Grandpa's Secret

It was between the pages of the leather-bound treasure, between the lines of silent space, that I found the life, its meaning, the everlasting secret that was to change my soul.

It sat nestled behind a ceiling beam in my grandpa's tiny attic. I found it by pure chance, taking a last look around before the house was sold. Dusty and with a string of cobweb draped across its back, it looked like it'd been hidden and forgotten there. It was solid in my hand as I took it out and brushed it off. The leather, still surprisingly soft and black, breathed history and life. Just like every time I pick up a vintage book I inhaled the scent of the aged, black notebook before I opened it. The smell of its own unique life, from the tree that had been transformed into its pages, to the life of the worker who had crafted it. A treasure in itself every time and today didn't disappoint.

I carefully opened the notebook to page one.

My grandfather's name was written on the inside of the cover and every word to follow was spoken through his hand. His handwriting, confident, strong, and full of life instantly transported me to days much different from the quiet, elderly man's existence I knew of before he died. Or for as long as I'd remembered for that matter. I felt youth, vitality, and eagerness in words and written swagger – and it made me strangely proud. I sat down on the floor and continued reading.

The tone switched abruptly. Stories from Vietnam. Stories he never spoke of, not to anyone. I knew because I had heard my grandma tell my dad when I was little, that he "never wants to talk about it, never..." in a concerned and worried tone. Marlon Brando's words "The horror, the horror" rang through my head.

I turned the pages and my grandfather came home.

He frequently mentioned his friend Eugene at the "Next Door General" store on Pine Street, and a friendship blossomed through the pages of which I never knew. My grandpa spoke of joy and inventions and tenderness in vivid colors, painting worlds and wishes with his words. About Eugene and the shop and the nights around the table. And about a mysterious machine that would make them millionaires.

The day turned to night and the light in the attic became too dim to read.

I walked down the street with the treasure I'd found clenched to my chest. And it was as if it spoke straight to my heart and made me bypass the street leading home. My feet steered downtown, far away from where I was headed, but clearly to where I had to go.

The sign was still there hanging above the store, "Next Door General" on Pine street. It looked closed. I snapped a picture of the sign. I looked through the windows and tried to peek inside. I felt the handle and finally, I knocked. I had turned to leave when I heard the door open and a man called out to me.

At the table behind the small shop, I sat with the elderly man and listened to his stories. Eugene. Stories that filled in my grandpa's blanks and took over where the last page in the notebook left the ending hanging. Of passion, desire, invention, and plans. Of the machine that never made them millionaires in anything but hope. Of forbidden love and despair and dreams of travel to faraway places to be free. Of responsibility, bondage, and not having the heart to hurt the ones who love you.

Eugene shuffled to a corner of the shop and removed a piece of the hardwood floor. He returned with a carefully wrapped velvet package and handed it to me.

“This is yours,” he said. “This was his share of our nest egg. For our new life together. Every week he'd bring a part of his paycheck over and I put it away down there. He did it for years after he got married. Even after your dad was born. Until one day he stopped. And disappeared from my life. But I kept it there. Somehow I could not let of go of the thought that he'd still show up one day. Even after all those years. All packed and ready to go. I still have the "business for sale" ad ready for the shop, I still have the ads of circled rental listings in New York somewhere in my drawer. Of course, they'd be of no use these days, but I couldn't throw them out. There is $20k in there.”

I didn't know what to say and that's what I said.

Eugene replied, "Don't say nothing, just take it, it is yours."

I must have looked flabbergasted because he continued, "You are young, I'm sure you can use it."

Use it!? 20k would change my world! At least for the next few years or so.

I slid the black book across the table and said, "And this is yours.”

I wanted to say something about my grandfather's love still breathing in those pages and his heart belonging to Eugene, but it would all have sounded corny and anyway, explanations were superfluous. The old man in front of me knew. His tenderness as he took the book and read a page said everything there was to say. He caressed the weathered leather cover the way you touch a lover's cheek. I sat there quietly and waited.

"Do you want to read with me?" he finally asked.

I could tell he was shaken and that it'd mean a lot.

"I'd be honored," I replied.

We read and talked and ate some chicken soup. Then we read and talked some more, and my grandpa came to life from the yellowed pages and Eugene's adding to his words, into a light I'd never seen my grandpa in before. Far from the stern and quiet man I knew. I breathed in the joy de vivre, the sense of humor, the passion, and the love. We sat until the evening became night and the night became dawn and talked and read. Eugene and I. And my grandpa in the room, more vivid than I'd ever known him while he was alive. We sipped scotch, McAllen, my grandpa's favorite, and toasted in his honor. I thought I heard him too, chime in with "Cheers!"

"You know he loved your grandma, too, in his own way," Eugene reflected after we had closed the book. And he loved children. Your father was a wanted and a much longed-for child. I heard a lot about him. I've always wished to meet him. And now I have through you.

I walked out into the morning sun and felt a sense of gratitude and love unexplainable to me. I headed back towards neighborhoods increasingly familiar, with larger streets. The city was alive with morning bustle. On a corner near the freeway sat an elderly, homeless man with a cardboard sign. The sign read "Vietnam Vet." For a split second our eyes met and I heard Marlon Brando's words, my grandpa's silent stories and every sound of life itself ring clear. And everything suddenly made sense. I took the velvet package from my bag and handed it to him.

I didn't stay to see his reaction, but his scream behind me as I crossed the street felt like the secret to life cracked open to me.

I stopped at the door to a book store. They were just opening up. I walked in and went to the writing section. There it was. A leather-bound modern copy of my grandpa's notebook. Brand new and black, cover to cover filled with unwritten pages. A blank slate of possibilities. I was more excited than I reasonably could explain. I bought it. I also bought a pen and then a coffee and headed for the nearest park.

On the first page I wrote my name, and underneath it, "Everything is fleeting, but in love and writing life remains."

I started the second page, "It was between the pages of the leather-bound treasure, between the lines of silent space, that I found the life, its meaning, the everlasting secret that was to change my soul...”