Solomon

“Your grampa is so wise,” Gramma said, leaping back onto the conversational train as soon as the door cracked open.

That was always what she said when Grampa Ted dared interrupt her. She would pause the flow of her talk and listen to him ramble while I fidgeted, impatient for him to finish.

“Sheba, your grampa is so wise,” she would say, then pick back up right where she left off.

I couldn’t see it. Gramma’s stories were full of life and tinged with snark. Grampa Ted was mostly just there. Nice, but a kind of background rumble to her force of nature. A literal rumble. He had this growly thing he did at the back of his throat.

“Anyway,” I said, “Mom refuses to consider it.”

“Yes, well,” said Gramma, “I could tell you a thing or two about your mother and summer camp. There’s more than one reason she’s not a fan.”

“If I could win the lottery,” I said, “I could pay for it myself. Or maybe I could do the polar bear plunge. They’re giving out $20,000 to one of the participants this year.”

Rumble from Grampa.

“HA,” scoffed Gramma. “That thing is for lazy fools. Lazy, ‘cause if they weren’t, they’d work for the cash. Fools, ‘cause you’d have to be a damn fool to jump into a frozen lake in January. Plus, it’s too late anyway, ‘cause it’s today, and you’re here cooking with me.”

Gramma and I were making chocolate-covered cake pops, which are basically heaven on a stick, and we were running out of room at the table.

“Ted, we need your space,” said Gramma. “Go out and give some squirrels lung cancer.” That was Gramma’s way of telling Grampa to take his second-hand smoke outside.

Grampa shuffled to get his coat, his pack of cigarettes, and a little black notebook he carries around everywhere. Who knows why. Maybe to count squirrels. He paused, fumbling with something at the door, then went out.

“Okay, spill,” I said. “What about Mom and summer camp?”

“Well,” said Gramma. “That is a story. Not really surprised she hasn’t told you. Probably not the best story to tell while we’re cooking.”

“Come on,” I pleaded. “Tell me.”

“And cooking with chocolate …”

“Gramma!”

“Well … okay. Your mother – no surprise to you, I’d guess – was as stubborn as they come. When she was about your age, she got it in her head that she had to go to summer camp. Not just any camp, mind you, but a fancy wilderness camp in the mountains. Pricey. We never had much money, so even regular summer camp would’ve been a stretch, but that one – not a chance.

“So we tell her, fine, go to summer camp, but you’ve got to earn the money yourself. Grampa wanted to give her some, but I thought it was good for her to learn to work for things. So she does babysitting jobs, dog walking, you name it, all one summer. Now I think of it, she even did yard work for some neighbors, and your mother was no fan of yard work, believe me.

“So she works her tail off one year and next year she’s ready. Off she goes to fancy wilderness camp.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Food poisoning,” said Gramma.

“Food poisoning?”

“Yep. A couple days in. She hadn’t even made friends yet. I guess a bunch of girls from high-and-mighty rich families thought she wasn’t quite good enough for them. Anyway, she ate something in the cafeteria that had gone bad. Beet salad. Turns out she was the only one who ate it, and she got the runs. Bad.

“So that’s always a bundle of joy, but when all you have is an outhouse … She spent two days crying in the outhouse before bailing and coming home.”

“Wow,” I breathed. “Wow. No wonder she doesn’t want me to go.”

“Yep,” said Gramma. “Funny thing is, it seemed like Grampa took it harder than she did. She got over it – but when she tells you summer camp isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, just remember her in that outhouse and give her a little grace.”

“I guess,” I sighed. “Still wish I could go, though.” I plopped on the couch with samples of the cake pops and put my feet up.

“Switch on the TV,” said Gramma, joining me on the couch. “It’s the polar bear plunge, remember? We may as well watch those damn fools. And see if you can track down your grampa.”

I handed her the remote and looked outside. No Grampa.

“A chilly day for the plunge,” I heard from the TV.

“It’s January, idiot.” This (clearly) from Gramma.

No Grampa on the deck. No Grampa in the yard.

“I’m here with one of this year’s participants, who must be one of our oldest ever. Say hello to the camera, Ted!”

Gramma shrieked, yelling at the TV. “Ted, you fool! You fool!” Then to me, “Sheba! Grampa! Grampa’s heart!”

I knew what she meant. Grampa’s heart was … well, he’s smoked for sixty years, so you just guess.

“I’ll go,” I said. I grabbed my coat from the rack by the door and skidded across the deck. I pelted down the sidewalk toward the lake, three-quarters of a long mile away, imagining Grampa in the icy water, imagining Grampa on the asphalt with an ambulance crew.

As I ran, I felt an unfamiliar object flopping in my coat pocket and pulled it out. Grampa’s little black notebook. Opening it, I read, “Doing the plunge for you. Putting your name down. Camp?”

I lurched forward, my brain pounding with my feet. “No … please, God … no … please, God … no … please …” Not my sweet Grampa. Not my “your-grampa-is-so-wise” Grampa. Not for me.

I panted into the lakeside parking lot, half hearing the announcer saying, “ … winner! Sheba … Is there a Sheba?” – but the words were only weights dragging me down in the icy water.

Then I was running and laughing and hugging, because Grampa Ted wasn’t on the asphalt with a heart attack but was there by the water, bundled sheepishly in a blanket. And as I squeezed him, his rumble … oh, Grampa, that rumble! … was in me a purr of joy.