Makeda by Randall Robinson

Author:Randall Robinson [Robinson, Randall]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: General Fiction
ISBN: 9781617750229
Publisher: OpenLens
Published: 2011-07-15T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY

Makeda! Makeda! It’s Graylon! Come on in here, boy. Don’ ya look a hansum sight. All grown up. Ya grandma tried to hide it, but she is excited as all get out to see ya. Look at ya, willya.”

I had never heard anyone call my grandmother by the unusual first name that her mother had given her. Mrs. Grier, tittering and bustling about me, drew me into the vestibule and pulled off my flannel blazer. Mrs. Grier was quite elaborately overweight. When she laughed, which was often, she jiggled, and when she walked, she waddled and wheeled her girth. “My God, Makeda, he’s a sight to see, I tell ya. She’s so happy ya come home, son.”

“Gray. Is that you Gray?” It was my grandmother’s voice—softer and weaker than I remembered it—coming from the little parlor just off the tiny vestibule.

“Yes, Grandma, it’s me.” I walked into the room. She was sitting in her old upholstered rocker. The little armchair I sat in to take notes when I was a boy had been placed near her by Mrs. Grier at my grandmother’s direction. The remembered and forgotten room registered with me as close and overstuffed, although there was, save for the wall hanging, nothing in it that had not been there for thirty years, and maybe even longer than that.

“Come over here, Gray, and let me hug you.” I felt her cheek wet against mine as I bent to embrace her. The touch of her dispelled the shaming thought I’d had, upon entering the room, about Jeanne and not wanting her to see this place I had come from.

“How was your drive?”

“Fine, Grandma, fine.”

“Have you eaten?” Not waiting for an answer: “Gertrude, get Gray some of those pastries he likes—you know, the apple ones—and bring some of that Welch’s I use to give him to help us clean up after communion. You know where to find everything. Of course. Of course.”

“Is it okay, Grandma, if I open the drapes?” I was feeling mildly claustrophobic. The dark drapes were heavy and lined and permitted no passage of light.

“Yes, yes. Go ahead. I tend to forget whether they’re open or closed.”

We spoke of small gossip for a while. Catching me up, she did most of the filling in. I had moved away and little about my new life would be of interest to her. She spoke at length about the church crisis and how it had brought out the worst in everyone involved. She said that before he resigned, Reverend Boynton had lost sway over much of the congregation and without it seemed a smaller and different man. She told me of weddings and deaths and births in a host of families, some I knew, or at least knew of, and others I did not.

“Does Daddy still come by every day at noon?” The room seemed then to slow and grow smaller.

“Yes. I expect he’ll be along today before too long.”

“D-does he ever talk about me?”

“Sometimes. Yes, sometimes he does, but it’s very hard for him to do.

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