in pigtails. I can’t imagine what they get up to—my grandpa and the tobacconist—chatting away under the buzzing white lights of the tobacco shop ‘til dawn. When I’m old enough, I’ll go into the shop and ask if Grandpa’s ever blamed him for Grandma’s death.

            When I go downstairs for breakfast, Momma is crying. Papa’s got her by the wrist and is trying to talk her out of a forest of tears.

            “What’s wrong, Momma?” I ask and wonder if I’ve been sold to pirates or a super-advanced kingdom has declared war on the city.

            “Oh, Alica! Mr. Vitzney’s dead. I’ve only just been on the phone with his daughter and she says it’s a sure thing.”

            “Mr. Vitzney?” I know that name from somewhere.

            “The old baker who sits in the park,” says Papa.

            Oh, Pigeon Man. One time, my schoolmate Nik found Pigeon Man wandering by the canal where older kids skateboard and drink beer. Pigeon Man claimed he’d forgotten the way home. Fifty years in the same house and he’d lost his way—imagine. Nik had to get a policeman because Pigeon Man didn’t know his address.

            Momma says this is what happens when you are old. Seems to me there is no difference between being old and being sick. This is why I’m not allowed to see Grandpa. He’s not to be disturbed because he’s tired most of the time, and one unwelcome start could kill him dead. So, I never go into Grandpa’s room when he’s home. Sometimes I listen, though, to the sounds through the door. The smoky cracks like the breaking of rotted firewood and the whisper of slippers across floorboards.

            Spoons clink against china as Pavel sets down the tea tray. “He’s the oldest man in town, Alica. Well, he was, I suppose. You don’t get to be oldest if you’re dead. I guess that’s how it works.”

            Momma howls and turns into the kitchen.

            “I’m sorry, Papa,” says Pavel. “I didn’t mean to be insensitive.”

            Papa just stares at him with his hands on his hips. This is his method to break Pavel down. See, to Papa, we’re all equations, and if he can find the right numbers, he can solve all our variables and get us to do what he wants us to do.

            “She hardly knew Mr. Vitzney at all, Papa,” Pavel says. “I know it’s sad, but he was really old. It’s not a big shock or anything.”

            “The oldest,” says Papa. “Not just old, but the oldest person in St. Petersburg.”

            Pavel looks at the floor and shrugs like it’s no big deal.

            Papa keeps his stare on him. “And do you know who’s the oldest person in St. Petersburg now?”

            Pavel doesn’t move, so Papa looks to me. I look at the ceiling. A piece of furniture scrapes the floor upstairs. Grandpa is awake.

            “Don’t you get an award for that?” I ask.

            “That’s the problem.” Papa’s white face crinkles like a tissue, and he pushes past me into the kitchen like he’s going to be sick.

            “I made the tea!” Pavel shouts after him. Pavel never makes the tea or does any chores, so I tell him “Thank you” and pour myself a cup before it gets cold. He hasn’t brought out the sugar or milk, but I don’t want to upset him, so I drink it plain.

            Pavel sits in Momma’s chair and leans his mantis elbows on his knees. “Wouldn’t you think Grand-dad would like an award?”

            “An award for not dying?” I ask.

            “Must take some effort. People are dying all the time.”

            “Maybe Momma’s just scared Grandpa will be the next to go.”

            Pavel leans back and shakes his head. “It’s not even like he’s her own pap. He’s her pap’s pap, you know? She hardly knew him before Grand-pappy died. She’s more his babysitter than anything.”

            “You talk like you want him to die.”

            Furniture shifts above us. Sounds like the whole bed this time. Pavel looks up at the light fixture and I can tell he too is wondering how such an old man can move a bed.

            “I didn’t say anything like that, Alica. Drink your tea.”

            I sip from my cup. It burns my mouth and I can tell from the aftertaste that Pavel let it go bitter, but I keep drinking because Pavel is a fragile dream-catcher of moods—pretty on the outside but suppressing all kinds of nightmares. When we first moved to the city to look after Grandpa, Pavel used to wake screaming in the middle of the night, mumbling with his eyes closed about mummies and zombies. Momma says it’s puberty and the move—new sounds at night, different smells, they gave him nightmares. I wonder if he ever got over them.

            “What do you think it’s like to be old?” I ask.

            “I hope I die before I get that old,” Pavel says.

            “Okay, then, what do you think it would be like to be dead?” This is the wrong question because Momma is just re-entering the room with a tray of breakfast. She seems well composed. Papa knows Momma’s equation best. “You wear nice clothes and people from the city bring you roses,” says Momma, setting a tray of butter beans and pastries with jam down on the coffee table.

            “If I die, I just want one pink rose,” I say.

            “Funeral roses are usually red, aren’t they?” Papa asks, sucking his fingers, and I know he’s stolen a honey tart before grace. His tone is conversational, distracting us from the man who’d no longer feed pigeons in the park.

            “Momma,” says Pavel, “why don’t you want Grand-dad to get an award?”

            Papa sighs and starts heaping milky beans onto his plate. I can feel the room freeze over with the tension Pavel’s creating. I almost hear the ice splintering.

            “I don’t want strange men in the house,” Momma says. “They’ll come in here with their balloons and flowers and upset Grandpa. He’s very weak and shouldn’t be bothered with this frivolous certificate.” She hands me a full plate.

            “But sometimes he isn’t very weak,” I say. “Like when he visits the tobacconist. Maybe he’ll be okay. He might like an award. Who doesn’t like an award?” I look at Pavel, who shrugs.

            Papa is staring at me, not because it’s a tactic like with Pavel. He can’t help it.

            “When does he see the tobacconist?” Momma asks.

            “At night sometimes. His room’s right next to mine. I hear him leave.” I look from Momma to Papa. Surely they too know of Grandpa’s outings. Why should they want to keep it a secret from me?

            “It’s a dream, sweetheart,” says Papa. “You know he’s too frail to leave his room.”

            “But I’ve gone into his room sometimes and he’s not there.”

            Momma’s teacup hits too hard on her saucer, and I jump. “Alica! You go into his room?”

            “Not when he’s home, Momma, honest. Only when I know he’s left. I’ve never disturbed him, not once, I swear.”

            Momma looks at Papa, who looks blankly back. “A dream, kitten,” he says. He sips his tea, and his neck muscles flex, and I know he thinks it’s gone bitter, too.

            “You can even ask Mr. Talievsky,” I say.

            “What are you doing talking to a tobacconist?” Momma asks.

            “He was at church.”

            “Mr. Talievsky doesn’t go to church.”

            “His wife does. He goes on holidays. He said send his regard to my grandpa, and I asked what for, and he said Grandpa keeps him company on the third shift most nights.”

            Forgetting the taste of his tea, Papa sips again and says, “He must be confusing Grandpa with someone else.”

            I look to Pavel whose gaze is almost as far away as Papa’s. “You hear Grandpa go out at night, too, don’t you?” I ask.

            “I…” Pavel starts and then chokes the word back in. He shuts his jaw and shakes his head. My eyes fill with tears. Why is everyone lying to me? Why shouldn’t I know? What do Grandpa and the tobacconist do at night? I race up to my bedroom and lock myself in without eating any breakfast.

 

Momma tucked me in hours ago, but I lie staring at the ceiling, listening to cars and planes and church bells keep the night moving steadily toward morning. It’s almost one o’clock, and I think Grandpa is not going to make his voyage down the road to the tobacco shop tonight.

            But then there is a sound from behind the wall, a rustle of laundry-stiff sheets and whispering slippers. I sit up and imagine I can fine-tune my ears like I can focus my eyes. His door barely makes a sound opening, but I recognize the click shut. I am not dreaming, I tell myself, and because I can think this thought without waking up, I know it’s true.

            I wait for the whisper to reach the stairs and then I peek out of my bedroom. I see a white sleeve like a sheet disappear around the corner. Grandpa’s going out in his pajamas! And for the first time, I wonder if he sleepwalks, and perhaps Momma doesn’t know about his expeditions after all. But surely the tobacconist would know if he were talking to a sleeping man, wouldn’t he?

            I listen for the chain on the front door to rattle limp, and then I descend, bending my knees because I think this makes me invisible to waking ears. I open the door and peer into the yard where a figure in his nightgown staggers with age across the moon-blue lawn. Grandpa has his night cap over his head and down the back of his neck. How funny he must look. But then I realize I’m the only one looking, and I have to stifle a laugh.

            Grandpa totters all the way down the block without looking around. He’s traveled this road all his life and has nothing new to see. If he were to turn around, he might catch a glimpse of his great-grand-daughter stalking him from the shadows.

            He walks into the tobacco shop on the corner, a beacon of fluorescent light in an otherwise sleeping street.

            I follow him to the doorway, but I stop. I can’t go in. If Grandpa knows I sneaked out of the house, he could tell Momma. And just what did I think I was doing in a tobacco shop? Didn’t I know tobacco’s what killed Grandma?

            I duck under the window and squint into the sterile light of Grandpa’s haven. Mr. Talievsky is behind the counter. Pavel said he’s like if a walrus mated with a hedgehog. But he is also a gentle man, the kind who might hold a butterfly and cry because his strength crushed it.

            His counter faces me. Behind him, a wall of colorful cigarette cases. There are so many different kinds, I am amazed the kids who skate at the canal don’t collect and trade them.

            Grandpa stands at the counter. His bleached cap and gown practically glow in this room. His back is to me, but I can picture his face, pale and crinkled. I think he must be talking because the tobacconist is nodding.

            Mr. Talievsky looks over Grandpa’s shoulder out of the window. I drop to the ground.

            The image of those dark walrussy eyes echoes in my vision. I count to ten as slow as I can, then peek back up over the window sill. Grandpa is gone. Out the back door? With no aisles, there’s nowhere to hide save behind the counter. The tobacconist is reading a book like nothing’s happened.

            I wonder if I should race home. I can make it there before Grandpa, but if he’s going to tattle on me, it won’t matter when I’m back in bed. Momma will believe that he heard me sneak out before she’ll believe me that he was out here in this sleepy September night.

            I walk to the shop door. I’ve learned nothing except to support my claim that Grandpa does visit the tobacconist at night. I still don’t know what they talk about or why it should be a secret.

            I walk inside, and the bell over the door makes the tobacconist look up. His reading expression doesn’t change. I think it’s because he was only pretending to read.

            “Hello, Miss Alica. What are you out of bed for?”

            “I’m looking for my grandpa,” I say.

            “No grandpas here.”

            I lift my eyebrows at him, and he sees I’m not a dumb kid.

            “He’s gone home,” he says. “As well should you. You’re not supposed to be in here, underage as you are.”

            “I don’t want any cigarettes.”

            “Well what do you want then? I haven’t got your grandfather here.”

            I lean forward against the counter and whisper, “I want to know what you and my grandpa talk about.”

            He doesn’t lower his voice. “His life, mostly. He just likes to recap his life, wonderful and amazing as it is.”

            My grandpa’s life! “Mr. Talievsky, can you tell me about my grandpa’s life?”

            He’s rubbing his palms on the backs of his hands and watching the door like he’s expecting the cops to barge in and arrest him for selling tobacco to a minor. “I don’t suppose he’s told you himself. That makes sense.”

            “I’m not allowed to see him. Momma says he’s too weak to be bothered.”

            A flood of alien understanding ripples his face. “Ahh, so you don’t even know what he looks like.”

            “That’s silly, Mr. Talievsky. He’s my grandpa. Of course I know what he looks like. We have lots of photos, some at Christmas, some when he was in the war.”

            “Correct me if I’m wrong, but the most recent of those must be at lease, I don’t know, thirty years ago? You haven’t seen a photo since he’s…you know…gotten old.”

            This is probably true. All of the photos are in black and white, long before I was born. That doesn’t mean I’d never seen my grandpa. And yet, I can’t dig out any specific memory of seeing him in the house. “All old people look the same,” I say.

            He laughs and pulls a red bulbous lolly from the stand on the counter and hands it to me. “Not all of them.”

            “Will you tell me one of the stories he told you?”

            He squints into the lights. “Well…”

            “Wait.” I make him wait for me to unwrap the noisy cellophane off my lolly before he goes on. The candy is a stark mixture of summertime and cough syrup.

            “Your grandfather, er, great-grandfather as I take him to be, was a soldier. You know that?”

            I nod, wanting something new, something personal.

            “It starts out in a classic way. He’s injured and taken in by war medics, except these medics are from the other side. They think Fyodor has some information, so they want to keep him alive. They give him to Nettie Longtail, the best medic in the platoon. She works on him for days, and like the old story goes, falls in love with him as he lies under her knife.

            “But your grandpa Fyodor, he’s not looking well. His heart’s infected, they said. She’s operating on his chest so much, his heart’s growing purple moss and gray mushrooms from the damp air.”

            “No,” I say. Who’s ever heard of something like that?

            “So, your grandpa needs a new heart and there ain’t a one lying around. Just one good one she knows of, and she’s so in love, she decides to give Fyodor her heart, not just figuratively.”

            “That’s crazy,” I say.

            “That’s what the other surgeons said, too. Suicide, they said. But she didn’t care. She said as long as he had her heart, they’d always be together. Her love for him would never die. Eventually she talked the others into agreeing. She started the surgery and they finished it.”

            “Did she die?”

            “Of course she died. She didn’t have a heart any more. But look how amazing that is, Miss Alica. A successful heart transplant on the battlefield back in those days? A miracle!”

            I try to smile, but can’t. “You believe a story like that?”

            He sees I’m not falling for it. “You’re right—it sounds crazy, I agree. If it had come from anyone except your grandfather, I’d think he was a loon or a liar, but Fyodor’s special, isn’t he?”

            True, I’d heard the rumor that Grandpa never told a lie. The most honest man in all of St. Petersburg, they called him.

            Well, maybe that’s who Grandpa was—not all that honest, but a great storyteller, and that was enough to make me proud.

 

The next morning, I can’t wait to get down to breakfast. I lie in bed for an hour listening for my family to stir. At the first smell of bacon, I’m out of bed, already dressed, and racing downstairs.

            Momma’s in the kitchen showing Pavel the right way to make tea. I grab his arm and yank him into the living room where we can be alone.

            “The most amazing thing happened last night!” My whisper strains against my voice box.

            He frowns.

            “I followed Grandpa to the tobacco shop and Mr. Talievsky told me about Grandpa’s life in the war and how he got a new heart.”

            Pavel shivers. “Alica, the awards people are coming today.”

            His tone perforates the balloon rising in my stomach.

            “They’re supposed to come after breakfast,” he says. “Be nice to Momma and don’t mention Grandpa.”

            “I’m sure he’ll be fine if he had the energy to walk to the shop. You do believe me, don’t you, Pavel?”

            “I.,.”

            “You were lying yesterday, right?”

            Something thumps overhead. We both look up. “I’ve heard things,” he whispers. “Footsteps in the hall at night.”

            “Have you ever talked to him? You’re older—you must remember him before he got sick. I mean…old.”

            He shakes his head. “He’s always been old, for my whole life at least. Grandma had to take care of him for years before she died.”

            “So how long’s he really been in that room?” Reason said there must have been a time when Grandpa was young.

            Pavel scratches his chin. “Thirty years? How should I know?”

            “So you’ve never seen him either.”

            “What do you mean? What a weird thing to say, Alica. Of course I’ve seen him. We live with him, for Christ’s sake.”

            I nod. That was my logic when the tobacconist asked the same question, but when I lay in bed, I tried to remember a time I’d seen him outside the photos and home movies and my imagination. There had to have been a time.

            “When?” I ask. “Think hard.”

            Pavel purses his lips. He looks scared, I think. I believe it’s because he realizes he hasn’t seen him either, but then he says, “It was only once. A few years ago.”

            “Really? What did he say?”

            “Nothing, at least I don’t think. It’s hard to remember. I was pretty small. We’d just moved it. It was right before I started getting night terrors.”

            “What do you remember?” I ask.

            “I wasn’t supposed to be left upstairs alone. All Grandma’s stuff was still up there, and they didn’t want me breaking it. Grandpa’s door was a little open, so I just pushed it a bit and took a look in. Momma came up and closed the door before I could go in. I got a spanking, that I remember.”

            “What was Grandpa doing?”

            “Sleeping. No. He was sitting up. It’s hard to remember, Alica. I get headaches when I think too hard.”

            “What did he look like? Old?” I ask.

            Pavel’s eyes scan the air for memories. “No. I…don’t remember. I’m sorry.”

            “It’s okay. It’s just…it’s never seemed weird before.”

            “I think it’s always been weird. I don’t like to think about it. Can we get breakfast now?”

 

The award committee chair woman comes with two police escorts and the mayor. The Chiar wears a lot of makeup and looks like those news anchors on TV. She has a rolled-up certificate, a blue balloon, and a red rose for Grandpa. Momma starts crying. I think this confuses the mayor.

            The Chair ignores her and speaks directly to Papa. “We’re sorry to come on such an unfortunate occasion. Did you know Mr. Vitzney well?”

            “A little.” Tight lines bubble from Papa’s neck and arms.

            “Well, it does make your grandfather-in-law the oldest man in St. Petersburg. We’d like to honor him with this mayor’s certificate and a check for five-hundred.”

            Momma wipes her tears with the cuff of her sleeve. “Five-hundred?” She takes the check from the Chair.

            “Thank you,” Papa says. “I’m sure he’ll be pleased.”

            The Chair nods. “Is he in? We were hoping to get a photograph of him with the mayor.”

            “With all respect,” says Momma, “he’s very old and sick. I’m afraid he just doesn’t have the strength. I don’t want to upset him.”

            One police officer whispers in the ear of the other.

            “That’s too bad.” The Chair looks to the mayor for his reaction, but he is watching the officers.

            One makes up his mind. “Ma’am,” he says, “I understand if you don’t want to disturb him, but as part of routine, we’re required to get a visual confirmation that he lives here before we’re allowed to let you keep the money. Standard procedure, you see.”

            Momma looks at the check in her hand a moment before handing it back to the Chair.

            “Momma!” I cry. Papa grabs my shoulders to keep me still. “It’s five-hundred. Just let them take a peek.”

            She shakes her head, and I realize that there is something very wrong.

            The ceiling thumps. Pavel and I look up. Then he sits down in Momma’s chair, holding his head.

            “Ma’am, why won’t you let us see your grandfather?” asks the officer.

            “I told you, he’s weak,” says Momma.

            “Balya, just tell them the truth,” says Papa.

            “The truth?”

            Papa turns calmly to the officers. I wonder if he’s worked out their equation yet. “He’s a very religious and superstitious man, our Fyodor. It’s embarrassing, so we’ve kept it a secret. He believes that should anyone see him after his one-hundredth birthday, he will be cursed and go to hell.”

            “But Mr. Talievsky…” I start, but Papa puts his fingers against my lips.

            “Ma’am,” the officer says. I don’t like his sober eyes. “We have records that your grandfather has been receiving widowers pension for the last six years.”

            Momma nods. “Yes. Grandma Ella died of lung cancer six years ago.”

            “However, the bank has had difficulties getting in touch with your grandfather.”

            “He’s very old,” says Papa. “Half blind, mostly deaf. I’m an accountant. I do his banking now.”

            “Yes, but…forgive me, but try to see it from my point of view. You claim to have a one-hundred-eleven-year-old man living upstairs, but no one’s seen him for thirty years. How do I know that room’s not empty?”

            Momma coughs out a sob. “Is that why you’ve come here, you bastards? This award is a front to investigate my poor dying grandfather?”

            My ears are ringing from her voice.

            Papa grabs her like he thinks she’s capable of attacking them. “Forgive her. Fyodor really isn’t well and it’s wearing on her nerves.”

            “Anyway, people have seen Grandpa in thirty years,” I say. “You can ask Mr. Talievsky at the tobacco shop. I saw them talking last night.”

            Momma and Papa stare at me. So do the police.

            One cop speaks slowly. “I thought he was too weak to get out of bed.”

            Momma and Papa don’t say anything.

            “I think he pretends,” I say. “He’s been sneaking out for a while now.”

            Momma shakes her head, and I wonder if I’ve said something wrong.

            “So…” says the slow-speaking cop, “you wouldn’t mind if we went in to see him.”

            “Why don’t you just ask Mr. Talievsky instead?” I ask.

            The cop smiles at me and makes me feel like a little girl in pigtails again. “But we’ve come all this way. Come on, young miss. Why not introduce us to Gramps, eh?”

            I look at Momma. She’s still shaking her head. Papa is still holding her back.

            “Um, I don’t think I’m allowed.”

            The cop points to his chest. “See this badge? It means if I say it’s okay, then it’s okay.”

            “Well, I mean, I know he’s in there, so if you could just take a quick look, you all can leave, right?”

            “That’s right, little miss.”

            “Alica, no,” says Momma, but she doesn’t know. She doesn’t realize how strong Grandpa is. I know she thinks I dreamed it or I’m making it up, but I know if he can walk down a road, he can sit up in bed for a photo with the mayor.

            The police start toward the stairs.

            “Arhh!” Momma lunges out of Papa’s hands and grabs one of the cops. The other pulls out a long black stick and hits her with it. She crumples.

            I scream and there are tears on my face before I know I’m crying.

            “Momma!” Pavel jumps to her side. She sits up, rubbing her shoulder. Papa blocks the stairs.

            The cop points his stick at Papa and says, “If you don’t move out of my way, sir, I’ll arrest you for fraud.” Papa doesn’t move, but the cop pushes him out of the way. The other cop takes me by the arm. “Come on, girl. Show me where your Grandpa sleeps.”

            I’m still wiping away tears. All I want to do now is get this over with and make them go home. But a sickening thought hits me as I climb the stairs. What if they’re right? What if the room is empty? What if that thump we heard was Grandpa sneaking out the window? Could a one-hundred-eleven-year-old man really scale down the side of a house?

            I approach Grandpa’s door. “Are you in there, Grandpa? We’re coming in now.”

            I hear the door to the house slam and wonder if the mayor’s had enough.

            “You gonna open that door, girl? I’ll kick it down, but I don’t want to give your gramps a heart attack.”

            I take the knob and turn it with a familiar click. Pavel comes upstairs and stands at my side as I push in the door.

            “Jesus Christ,” says one of the cops.

            Pavel collapses to his knees, holding his head.

            Grandpa had not gone out the window. He is sitting up in bed, his skin oil black, cheeks stove inward, eyes swallowed in puckers of flesh, mouth open in muted laughter. Still in his dressing gown and night cap, legs tucked under the covers.

            The Chair’s voice calls up from downstairs. “So is he there or not?”

            “He’s a fucking mummy!”

            He looks burned like a matchstick charred and chopped.

            “He’s what?” asks the Chair.

            “He’s dead,” shouts the cop. “Been dead for, I don’t know, thirty years.”

            “That explains why the parents flew the coop.”

            One cop rushes from the room. “Why didn’t you stop them?”

            “Not my job.”

            “What are you going to do with him?” I ask the other cop.

            “Clean him away, give him a funeral like he deserved.”

            “But he’s not dead!”

            I think for a moment the cop is more afraid of me than Grandpa.

            “You have to get a doctor,” I say. “He has to say he’s dead before you’re allowed to bury him, right?”

            The cop hisses through his teeth. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

            “But it’s the rules! Doctor Zharra lives across the road. You can bring her to check on him.”

            The cop grumbles, “I’m sure she’ll love that.” He leaves the room. I’m not sure if he’s gone to retrieve Doctor Zharra or if he’s just gone downstairs.

            Pavel and I are alone with Grandpa.

            “They knew,” I whisper. “Momma and Papa knew this whole time.”

            Pavel makes little gasping noises. “Of course they knew. You think Momma brought him dinner every night and didn’t notice he’s dead?”

            “Not that, Pavel. I saw him walking around last night. Momma must know he’s not really dead or else why would she keep him?”

            “Didn’t you hear them? So they can get the money from Grandma’s pension.”

            “Well then why did Grandma keep him for twenty-four years?”

            Pavel gets to his feet. His face is red and veiny. “Because she was nuts! I’m starting to think it runs in the family.” He stumbles toward the door, but I grab him.

            “You’ve heard him too, Pavel, moving around up here. That nurse from the war gave him her heart. Maybe her love won’t ever die, and so neither will he.”

            “I didn’t hear anything!” He grabs his head.

            “What’s the matter with you?”

            “The matter with me is my sister’s crazy, my parents are crooks, and my grandpa’s a mummy, that’s what.”

            A cop comes up the stairway with Doctor Zharra. She has her plastic white medical kit with her. She doesn’t look at me or Pavel. Instead, she walks straight into the room and stands at Grandpa’s feet a moment before saying “This isn’t going to be hard.”

            She takes a shiny pen from her apron and wets the ink with her tongue.

            The officer is holding a briefcase now. Where he’s gotten it from I don’t know, but I suspect he’s holding it for Doctor Zharra. He takes out a syrup-colored certificate like the one the Chair was going to give Grandpa for getting old. Except this one’s for the opposite reason.

            “You have to check.” I point to Grandpa before she can sign anything.

            Her eyes are little o’s, mouthing sorry at me, and I think she approaches Grandpa with her stethoscope to humor me. She takes Grandpa’s firewood arm between her thumbs and fingers. “No pulse,” she says. She snaps the stethoscope into her ears and presses the cup to Grandpa’s shirt. She bends closer.

            I hold my breath.

            Pavel is teetering beside me. I think his head might explode if he looks at Grandpa any longer.

            Doctor Zharra removes the stethoscope and shakes her head. “Strange. I must be tired. I thought I heard…”

            The cop folds his arms. “Heard what?”

            She looks into Grandpa’s eye sockets knitted with dust and webs of dry skin. “Listen for yourself.” She holds out the stethoscope, but the cop doesn’t move from the doorway.

            I walk to the bed and take the stethoscope from Doctor Zharra. I put the buds into my ears and slide the cup up the raw black landscape of Grandpa’s chest, and I listen. And there it is—the echo of a stone fist hammering its way out of the tomb.