Title: Wait for Me
Rating: PG, I guess.
Summary: "I'll miss you, grandpa"
Disclaimer: Any characters you recognize belong to Annie Proulx. Any you don't belong to moi.
A/N: Part 2 of 3.
Part 2
1989
The trailer shuddered, violent gusts rattling loose bits of siding. Inside, a little boy–thin, with reddish hair and brownish eyes–shuddered as well. "Grandpa, I don't like th' wind."
"Ain't nothin' but a storm blowin' past." Huddled in a cocoon of quilts, the boy watched as his grandpa rubbed at the bridle in his hands with an oiled cloth, slowly bring a muted shine back to the leather.
"Why're you doin' that?"
"Cause some fool left it outside an' it got wet."
"Why'd he leave it outside?" The boy poked his head out of his nest, edged closer to the older man, who was seated in the trailer's one chair, next to the bed.
"Told you. He's a fool."
"Doesn't he have a mama to tell him what to do? Mama never lets me leave my toys outside. She says if someone steals 'em I can't have any more." His grandpa smiled. It wasn't like his daddy's smile. Daddy smiled like a storm, big and loud, his teeth flashing white like lightning, his laugh booming like thunder. Grandpa smiled like the fireflies that came out on summer nights, there and gone, blink and you miss it. And he never seemed to laugh. "What, grandpa?"
"You ever stop talkin'?"
The little boy frowned, opened his mouth to say of course he stopped talking, to eat and sleep, and when his mama said 'Hush up, James' in that voice, but just then thunder rumbled through the air, sounding like trucks on the highway, and all that came out was a squeak. He ducked his head under the pile of quilts again.
He heard his grandpa sigh. "Come on out, now. Thunder won't hurt you none."
He made a hole just big enough to see out of. "Mama always sings me a song when there's thunder. Will you sing me a song?"
"Ain't much good at singin'. Prob'ly scare you more'n the storm"
The little boy pushed out his bottom lip, widened his eyes, and sniffled. Just a bit. His grandpa sighed again, longer this time, and put the bridle on the bed. "Oh, fine. Git over here, then." When he was cuddled on his grandpa's lap, with two strong arms wrapped around him, the man said, "I ain't singin', though. Don't know th' words to most songs. Be happy with my hummin'."
"Yes, grandpa." The boy tipped his head back so that it rested on his grandpa's chest. He felt it vibrating as his grandpa began humming, a low and peaceful tune that wasn't anything like the songs he heard on the radio, or the lullabies his mama sang. A few notes along, his grandpa began rocking him slowly.
By the time his grandpa's tears fell onto his hair, the little boy was fast asleep.
2007
James entered the hospital room quietly, not wanting to wake his grandpa if he happened to be asleep.
"Quit sneakin' around like that, boy, I ain't some spooky horse." The older man braced both hands flat on the bed, levered himself upright.
James smiled. "Yes, grandpa. How're you doing?" He swung a wheeled chair next to the bed, sat with his elbows planted on his knees.
The other man snorted; it turned into a rough cough. He gripped James' wrist as the young man began to stand; when the fit had passed, he let go. "Sit. I git fussed at enough when your mama and aunt come t' visit," he rasped. He took a sip of water from the glass that the nurses kept beside his bed, fixed dark eyes on his grandson. "I need t' ask a favor."
2008
James shivered and tugged his ski cap down over his ears. The wind up here was fierce, the temperature easily in the single digits; his family was already most of the way down the trail, but James had one last thing to do.
From his jacket pocket James pulled a small glass jar with a screw-on lid. He nearly dropped it in the snow, his thick gloves making his fingers awkward; when he'd regained control, he cradled it against his chest with one hand and unscrewed the lid with the other. He tipped the jar forward and softly hummed a low, peaceful tune as thin streamers of ash–all that remained of two worn shirts–rushed toward the jagged mountain.
He recapped the empty jar, put it back in his pocket, then stood for long moments, eyes closed, enjoying the novelty of hearing nothing but the wind. His mom and aunt didn't understand why their father had wanted his ashes sprinkled out here in the middle of Nowhere, USA; James figured it had something to do with the bloodstained shirts, and the man whose name was scrawled on the back of a yellowed postcard that had been tacked up next to them.
A particularly strong gust of wind darted up under his jacket, and James sighed. If his grandpa was going to spend his eternity here, he hoped the old man wouldn't be bothered by the weather. Then James chuckled, imagining his grandpa's complaint: "Shit, boy, quit fussin'! I'm dead, y' c'n give it a rest, now."
"I'll miss you, grandpa," he said. "I hope you find your friend."
Favor done, goodbyes said, James began to make his way down the trail.
