Thank You for All Things (17 page)

I can tell that Milo isn’t getting it. “You’re so frustrating,” I say. “I might as well be telling Feynman.” I’m forced to rethink that comment, however, because Feynman is watching me with acute interest, his eyes bright, his tongue lapping out of the side of his mouth.

Just then Oma leans out of the doorway and is about to say something but turns her head away. She glances back, lifts one finger to signal “wait,” then disappears. I use the opportunity to grab Milo by the sleeve. “Listen. You tattle on me, and you’re going to be sorry.”

“Who am I going to tattle to? The FBI? The CIA? The Timber Falls sheriff’s department?”

Even though I’m angry, I am rather impressed that Milo has made two funnies in such a short amount of time. I don’t tell him that, though. Instead, I tell him, “If you even think of tattling, I’ll tattle on you.”

“For what?” he says, getting up and tossing the stick at last.

I stand up so I can have the advantage of towering over Milo, because I know that just as the alpha wolf will roost at a higher elevation than the rest of the pack to reinforce his position, I’ll have an advantage over Milo by standing taller. “I know you were behind the health department coming to test our building. I saw the sites you were visiting online and the articles you were reading. And I saw you snooping at the pipes under the sink too and chipping at the paint on the windowsills when you thought no one was watching. You e-mailed them as though you were a concerned adult tenant, didn’t you?”

Milo, who never gets rattled (except when he’s having an asthma attack or can’t study), suddenly grows pale. “I … I didn’t mean for anything bad to happen. I couldn’t breathe there.”

I’m suddenly sorry I said it. “You didn’t start the fire. I’m just saying … Well, just don’t tattle, or I will.”

Suddenly Oma bursts out the door, a box of old junk in her arms. “I was just about to bring this stuff to the shed when I thought of something. Oh, this will be such fun for
you kids,” she says. She zips across the lawn, half hopping, half jogging. “Come! Come!”

She leads us to the shed and shoves against the door with her shoulder. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before now.”

The door is jammed, so we help her ram against it. It opens with a creak and a scrape.

A haze of moldy dust forms in the sunlight let in when we finally get the door open, and Oma tells Milo to wait outside so his asthma doesn’t start acting up.

The workbench that runs against one wall is coated with dust, as are the tools hanging from Peg-Board above it and all along a second wall. The shed is cramped with things I imagine got stacked there over the years since Grandpa Sam last used it for making his wood projects. Things like a roll of chicken wire, a lawn mower, a rain barrel, a few crocks, and everyday items much too dull to have Oma so excited.

“Move, Feynman,” Oma says as she shimmies behind an old dresser. “Oh, they’re still here! Give me a hand moving this stuff, Lucy,” she says.

“Bikes!” I shout when Oma backs one up far enough for me to see its skinny back tire and red wheel cover.

Oma and I work swiftly to make a path through the junk to steer the bikes out. Milo looks confused about all our enthusiasm. “We don’t even know how to ride bikes,” he says, and Oma says it’s easy and that we’ll learn. Milo doesn’t look so sure.

We push the bikes to the backyard, then Oma hurries back to the shed to get some spray, because the chains are corroded with rust. The bikes are old-fashioned 10-speeds, with handlebars that are curved down like rams’ horns. One
bike, the red one, is a girls’ bike, and the blue one is a boys’. The difference between them is something that’s always perplexed me: why they would design a boys’ bike with a bar for them to get wracked on and girls’ bikes with none, even though girls don’t really have anything to wrack. I ponder this as Milo and I stand across the yard so we won’t breathe the fumes from the WD-40 Oma is spraying on the chains, her cheeks bulging as she holds her breath. I’m guessing that the barless bike for girls was created by some dad in the old days when girls always wore dresses, so that when his little princess swung her leg over the back tire to get on, the neighborhood boys wouldn’t see her bloomers, which is what Oma said they called those big underpants girls used to wear. I like the boys’ bike best but know that to grab that one and make Milo ride the girls’ bike could get him beat up if there are any boys within a five-mile radius of here—even if they aren’t gangsters.

“Now what?” I ask, holding the handlebars of the red bike propped against me, once Oma gets the chains rotating smoothly.

“Why, you get on them,” Oma says. “Here, I’ll show you.”

Oma takes the bike, swinging her Tina Turner leg through the no-bar space and hoisting her butt onto the triangle seat. She props her slipper on the pedal and pushes down, setting the bike in motion. She rides in slow circles. “Oh, my,” she giggles as she wobbles over the grass, “I haven’t ridden a bike in years. What fun!”

As she rides, Oma explains that she’s wobbling because she’s on the grass and riding in circles, so can’t get up enough speed to glide smoothly. “That’s the trick of learning to ride a bike,” she says. “You have to get up enough
speed to stop wobbling.” As she rides, making bigger circles until she’s encompassing the whole yard, Feynman runs alongside her, his ears flapping happily as he goes.

Back home, there was a man who rode his bike every day during the warmer seasons. I’d watch him whiz by under the window in his tight-fitting cycling shorts, his helmet one of those high-tech kinds with an aerodynamic point at the back that always reminded me of a pterodactyl’s head. Every time I saw him, I’d think of how fun it would be to ride a bike. Actually, however, riding a bike for the first time is not so fun.

I can’t find my balance, which shouldn’t surprise me, since I have no balance to speak of in the first place. I can’t pedal more than two rotations before I’m yelling, “Whoa!” and tipping over again. Oma hurries to me then, helping me up and holding the bike ’til I get back on. She keeps her grip on the back of the bike seat and one handlebar and jogs alongside me. “That’s it, that’s it,” she says … until she lets go and I crash again.

Milo, on the other hand, is a natural. His face is screwed up in concentration as he pedals, going slowly and wobbling but going all the same. “That’s it, Milo!” Oma shouts now and then.

I’m rubbing my leg where the pedal scraped my skin when I fell, and Oma has my bike half lifted when she stops and says, “Did you hear that?”

I listen. “Hear what?”

“I thought I heard a car in the driveway. I guess not. It must have been the wind.”

That’s not the only trick the wind is up to either, I decide after my hundredth fall. I look over at Milo, who is no longer wobbling as his bike scoots around the entire yard, and I am convinced that it
has
to be the wind that’s foiling
my attempts to learn to ride a bike. And, of course, it’s not like the wind would be a factor with Milo, since he’s so thin that there would be little wind resistance even if the winds were at the speed of an F5 tornado.

I try riding until my frustration level is maxed, then Oma says maybe we should take a break and go inside. “Sam is probably ready to go lie down for his afternoon nap,” she says, though I’m thinking that her ending our afternoon bike-riding lesson has more to do with the way Milo’s puny chest is heaving. “Come on, Milo,” Oma calls.

Milo looks elated as he slides off the blue bike and fiddles to pull the kickstand down with his hand. “They don’t call it a
kick
stand for nothing there, genius.” My jibe goes right over his pointy head, so Oma goes over to show him how to lower the metal rod by kicking it with the back of your heel.

“Can we go on the road later?” he asks. “I could go much faster on asphalt.” I can tell by the gleam in his eye that Milo has finally found one activity besides studying that makes him happy, and I easily imagine him as a grown man: pterodactyl head and hairy, skinny legs pumping beneath black Nike tights.

“Maybe after you get more skilled. But you’ll have to talk to your mother about that,” Oma says.

Oma holds the door open for us and calls to Feynman, who is sniffing something at the fence. Milo claps and calls, but the dog doesn’t come. Milo says that he needs a drink of water, so Oma tells him to go inside and she’ll wait for Feynman. I’m crossing the yard to join her when she casually turns her head toward the driveway and her peaceful, balanced mood crashes. “Lucy! Go see if your grandfather’s in his chair. Hurry! His truck is gone!

“Oh, don’t tell me …” she says, and we split up, checking
each room, calling his name. “I was sure I had every set of keys he owned hidden.”

My quadriceps tingle uncomfortably, and my ears buzz with fright at the thought of Grandpa Sam behind the wheel. “Call 911!” I shout.

O
MA INCORRECTLY
dials twice, so Milo takes the phone from her and punches in the three numbers. Oma is a stammering mess as she explains our precarious situation to the voice at the other end of the line. “How would I know where he might be headed? He’s not in his right mind!” she says.

“To work!” I say. “His lunch box is gone. It was sitting right here on the counter with all the other things you were going to bring to the shed.”

“Oh, oh,” Oma says. “Excuse me, sir. I think I know where he might have gone.” Oma gives him the name and address of the paper mill where Grandpa Sam used to work,
then she repeats the model and make of his black truck and ends with, “Yes, please hurry. That man is going to hurt himself or someone else. He can hardly walk or think anymore.”

After Oma hangs up, she hands me the phone. “Call your mother’s cell, Lucy. I imagine she’s with Mitzy.”

I call Mom as Oma paces and wrings her hands. Mom answers, and I hear Mitzy’s musical laugh in the background. “Hi, Ma. What is it?”

“It’s me, Mom. Oma told me to call you and tell you that Grandpa Sam is gone.”

I hear an intake of breath.

“What’s wrong?” Mitzy asks Mom.

“He’s dead,” I hear Mom say. “I don’t understand … He looked okay this morning. He fell, but he seemed okay.” Mom is obviously crying now, but her voice is muffled, like she has the phone pressed against her shoulder, receiver side down.

“Mom! Mom!” I shout into the phone.

The muffled sound disappears, and Mitzy’s voice asks, “Lillian?”

“No, it’s me, Lucy.”

“You tell your grandmother that we’ll be right there.”

“No, wait! Grandpa Sam’s not
that
kind of gone. He’s gone, as in missing-in-action. He took his truck and drove off. Oma called the police, and then she told me to call Mom.”

“Ohhh!” The sound muffles again, but I can hear enough to know that Mitzy is explaining the situation to Mom. Her voice sounds like squirrel chatter. She comes back on the line again and says, “We’ll be right there.”

I hang up the phone and take Oma’s hand, which is shaking hard. “It’ll be okay, Oma. The police are looking for
him, and Mom and Mitzy are coming to help too. We’ll find him.”

When the phone rings, Oma snatches it quickly. “Hello?” she asks, her eyes pools of anxiety. “Oh, hello, Jeana,” she says, grimacing. “No, no. Nothing’s wrong. I was just waiting for an important call … Yes … No—Jeana? Can I call you back? I really need to leave the line open for my call.”

Oma hangs up and we go outside and cross the lawn, our hair and clothes flapping in the wind. The trees are in full glory now, the countryside smudged with color as far as the eye can see. Stray leaves are skipping across the ground.

We peer down the road on both sides, looking for any signs of a vehicle. The road to the east is sloped so that there’s a blind spot at the dip between the two hills. We stand long enough to see that there’s no car rising up out of the depression, then pace back into the yard.

While we wait, Oma rocks from foot to foot and walks to the edge of the road again. She looks both ways, then comes back to stand by Milo and me. She does this every few seconds.

“May I go ride my bike in the backyard?” Milo asks, and I call him stupid and tell him no, because Oma’s too busy muttering a prayer to answer him.

“Why not?”

“Your mother’s coming!” Oma calls when she checks the road again. I run to the edge of the yard to look. Sure enough, there is a splotch of red coming down the second hill, followed by the sea green of Mitzy’s van.

Mom hurries out of the car to us, as does Mitzy. “Well, he’s not between here and Mitzy’s, anyway,” she says.

“Oma told the police to check the mill. He took his lunch box,” I tell them.

Everyone is talking at once, then Mom stops. “Is that the phone ringing?” We all shut up and listen, but with the wind so noisy, we can’t tell. “Run and see, Lucy,” Mom says, and I sprint fast. I’m not even halfway through the living room when the ringing stops.

“It stopped ringing when I got inside,” I tell Mom when she comes in.

“Shit,” she says.

It’s quickly decided that Oma will wait by the phone, Milo with her, while Mitzy and Mom drive separately to search. I’m going with Mom, but only because I don’t stop begging and she says there’s no time to argue.

Mitzy makes a left turn down a road marked Venison Drive, where Grandpa Sam used to go after work sometimes to fish in a little trout stream that runs across the road, and Mom and I are heading down a road called Benders Crossing. When we reach the end, Mom turns around in a parking lot outside of a bar called Pauly’s and heads back in the direction we came from, taking a right to lead us away from the house. At the moment, Mom doesn’t look like a daughter who doesn’t love her father.

We ride over one gentle hill, then come to a stretch of short, steep ones. I gawk from side to side, looking for any sign of Grandpa Sam’s black Ford.

We come to a fork in the dirt road, and Mom slows as she ponders which way to go. That’s when her cell rings.

“What? What in the hell are you talking about, Ma?” Mom listens, mutters a few more questions, then hangs up and dials Mitzy.