JOEY
Joey's dad worked in the city and her mom kept a home office on the third floor. After school most days, she and I would grab armfuls of blankets and sneak down into their basement. I was fourteen, but I still remember how Joey's hair curled into little wisps the more I ran my fingers through it.
That was the winter my grandmother died.
We heard the phone ring and her mom's footsteps as she came down from her office. Somehow we got dressed in time.
Down there, the signal was weak, but I heard my mom say, "Andy, your grandma just passed."
"Sorry, can I call you back?" I hung up abruptly and told Joey I had to go. I made it out the front door before I started to cry.
* * *
My dad and I arrived in St. Louis Monday afternoon. We drove west to the small town with the small house my grandparents had lived in for 31 years. In the front room with the upright piano and the lamp with the stained glass shade, they were waiting: my mom, her sister Trish, Trish’s husband Rick, their kids Max and Nick, and my mom’s other sister Carla.
"Where’s Grandpa?" I asked.
"In the den," my mom said. I looked through the kitchen and saw the TV flickering. "Go say 'hi.'"
* * *
I didn’t know what he wanted me to say. I sat down in the chair beside him.
"How are you?" he asked a second time. "Tell me some good news."
"School’s good," I said.
"Do you have a girlfriend yet? Or are you not at that age?"
"I do. Her name’s Joey."
"Joey?"
"It's short for Josephine."
"Ah, okay. I’m old, but I’ve learned not to ask…" He smiled. "Never mind."
* * *
"My first girlfriend was from New York," he said. "My mother told me she was too 'sophisticated.' I knew what she getting at, and she was right." He laughed. "By the time I joined the army we were growing apart, but I still thought about her. A lot, actually.
"Your grandmother was the love of my life, of course, but when you’re young, the feelings… I never understood these Casanovas, who go with all these girls. Every one, you give a piece of your heart away. And the pieces you have left get smaller until…
"You’re lucky, Andy. Your first love and your whole life ahead of you. You have so much to look forward to."
He died within the month.
* * *
What brought this on? My wife and I just bought a house in Denver. We were driving a U-Haul across the country and decided to stop in St. Louis. My grandparents’ house has since been torn down, so we’re staying in a motel.
It’s 4AM and the mattress is too soft. I can't sleep.
"Is everything okay?" I hear her say.
"I’m fine," I tell her. "It’s nothing."