The Mountain

“Here we are!”

Eight-year-old Jake and Grandpa Jones pulled into the abandoned field. It was overgrown and unkempt, but it had been the meeting place of the grade-schooler and his seventy-year-old companion since Jake could remember. Every Sunday when Jake visited, he and Grandpa had driven here. The two would sit in Grandpa’s blue sedan discussing Jake’s week. Jake’s family hadn’t much money, but somehow Grandpa always found enough to get the two food from a local restaurant. It was what Jake and Grandpa looked forward to at the end of the week. Today wasn’t different. The two were munching on a hamburger as they talked.

“So, how was school?”

“It was okay.”

“Just okay?”

“Yeah. We always do the same things. Addition and spelling, I guess.”

“Anything else?”

“Not really.”

Grandpa could tell Jake wasn't himself. Typically he was enthusiastic during their outings. The boy in the car today was anything but. Leaning close to his grandson’s face, Grandpa asked in a soft voice.

“Jake, what’s wrong?”

Jake was defensive. “Nothing.”

“I know it’s not nothing. Are you going to tell me, or are we going to just sit here?”

The child struggled with himself, then relented. Jake gave a defeated sigh, sinking into his chair.

“Joey’s brother brought his car to pick him up from school on Friday.”

Grandpa Jones was perplexed. “Okay?”

Jake continued, trying to keep his emotions in check. “Well, everyone wanted to see his car, and he told us we could. We started taking turns sitting on the big seat with the steering wheel. But when it was my turn...”

Jake teared up. “When it was my turn, Joey told me that I couldn’t sit in it.”

Grandpa Jones was still confused. “Why?”

“Because, h-he said that I would never be able to own a car myself.” Jake started to cry. “He said that I’d never afford one.”

“I see.”

The old man got out of the car, then strode across the front of the sedan and opened Jake’s door. “Get out,” Grandpa ordered.

Jake climbed down. Grandpa led him to the other side of the car, and lifted him onto the driver’s seat. Jake was in awe. He had never been allowed to sit behind the wheel of a car before, much less Grandpa’s car! Grandpa even let him honk the horn! Soon, Jake was grinning ear to ear as he honked. Grandpa then spoke to him how only Grandpas could.

“Jake, certain people will try to drag you down. They want to make you feel small. Ignore those people. Don’t let them make a mountain out of a molehill.”

The boy smiled at his grandfather. “I won’t. I promise.”

“Good.” Grandpa moved Jake to the back seat for the journey home.

“Grandpa?” Jake proposed. Grandpa turned.

“Someday I’ll have a car. And it’s going to be a blue car like yours.”

Grandpa gave him a knowing smile. “I believe you. I love you Jake.”

Jake...

Jake….

“JAKE!”

Sixteen-year old Jake Jones opened his eyes to the overtired face of his mother, startled.

“It’s time to get up, honey. The funeral’s in an hour, and we’re expected to be there early. Get dressed. I’ll meet you at the door. The cab is on its way.”

The funeral… Jake thought. The nauseous feeling that had persisted late into the night reclaimed him.

Grandpa Jones is dead.

Jake clambered into his worn black suit, and raced outside. He and his mother waited for the cab for what felt like forever, but at last it rounded the corner. The two hurriedly stepped into its rear, and the taxi took off towards the funeral home. Jake stared absently out the window, still groggy from his stressful night. His mother put her hand on his shoulder, and gave it a squeeze. He spun, and found that her face looked the way his stomach felt. She stared with a mixture of pity and understanding, and instantly he was crying into her shoulder. They sat there in the back of the cab, grieving for the endlessness that is two minutes, until an exhausted Jake passed out in her arms.

“Grandpa, why do you always carry around that little black book?” Nine-year-old Jake asked his Grandpa. They were in their field, in Grandpa’s sedan, the usual food bag between them.

“Hm? This old thing? It’s a reminder to me.” Grandpa said pensively.

“A reminder of what?” Jake asked.

“Of the future.”

That’s stupid, Jake thought. How can you be reminded of something that hasn’t happened yet?

“Can I look inside?”

Grandpa Jones pondered. “Not right now. Maybe when you’re older.”

“Come on. I just want a peek.” Jake reached for the book, but his hand was gently returned to his lap.

“I told you, no. Not right now.” Grandpa’s voice was stern. Jake pouted.

Grandpa softened. “Jake, I love you. Someday, you can look in this little black book of mine, but until then, you need to learn to live with me telling you that you can’t. Remember what I’ve always told you?”

“Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill.” Jake muttered begrudgingly.

“That’s right.” Grandpa Jones grinned.

“Do you want to play with the horn again?”

“Yeah!” Jake forgot about the book as he and his grandfather switched places. The child slammed his little hand into the sedan’s steering wheel, producing a satisfying honk! Then with the other hand, making another honk! Finally, with Grandpa’s permission, he took both hands together and slammed the horn, producing a thunderous HONK!

HONK!

HONK!

HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONNNNNNNNNNK!

Jake’s eyes fluttered open. The taxi driver was laying on the horn, trying to get a van that had just parked to move. The results weren’t fruitful, with the owners of the van refusing to move. Not one for conflict, Jake’s mother decided to find her own solution to the stalemate.

“That’s okay. We can get out here.” Drying her tears, she handed the driver a folded bill, and exited the cab, Jake following suit. The two made their way to the parlor, and strode to the room marked “Wayne Jones.” They had no sooner arrived in the chamber when they were greeted by a somber man in a brown suit.

“Ms. and Master Jones, I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” Jake’s mother sniffed.

“I’ll take you through the establishment and show you your seats. You’ll probably also want-”

“I want to see him.” Jake's proclaimed.

The man was taken aback, but recovered quickly.

“Of course. This way.” The man led them to a hallway where a plain casket was lying closed on a fancy trolley. The man lifted the vessel’s lid, and Jake stared at the body of Grandpa Jones. He looked like he did when Jake was twelve. Seeing him again brought Jake back once more to their field, with the little black book in his shirt pocket.

“Grandpa, why didn’t you get food?” Twelve-year-old Jake asked, surprised to find that there was only one burger in the bag. Grandpa smiled a little.

“I didn’t want anything.”

“Why not? You didn’t get yourself anything the last two times either.”

Grandpa shrugged. “I guess I didn’t want anything.”

“But I feel bad eating by myself.” Jake exclaimed.

Grandpa squeezed his shoulder. “You’re a good kid, Jake. But you don’t have to feel guilty. Remember, don’t make a-”

“Mountain out of a molehill,” Jake finished.

Grandpa nodded. “That’s right.”

“Will you show me what’s in your black book now?”

“Hmm, Not yet.” Grandpa responded. “Maybe when you’re older.”

Jake was frustrated. “You keep saying that, and I keep aging. When will you show me?”

Grandpa sat in thought. ”Maybe when you’re sixteen. Maybe then.”

In the present, Jake’s eyes fell to the little book. It seemed to gaze back at him, pulling him in, longing for him.

“Jake. The director wants to show us the ceremony room.” His mother pulled on him.

“Can I just have a few more minutes with him? I’ll meet you there in a little bit.”

His mother hesitated, but the director nodded approval. Giving Jake a kis, Jake’s mother followed the director out of the room. Jake took his grandfather’s hands, feeling for one last time the grip of the man who lifted him onto the seat of his sedan all those years ago, then slipped the book into his suit pocket. Jake closed the casket.

The service was brief but nice, and soon after Grandpa Jones’ ashes were delivered to their little apartment. They set his urn at the mantle of the old fireplace, and Jake’s mother left for bed. Once she’d gone, Jake shut the door and took out the little black book. Hands shaking, he carefully withdrew the strap that had kept it hidden from him all these years. Sitting with the fire as his light source, Jake opened the cover. Inside was a number and a date.

2.10, September 27th.

Puzzled, Jake flipped the page.

3.15, October 11th.

Jake kept flipping pages, finding each the same. A number and a date, all the way from when Jake was eight.

4.00, December 6th,

3.54 January 10th.

5.56 February 7th.

Jake continued until he’d reached the final pages of the book. When he flipped to the last pages, he found two things. The first was a code for a bank account. The second, was a series of three notes.

Jake,

I am writing this when you are only eight years old. You’re a small boy with a big heart, and you’re growing more every day. You could do anything in the world on weekends, but for some reason, you want to spend time with your old grandfather in his beat up blue sedan. In the middle of a field! You tell me that you’re going to get yourself a blue sedan like mine someday. I’m getting this notebook in the hopes that I can help you with that. With my first contribution of 2.00, it is my hope that if I can keep saving every week, eventually this little molehill of mine will grow into a mountain, at the top of which will sit your car.

Jake,

You’re now nine years old, and you want to see my book. I am afraid to show you, because I don’t want you to be excited for something that I might not be able to deliver. My molehill is growing, but it is far from the mountain that you need it to be. I am trying my best, and I don’t want to disappoint you.

Jake,

You’re now twelve years old, and yet you haven’t lost the love you’ve had for me all these years. The molehill is growing, but I’m afraid that I’m not going to have enough to get your sedan by the time I pass on. I’ve decided to stop buying myself food during our Sunday meetings. It breaks my heart that you’re still thinking of your old grandfather when there is so much happening in your life. But don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I love you Jake, and I hope someday I’ll be able to show you that with this gift.

The words were tear-stained as Jake stared at the number, his heart leaping into his throat as he held the book with quivering hands.

The number was 20000.

A week had passed when Jake’s blue sedan turned into that abandoned field. Jake got out of the car, ashes in one hand, a bag of fast food in the other. Laying them down, he went back for his shovel and a sign. Soon, a little mound of dirt surrounded the urn that contained Grandpa’s ashes, and a sign next to it read;

“Here lies Grandpa Wayne Jones, the man who made a mountain out of a molehill.”

Jake sat in the driver’s seat of his blue sedan, eating his burger, little black notebook in his glove compartment.

And he could feel Grandpa sitting beside him.