Story Hour
A Holiday Fiction Story

Walter's left knee began to bounce up and down at the thought of his family's arrival that Tuesday afternoon. His grandchildren had often taken advantage of this nervous habit by hopping on for pony rides. He loved to hear their giggles and inevitable screams of "Again, again, PaPa" as one would jump off and the other on for another round.

His oldest son, Gerald, and his family had moved away six years ago this spring to the South Carolina coast. His daughter Connie lived just a few Texas towns over from Walter's, but Connie's hectic job and night classes for law school limited her visits to emergencies and special occasions. Of course, they called as often as they could, they said, to tell Walter about their lives, usually consisting of updates on the five grandkids and other pleasantries in an effort to lift his spirits. Gerald's little Kathy was in the seventh grade now, doing well in English and tolerating math. Her twin brother, the recalcitrant one, just broke his collar bone on the soccer field. Connie's youngest, Jeremy, recently joined the Boy Scouts and she was trying to squeeze in a few hours a week to be the den mother.

Walter watched the snow meet the ground. His footprints from fetching the morning paper off the front walk were already covered. He and Jessie Beth would have been married forty-five years this coming January. She used to love to sit at the kitchen table with her hand wrapped around a cup of coffee, intently scanning the news about the school board elections or the new high school gymnasium under construction. Just retired from teaching, she kept up with those kinds of things and the school was always calling her about joining this committee and volunteering for that project. When they were both working, Walter would bring her the paper on his way out to the 6 a.m. shift at the factory. She would stand at the door to exchange the paper with his lunch.

Jessie Beth had figured out Walter couldn't read just a short while after they were married, but never said a word. He often wondered why she didn't offer to help him learn. She probably figured his pride would get in the way. And she was right. As a result, she read the bedtime stories to the children, helped with homework after dinner and got them to their after-school activities. He was the provider, the disciplinarian. He felt certain his children did not know what he had been too embarrassed to share.

So many times over the last few months Walter sat at that same kitchen table, trying to decipher what was on the pages in front of him. Denial turned into frustration and then to anger. Anger because she was gone. Anger because he couldn't make it without her. Finally, one day, he read the words on her worn recipe cards with the help of his tutor. Then on his own.

The grandchildren had been at the memorial service back in the spring but there was so much to do, so many decisions to make, that Walter only saw them when he glanced up during one of Father Fleming's prayers. This visit would be different with their grandmother gone and yet, Walter was determined to carry it out just the same, as much for them as for himself.

A blue mini-van pulled in front of the house and startled Walter from his thoughts. The air, cold and crisp, brushed him back when he opened the door. He ushered the family in and they welcomed the warmth. Walter knew what would happen next. The same routine had taken place year after year and even as the children got older and their interests changed, they always gathered in the den for one of Jessie Beth's stories. When the twins were little, they used to run in and grab a cookie from the kitchen, then race back through the hallway to the den wrestling off coats and mittens. Now, they waited respectfully in the hall like tourists in need of directions.

Walter shook hands with his son, Gerald, and squeezed his daughter Connie's shoulder.

"How are you, Dad?" asked Connie. Always loquacious, she had a need to fill uncomfortable gaps in conversation.

"Why don't the two of you gather up the kids and let's head into the den," said Walter. He did not wait for a reply before turning and walking.

Walter took his place in Jessie Beth's chair. The afghan she used to wrap herself in hung off the back, hiding the chair's age. The kids filtered in, sprawling out on the floor. Gerald, Connie and their spouses assumed their usual positions on the sofa. The room was quieter this year, somber, no prattling about sports or politics or Christmas wish lists.

Walter picked up the worn book from the table. It had been Jessie Beth's favorite. The words on the spine were faded and the pages had a stale odor. Connie made an abrupt gesticulation, motioning to one of the kids to get up and help Walter.

"I'll read it for you, PaPa," said little Jeremy. "I got second place in my school's spelling bee last month."

"Well, come get up in my lap, but PaPa's going to read just like your grandma did," Walter responded softly.

He began slowly. Glancing around after the first few pages, his eyes rested for a moment on Gerald's. They were green like hers. Gerald blinked hard and reached for his sister's hand. Walter caught himself fumbling through a difficult passage, and suddenly this simple story seemed lengthy. But this was now their story - his and Jessie Beth's - and he would continue on through every a, an and the, every adjective, every verb, every noun until the end.

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©2006 Texas Medical Center

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