Be Brave, Grandson

Grandpa stealthily motioned at me. I was only halfway done with my enchiladas but he was waving me to his truck. His beat up Silverado ("It can handle any terrain", he'd say) had two rifles peeking out the back. I excused myself from lunch and got in the passenger seat. 

We listened to old Spanish hymns on the drive and he whistled along. Ollie was in the back panting gently. I rubbed her head and noticed he'd packed my camo gear in the backseat too. And hopefully that cooler just had snacks.

"Where we headed?" I asked.

"Roan."

"Hm, solid drive."

"Yeah," he said, with his usual grunting sound. "We'll just see what we can find out there today."

The car hit a bump and I heard the clink of bottles. I didn't bother asking if he'd told anyone we were leaving. Because now I knew he hadn't.

Grandpa's hat had those breathing holes in the sides and the tip of the bill was worn from use and lightly decorated with fishing hooks. He rambled about Roan and how the energy companies had cancelled several leases out there to preserve the land. I mostly tuned that out in favor of looking out the window at the beautiful desert and mountains. My cell phone buzzed. Mom calling. I hit the button that made the buzzing stop. Grandpa noticed but refrained from commenting. Instead he talked about he'd shot and killed a mountain lion years back.

And it had been years back. Grandpa's hands weren't as steady, and he didn't stand with his back straight now. His patchy beard looked depressing, and his moles had gotten bigger. That's not to say he'd lost his spark, but he had lost some of his vigor: the vigor I remembered as a teen when we'd ride horses through countryside, and we could hike for hours. Well... when he wasn't drinking we could.

We hit the JQS trail and zig zagged to the top of the plateau. The view that never got old sprawled before us. There were small green shrubs that disappeared midway and then re-populated the top of the tall, tall plateau. The lovely gray shale soil coated the landscape with bumps and tight ridges and occasionally melded to a reddish hue. We could see Utah from up here. I changed in the backseat while Grandpa grabbed the guns. He nodded at the backseat with the briefest glance. So I grabbed the cooler. I felt a tinge of anxiety, but maybe I could keep him distracted. 

So once we set up our blinds, I talked about our fishing trips, asked him if he remembered when we caught that giant bass. He laughed and recalled how he'd had to grab the rod from me to loosen the drag or the line would've snapped. That was good. He was laughing. 

But I ran out of things to talk about pretty quickly and an uneasy silence fell. Without looking at me, Grandpa opened the cooler and cracked open a Dos with one smooth, practiced motion. Even Ollie looked at him, perplexed. My face reddened, but he wasn't looking at me so I didn't have to hide it. My camo headset picked up every sound from the glass touching his lips to the liquid being swallowed in heavy gulps. When he put it down, it was three fourths gone. He sighed, wiped his lips and leaned his head back. Then I heard his jacket rustle and he picked up the bottle to finish it. 

This pattern continued three more times in quick succession and I perspired. He still didn't look my way. There was a time when he would've offered me a bottle, but after that intervention, he knew where I stood. So then I felt annoyed. Why hadn't he asked my sister or dad to come out here with him? And the answer annoyed me more. He knew I wouldn't say shit. 

"Deer," said Grandpa. He still had that excellent eyesight. 

He flipped off the Benelli's safety and took aim. I did too. Grandpa's hands were shaking. 

"Talleeehaiiihooeee," we both whispered. Our little chant. We both fired. I aimed for the heart and hit true. Grandpa must've been aiming for the heart too like he taught me, but his shot missed entirely. I guess Grandpa thought he'd struck home though because he jumped in celebration. Then he winced as that motion must've hurt his bad hips. Ollie panted wildly with cute little noises. 

I motioned to help him and he put his hand up. "No no I'm fine." He must've forgot our silent agreement in his happiness. "Have one with me."

And I surprised myself by agreeing. I let him open it for me and took a big gulp. Maybe this time things would be okay. He was overjoyed that I was drinking with him and let loose and our conversation started to flow. 

"Do you remember Aunt Jessie?" he asked. 

"Oh god I do."

"Yeah? What do you remember?"

"Well for one she always had that smoker's breath and she'd kiss me on the lips at every family reunion. It was so gross! But to be fair she made the best desserts."

"She sure did," said Grandpa, howling with laughter. He sipped a giant sip and talked about her desserts. 

"You forgot the lime," I interrupted. 

Grandpa smiled devilishly. "No I didn't." He reached into his jacket and pulled a lime out and cut it with his pocket knife. 

"First let's go get that deer," I said. 

"No no the deer will be there for a while," he said, already halfway through with the lime. 

We sat back in the blind, talking, laughing, cutting limes. Grandpa even had a salt shaker he started using to salt the rims. 

"Everyone thinks I drink," he said, taking the mood down, "to numb the pain of the war or something. Truth is I don't think about the war much anymore. At least not in any general way."

I stayed silent. 

"I drink because," he got quiet. "You promise not to tell anyone?"

"Of course, Grandpa."

He pulled a wooden block the size of a Jenga piece from his jacket. I read the name Isaac on it. He handed it to me and I felt the crude indentation in the wood with my fingers.

"I'm at least half gay," said Grandpa suddenly and without warning. He started to cry and wheeze and talk shakily. "When we brought the war to Italy and were pushing... Okay I guess I do drink because of the war but it's because of him." He dropped his rifle and brought his hands to his chest to stop the shaking. And it must have helped because he started speaking in a rather normal tone despite the horrors he recounted: "We pushed at Salerno but the Germans beat us back mercilessly. Isaac and I stayed close to one another but a shot got him in the leg. I tried dragging him but another shot hit my shoulder, right here see. So I let go and I ran for my life like a coward. When I turned around, I knew he was gone. I remember he was just looking at me with dead eyes. I got that stupid purple heart but it means nothing to me. Just a reminder of my failures. And... you see. Your grandma. She accepted me and loved me and cared for me. So I made her my wife. But... There's no one I can talk to about this. I could never tell her I loved a man. That if I could go back I would stay by his side and die with him."

I had to drink. We both had to drink. And we did. 

"Well I think you're brave," I said. 

He took the wooden piece from me and looked at it and cried. "He gave this to me on the northern coast of Africa." Grandpa laughed through his tears. "I'll never—" He cried. "If only the piece of him still with me," he motioned at his heart, "was this small." Then he laughed again through his tears. 

I touched his shoulder and gave him the biggest hug. "I love you Grandpa."

"I love you too."

So we left the deer in the woods and packed Ollie in the truck and drove home drunk and sang along to old Spanish hymns. I didn't know the words and neither did he and we never spoke of that night again. But Grandpa didn't drink much after that. He'd have a bad night here or there, but nothing he couldn't recover from. 

When we got home the fireplace was still glowing, and I watched him give that wooden piece a kiss and toss it to the flames.