GRIT (The Silver Nitrate Series Book 2) (18 page)

“I know.” Zenith chuckled as he looked down at his lap, captivated by Paw’s words.

“She’s nice to my grandson… she makes you happy.” The corners of the man’s lips curved in a grin. “I believe Osha would like her. I’ll ask her if that woman should be your wife.”

“You will ask Mawmaw? How can you ask Mawmaw, Paw?”

“I talk to Osha in my dreams every night. In my dreams, I remember everything. I can see, hear, and speak clearly. She comes to me, and we play chess. And we talk… She lights her cigarettes, crosses her pretty brown legs, and smiles at me from across the table. Osha sits with me. Sometimes she brings a bottle of gin, other times she brings hot tea and bread. We talk about Degan. We talk about Len. We talk about the four seasons until I fall completely asleep.” Paw yawned. “You know… to connect with someone, have a transcendent assembly, is a rare and beautiful thing. That’s why I talk to Osha, and she talks to me. Because we must. Because we are one and the same.”

“I miss her, Paw.”

The old man rose gingerly, placed both feet back on the floor, and got his balance with a slight sway of his hips.

“Sweet dreams, Paw. Maybe you can talk to Mawmaw again tonight. Maybe I can, too.”

“You are. You’re talking to her through me, right now.” And then, he walked with a shuffle down the hall, entered his bedroom, and disappeared for the night…

T
he railroad tracks
were covered with snow, the blanket of stark white almost blinding Silver. She stood there in her wool-lined gray boots and oversized cranberry sweater, baking herself to death. Tugging at her turtleneck, she cursed the day Clara had convinced her to purchase it. She raked her short nails over the flesh of her throat; no amount of lemon or honey tea had cured the scratchiness there.

These tracks had been abandoned long ago. She’d never seen a train cross them or heard the whistle of a rumbling locomotive. She’d lived in her home for many years, and not one chugging engine passed this way. She surmised that back in the 1970s it had been a thriving area, before she was even a blip on the radar. Now, desolate buildings in near ruins, boarded up shops, and tales of haunted schoolhouses filled with ghost children were all that was left. Ratty American flags could be seen everywhere, all shredded into a million sections whipping in the brisk air. Why was she standing there instead of going off to work?

She found herself drawn to the tracks, needing to be there. Perhaps it was to force herself to simply be still and think, marinate in space and time. Syracuse winters could be particularly brutal, and this one was no exception. It dragged on and on, refusing to make way for spring, but it didn’t deter her from standing her ground. When she’d walked out of her front door, she had her clanking keys in hand and was prepared to go on about her way. However, the best laid plans were just as easily broken. She walked the block in the icy terrain until she’d arrived exactly where she stood, and now here she was swimming in some strange shit that her mother coined, ‘emotions.’ Thoughts of healing… thoughts of being in love… thoughts of an all-consuming, passionate love affair that at times left her completely breathless and gasping at a way out, and a way in.

She couldn’t help but whisper to herself, her mouth crimpled at the ends as a slow smile spread across her face. She understood what had truly led her there.

Baby, you send me…

When she grabbed the front door handle, her phone buzzed. She took it out of her pocket to find Zenith had sent a short video of her repaired motorcycle. Apparently, he’d picked it up the previous night. He’d taken the liberty of riding it around his block, showing off, putting on airs. He was no stunt man, but he could sure hold his own. She chuckled at the image of him pretending to be an enthusiast, but then, at the end of the video, he made her understand that that was the end of all the fun and games. The camera drew close to his face and he said:

‘I know what this means to you. I understand it. Here’s your bike back… but don’t get any ideas. You can ride, but not journey away from me. You can play, but not play games with me. I weld heat, and melted the heart of the ice queen. She was hurting, but not because she wanted to be. And why did I do it? Because you thought I was worth it by showing concern and true love for me. And why did you do it? Because I love you, and you know I’d do any fucking thing for you. Don’t you ever forget that.’

She couldn’t shake his expression, or the serious tone of his words communicated so beautifully yet simply. It hit her somewhere deep, somewhere unexpected. And she just needed a few seconds to take a long, cool breath—an air bath—and embrace the fact that she had a hell of a man…

…and he’d ride with her, front and back and from side to side, until it was GAME OVER…

“Hang up!” he
said, gesticulating wildly in the woman’s direction. “Please, just hang up. I’m fine now.” He glared at the overbearing lady as she clutched the cordless phone, a look of concern etched on the smooth features of her rounded face. Denise slowly placed the receiver back upon the wall, and her hand promptly on her rounded hip. “Hiawatha, this is the second episode you’ve had in a week. It’s not right to not tell Zenith.”

At that moment, her voice with the stewed Caribbean accent got on his goddamn nerves. At times of peace and triumph, he thought she sounded sexy, but when Denise would decide to serve her unwanted opinion, it grated him to the core.

“I’m old! These things happen.” He closed his eyes tight and tried to talk through the excruciating pain that seized his chest, like heated fists beating upon his delicate heart and knocking the wind out of his ribcage. “Besides, I was just at the doctor’s yesterday, and I’m fine. Calling Zenith won’t help… just a little heartburn.”

“Taking advice from you about such matters is like trusting a snake for a vegetarian dish recommendation.”

He rolled his eyes and rocked back in his seat.

“You call my grandson too much! He’s at work. You’re always calling him, telling on me. You’re going to get him fired.”

“Fine. Next time it happens, I’m calling 911. I won’t stand for it.”

“Well then, sit down,” he whispered.

“That will be enough from you! I don’t like this and I’ll do as I said with or without your consent,” she warned, swinging the refrigerator door open and grabbing an ice-cold pitcher of water.

“No one asked you if you liked it! I don’t like eating that stew with the goat and fat you keep cooking. I don’t like a lot of things! I don’t like it when you have to see me naked and dry me off after my bath, either!”

“That makes two of us…” she mumbled as she placed a lemon and a lime on a cutting board, then reached for a knife.

“I can’t even fart in this damn house without you threatening to call Zen! Next you’ll make me go to the hospital if I don’t wipe my ass clean enough for your liking. It’s my
own
business if my ass is itchy!” he barked and slowly walked away, desperately trying to make it back down to his bedroom in one piece.

“Mr. Hiawatha Taylor! Don’t you
take
that tone of voice with me! Now you go on and settle down.”

“I’m settled. You’re the one yelling.”

“I don’t want to hear another peep out of you until dinner time and that is final.”

He mumbled a few obscenities under his breath, careful to not allow the busybody to overhear him as he shuffled along. He’d had hospital and home staff lay hands on him one too many times in the past, and he didn’t want it to happen again. Denise had never done such a thing, but a never-ending fear haunted him still. There was nothing worse than being hostage to his own body. Back in his day, he was a bull. Now he could barely blow out a birthday candle. Once inside of his bedroom, he closed and locked the door and practically crawled over like a sleepy baby to his nightstand. The damn thing was cluttered with used tissues, an empty juice glass caked with gritty citrus residue down one side, and a rolled up Playboy—his very favorite edition—from May 1986. With a shaky hand, he opened the drawer of the thing, eager to get into his treasure trove of tidbits and make the hurt go away.

“Damn it!” He pounded the damn thing with a fist fit to be a gavel. Anger gave birth to long lost strength, and desperation, too.

The previous week, Zenith had discovered he’d taken a few pills from his prescription stash, and gave him a good tongue-lashing. He then let him know that only he and Denise would know where his medication was from then on out, fearing he may accidentally overdose during one of his ‘episodes.’ But there was one bottle he’d hidden away like a nut during the winter.

One of those asses found it!

I just need the Monopril… Why would he take my heart pills, too?!

He’d already taken his medication that morning, but found that an extra pill here and there staved off such events. The medicine also helped to control his high blood pressure, but there was no sense in lamenting over the benefits. He’d had his share for the day, and his emergency plan of doubling up every now and again when the pain became too much was now up in smoke.

He slumped down on the bed. The hospital rail caught him against the thigh. He didn’t care about the way the cold steel pressed into his leg as he sloped over the thing like a melting blob. All he could do was concentrate on the all-encompassing tightening in his chest. He gripped a tight fistful of his shirt when another wave of pain engulfed him. His tired and tormented body succumbed to an ungodly heat. Sweat beads peppered his face and soon, he was trying to catch his breath. Noticing a half crumpled bottle of water on the nightstand, a quarter of the way full, he reached for it and chugged it down with all of his might, thankful for the reprieve. He slumped back against his nightstand and took several deep breaths until finally, he began to feel like himself again.

“There…that’s better.” He sighed as he propped his feet up and reached for the remote control. Turning on his brand new television Zenith had purchased for him, he surfed to a station featuring a young man beating the drums in some comedy skit.

He smiled proudly and propped his arm behind his head, just so.