Four

Decisions: Consecutive Substack Story 1070

Photo by Todd Diemer on Unsplash

The touch was light, then got firmer, never passing gentle, but still a bit out of character for Lawrence Calbin’s mom.

Her eyes were serious eyes. This is important to me AND to you eyes.

“I don’t need…umm…it doesn’t matt–” Lawrence started.

Britt Calbin dug a nail into her son’s D-III linebacker bicep. Totally out of character.

“I want him to tell you. I was never supposed to tell you. If he does…and he will…he will…I’ll sleep better.”

Lawrence steeled himself like he would against an opponent he knew would thrash  Fort Culver State 59-0.

But this was weird. Too weird.

Lawrence opened the screen door.

The house smelled different.

The hospice nurses were complete smoke shows, like Grandpa picked them out of a catalog.

Crutch was standing at the door of the room turned into Grandpa’s room-to-die-in, sunglasses on as always.

The room had been a den, an entertainment center.

Golf and bowling trophies lined shelves built into walls.

Grandpa Rick won the golf trophies, as far as Lawrence knew. He didn’t bowl. He owned bowling alleys.

Crutch nodded at Lawrence, gave him the go ahead nod/twist of the head.

“Family matter,” Lawrence said, which was sort of code.

Crutch said “Ruthie and Shirley, um, sorry, Shelly, can you hit the kitchen, or whatever?”

The nurses looked at each other, said “sure,” almost in unison, and Lawrence watched one of them squeeze his grandfather’s purple hand, where IVs had been until the best doctors in the Great Lakes States said, “sorry, that’s it.”

Crutch, who wasn’t blood family, but was family, stayed.

“Gramps, Mom wants me to cut to the–”

“Chase. Your mom loves cliches,” Grandpa Rick said, sounding like a furry animal fell asleep in his throat.

Lawrence fidgeted and Rick Oakley said “Cut to it.”

“I don’t care Grandpa Rick, but did you…did…I mean I know kinda, but um…”

Rick looked into his grandson, one of seven grandchildren, like maybe his eyes could grab Lawrence by the collar.

There were only really two things that Lawrence could be struggling to ask about.

“Please ask it, Layup. I could…I could croak right here while… you’re stammering.”

Lawrence smiled. 

Grandpa Rick had given him the nickname Layup when Lawrence brought the whole family into the backyard on Thanksgiving to watch him dunk a basketball and missed.

The smile didn’t last.

“Didjakillpeople?” Lawrence slurred. “I mean…”

Grandpa Rick took a breath and reached out to his grandson, who instinctively got closer.

His grandfather’s grip was weaker than his mom’s gentle one.

“I…I had…a lesson…prepared. Like if I was ever…convicted. A speech. Too many…much painkillers for it now.”

Lawrence nodded. His mom was correct. There was joy in that, though he owed her an apology, a strong one. He knew it, mostly, hadn’t been ready to hear it when she told him.

Nobody grows up in the Herman Gardens and gets rich easily. He heard Uncle Mike say that a thousand times.

It was easier for Lawrence to grasp as a myth than a fact. When his mom had stated it as fact he lashed out. He felt zero urge to lash out about it to his dying grandfather.

“How many…um…people?”

Grandpa Rick put his head down.

Lawrence sucked in a breath, loud, like he had been blind side blocked, thinking his grandfather felt pain. Both kinds.

Grandpa Rick looked up. “Thinking…relax…four. Sippy Paschman…lived. Four.”

Lawrence nodded as though that was the correct answer, though his mother had never put a number on it.

Lawrence squeezed his grandfather’s arm. 

His grandfather squeezed back.

“I did…what I had to do.On…on principle…you understand that. Don’t hate me.”

Lawrence, who had been stoic, splintered like a piece of balsa wood under a boot.

Three nearly retching sobs later, he remembered Crutch was in the room. He couldn’t blubber in front of Crutch.

Lawrence peeled it back as best he could and said “I fucking love you gramps. You know…” and then sobbed some more.

When he managed to look up, his grandfather looked like he might cry. Not his grandma’s funeral cry, but real tears.

“Come back… tomorrow, Layup. I’ll tell you…about…decision making.”

Lawrence said “For sure, for sure.”

He kissed his grandfather on the forehead, stood and wiped his face against his entire sleeve.

Crutch walked him down the hallway to the door.

“Licky?” Crutch said, calling Lawrence by his early childhood nickname. Lawrence smiled at that one too.

Crutch put a fat hand on Lawrence’s shoulder.

“There…listen good…there… are thousands…millions of people out there who never…did what your grandfather did…who are pieces of oxygen sucking goat turds. Your grandfather is the greatest man I’ve ever known in my entire life. Be good to people, Licky. Be good. Rick Oakley made the…hard decisions…so your decisions would be easier.”

Lawrence Calbin made the decision to not start bawling again, but was having trouble sticking to it.

***

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