by HUNTER PRICHARD

By the time I’d gotten to the restaurant, waiters were loosening their neckties. A hostess sat at the bar having a glass of wine and busboys snuffed and removed candles from the emptying tables. At a table in the back of the dining room, my grandmother grinned and waived her hands about. Besides her, Chipper bobbed his head, like he was having the time of his life. The table still contained the remnants of what had been a lavish dinner—a manager stiffly lingered to clear the plates, despite Grandma shooting him hard looks. I saw this from the front, as I paused to exchange apologetic words with the maître ‘d. I watched Grandma motion Chipper towards the bottle of wine, demanding that he pour another glass.

Chipper willingly did so. He hadn’t any idea how to refuse her. I knew little of him, only that he was a happy-go-lucky man who’d wanted a life in the theatre, but hadn’t talent to make it, nor the wisdom for ordinary employment. He liked talking of various “projects” he was involved in, but he hadn’t much going on except a role as my grandmother’s personal assistant and driver. She was a producer with esteem, and maybe he thought she would give a chance someday. Who knows? I was taken to shows as a child, but never could I make heads or tails of art. I eventually settled in a more practical line. The only thing I knew was that gullible failures like Chipper depressed me. All my life, Grandma had been collecting and discarding such people. I doubt she paid Chipper much for his effort. Never for a day had she ever respected him.

Neither did I. Nobody much could. There wasn’t anything to dislike about him, but the way he spoke about his life was much too optimistic and cheery for a man who hadn’t much in life but a car and a working body and a shelf of scripts left unread. When I was in an all right mood, I could muster enough graciousness to chitchat about whatever he was up to. I used to waste my time getting bitter when Grandma insulted him in front of others. But that was pointless. Chipper hadn’t any nerve and whatever distress or embarrassment he felt he kept well hidden. He stammered and often cleared his throat.

He’d called me as I was getting ready for bed. There was much for me to do tomorrow, and I wouldn’t have picked up any call if it not him. Like usual, he acted like nothing was up and stammered out some small talk about some French bistro that’d recently opened and how his girlfriend wanted to try something called andouillette.

“How was the premier?” I asked to cut the chatter.

Yeah, Chipper told me. Grandma had had a wearing day for a woman of nearly eighty. There’d been a luncheon in the morning with the players, then interviews with the press. Grandma drank two glasses of beer with lunch and had a brandy during the show. She’d taken the whole lot of them out to dinner at an old-fashioned steak restaurant down by the harbor and ordered every dish off the menu. Now, the actors and the theater director had shoved off and it was just him and her sitting there, and would I mind coming out for a drink?

I now stood with the maître ‘d, nodding an acknowledgement toward Chipper’s raised hand. Around us the final patrons were wrapping up their evenings, and I sensed the tense impatience of the staff as they removed tablecloths, stacked chairs, and polished silverware for the following evening. As I quickened to the back of the dining room, my grandmother was instructing the manager with a crooked finger.

“Good to see you, Billy,” Chipper said with a stretched smile.

I bent over Grandma with the best smile I could give her. Her eyes were grey and her thin, veiny hand desperately clung to the stem of the wine glass.

“We’ve had a big day,” Chipper said. “Haven’t we?”

“Thanks for sticking around,” I told him, staring down at my grandmother and then shaking out a little, comforted that she wasn’t as bad off as usual.

Grandma asked me what I wanted to drink and rolled her eyes when I shook my head. I tried taking the wine from her, but she kept too sturdy a grip that I would’ve broken the glass. She cursed and then, a moment later, she was cuddled up to me like a kitten.

It’d been a good show, she told me. Everyone had stomped and shouted with joy. The more she talked, the more she had tricked herself into believing she’d been the play’s writer – that she’d not only been one of the actors, but the very lead – that she’d directed it too. I let her go on with it. Gradually, her hand rested on my knee and moved up the inside of my leg.

“I can spot a hit from a mile away,” she whispered into my ear. “Been in the business long as I have, you know a hit. I know everything in the world about a hit.”

“It sure is late,” Chipper sighed.

“Maybe for you,” she told him. “Go home to your mother then.”

“No, no,” Chipper said, his smile tight. “Probably should get home to my girlfriend, you know? Better apologize for cancelling our date.”

“Shut up, Chipper.”

Chipper laughed a little. “Maybe I’ll take her out tomorrow.”

“Shut up, Chipper,” Grandma said again. Then she giggled. “Your girlfriend? I thought I was your girlfriend. You have a girlfriend other than me?”

“Well, I don’t –” he stuttered, not sure how to proceed.

“Kidding!” Grandma shouted. “What? Chipper, did you believe me? You sure are gullible. I bet I could tell you this glass of wine was water and you’d believe me.”

“No, of course, I wouldn’t,” Chipper said, trying to keep his grin.

“You probably would. You believe everything I say. Chipper believes everything I say.” She drank the wine delicately, bringing the glass up to her mouth with both hands like a child would with hot cocoa. “I got plenty of boyfriends myself. Always had and always will.”

“You’ve lived quite a life,” Chipper said. “I sure love your stories.”

“Stories? Yeah, I got a lot of them.”

“I love hearing them,” he said, trying to regain his spirits.

“I can’t tell, Chipper, not to a nice little boy like you.” She winked at me. “All he does is stand around waiting for me to tell him what to do.” This amused her and her face swelled. “You’re a handsome boy,” she mumbled, patting down my hair. “Want an autograph?”

“It’s late,” I told her. “The restaurant is closing now.”

“Bet they want an autograph. The help.”

“The waiters only want to go home,” I said. “I say we go home too.”

“I’m sure tired,” Chipper sighed in agreement. “Got to see my girlfriend –”

“Shut up, Chipper,” she told him. “You go see your girlfriend. But I’m not ready to go yet.” She rested her head on my shoulder, and again, her hand rested on my knee. “I’m having a good time. I worked hard to put on that play, writing the whole damn thing and playing the parts and they better celebrate me for it. You’re celebrating, aren’t you?”

“We’re celebrating.” Chipper looked about. “Looks like the party is about wrapped up. Don’t you think?” He paused, then wheezed, “I believe it is.”

“Chipper needs to be going home,” I said. “Everyone does.”

“Not everyone,” Grandma said. “Don’t you want to celebrate?” She sighed, as she pushed herself closer to me. “Handsome boys like you better enjoy themselves, or else they’ll get all lame and boring. Like Chipper, you know?”

“Chipper has had a long night,” I whispered. “We all need to be going home.”

“Home?”

“Home. That’s right. Aren’t you tired?”

“Why would I be tired?”

“You’ve had a long day,” I said again. “You need to be up early for the show tomorrow.”

“I could stay out all night. Couldn’t be less tired if you paid me. Not unless you paid me well.” She laughed. “You should hear some of my nights from when I was a kid. A kid like you. Don’t you want to hear them? All the trouble I got myself mixed up in?”

Chipper should’ve gone to get the car, but he was too timid, and only sat tensely, giving me frantic looks. For a moment, I was too preoccupied plucking Grandma’s hand off my knee. She wriggled like a leech, her eyes intent and mischievous.

“Let’s get going home,” I told her, my voice clear and cold.

“Only if you’re coming, too.” She yawned. “Night isn’t over yet.”

“You need to be up early tomorrow for the play, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Chipper said. “It’ll be an early morning tomorrow. Won’t it?”

“Shut up, Chipper,” Grandma said out of the corner of her mouth. “You look like you have a lot of things on your mind,” she whispered to me. “Why don’t you tell them to me.”

“Not tonight,” I said. “I can see you for breakfast in a few days.”

Her hand felt large and sanctioned on my leg, and she took a deep breath, as if she were to say something profound. Then the last of her nerves snapped, and she folded over, her head flat on the table, a soft sound whirring from her nostrils.

“Sorry about all this,” Chipper told me.

“Why’re you sorry?” I said, and awakened Grandma with a soft shove.

We stood Grandma to her feet. She was willing, though her feet lagged as we walked her across the room towards the door, and often she would stop and stand frozen, as if slapped across the face, and look about with a wild, fearful expression. There were only a few tables left of people, and they turned away from us. The waiters, too, gave us wide berth. When Grandma stumbled, it was only due to Chipper’s attentive grip around her waist that kept her from falling.

“Get the car,” I told Chipper once we’d gotten her seated in a small chair by the door.

Chipper did so without response, and, as I settled myself in a small crouch beside Grandma, I shook my head, annoyed at his obedience. I looked out the window for him, but he’d gone around the corner, likely down to the nearby garage where the car was.

“Where we off to now?” Grandma asked me.

“Getting you home.”

“Coming home with me, handsome boy? You’d better. For the after party, you know?”

“I don’t think there’ll be any after party tonight,” I said.

“There’s always an afterparty. Isn’t there?”

“Chipper is getting the car. He’ll take you home.”

“Coming along, I bet.”

“Not tonight,” I told her, sensing the perceptive eyes of the maître ‘d. “No after party.”

“Handsome, rich boys like you always liked the after parties the best of all. I know so.” She grinned a little. “After all the squares and losers go home to their mothers.”

“There won’t be any more parties tonight,” I said, peering deep into her face. Then I whispered, “You had a good day, didn’t you? It’s an amazing success, your play.”

“Success calls for a little amusement,” she warbled. “Want to come celebrate with me?”

“Not tonight.”

“Have to get up early tomorrow?” Grandma burrowed her head against my shoulder. “Busy people need to be in the morning, I guess. Busy, important people. Me too, you know.”

“That’s right.” I stood her up, seeing Chipper’s blue car coming cautiously down the street. “Chipper was nice to have stayed up so late for you. Make sure you thank him.”

“Chipper?”

“Chipper. That’s right. He was good to stay up this late with you.”

“Oh, that Chipper hasn’t anywhere to be.” She laughed, expecting me to join her.

“Chipper was going to take his girlfriend to dinner.” I helped her up. “He was kind to have stayed out with you, and to make sure you’re getting home safely.”

“You come home with me,” she mumbled.

“Not tonight.”

She paused in motion and gave me a long look. Her eyes expanded from vague amazement into that of a pierced concentration. “I’m not so old, you know? Not so old at all. People think so. I’m not. You come home with me. Why don’t you, handsome boy?” She tried to grin, but already, sobriety was cracking through, and hardening. “Guess I’m tired though. Too late, isn’t it? Too old or something?” She looked away.

Chipper stood beside the parked car, scrunching his hair back and forth with his fingers. He looked about as old and tired as Grandma as I brought her out to the street, but he hopped awake and rushed to help her into the backseat. I stepped back a little, watching him hustle and bustle to get her belted and comfortable.

“I guess she’s feeling better,” Chipper said, smiling naturally as he stood up.

“That’s right.”

“She was sure drunk when I called you. Making a bit of a scene, you know? Sorry about it, making you come down to take care of her.”

“There’s nothing for you to be sorry about.” I stepped away from him, not liking the smile he gave me. Then I turned back, my hand reaching for the wallet in my pocket. “I don’t have any cash on me,” I mumbled. “If you wait here, I can go to the ATM.”

“That’s alright,” Chipper said, turning his head.

“It’s only down the block. I’ll be back quickly.”

Chipper shuffled in place, refusing to look at me. “You don’t have to.”

“She’ll pay you all right for tonight?”

“Oh, I’m always fine for money,” Chipper said, a choke in his throat. “The money doesn’t matter to me. Well, she always makes sure to write a check.”

“Are you getting enough?”

“Of course, of course!” he said, almost desperately. “Sorry for bothering you about it. I mean, calling you down here. It’s gotten late.”

“I’m her grandson,” I told him. My arms were crossed. “I should be the one to help.”

“Oh, well,” he said with a little smile. “I owe you one.”

I stood there with my arms crossed and stared at her crumpled figure through the black car window. I almost thanked him once more and told him I’d get him some money if he needed it. But he’d started the car, and I only stood there, dumbly, until the car had disappeared. I suppose I’d figured it wouldn’t matter much, whatever else I was going to say.

Ω

Hunter Prichard is a writer from Portland, Maine.

Mike Callaghan’s work focuses on fragmentation, rearrangement and reinterpretation—considering the cycles of self-preservation and mortality—when frameworks of relationships are at once prominently visible and exhaustively hidden. Mike’s work has been published in ZYZZYVA, NonBinary Review, Rhino Poetry, and The Shanghai Literary Review. His work has also appeared in the Griffin Museum of Photography, Marin Museum of Contemporary Art, Soho Photo Gallery, and PhotoIreland. He earned an MFA from the San Francisco Art Institute.