The long pull

My grandfather lived on the bank of a small river that rose and fell with the seasons. Every morning for as long as I can remember, he was out by that river with a fishing pole in his hand. He was absolutely still out in the water, letting the edges of the river lap around his tall, waterproof boots as he surveyed the water and woods around him. I never knew what he was thinking when he was out there. I never thought to ask, and even if I had I think he wouldn’t have given me a straight answer.
“Nothing much,” I can hear him replying. “I just wait for the line to pull.”
That was him, though. To expect any more than a small reply and a little joke would only lead to disappointment. When I was 8 my sister, my cousins, and I tried to get Pap to quit smoking. We’d steal his cigarettes and flush them down the toilet, or otherwise hide them where he wouldn’t think to look. Failing that, we climb up on his lap, feigning a desire for a hug, and reach into his left breast pocket and crush the one or two cigarettes he kept there. He never got mad at us for that. My grandmother was, in fact, very pleased with our endeavor and encouraged us by showing us where his stash of cigarettes was. We did as much damage as possible and he quit a few months later, without a word about it.
He was 54 when I was born. He’d served in World War II but never spoke of it. My grandmother always talked about him coming back from the war and how happy they both were. She even showed me pictures, as if she thought she had to prove it. But he never mentions it at all. He’ll talk about his childhood and his early years working in factories after he’d gotten married, after my father was born. But anything of that in-between time seemed to be lost. Or purposely forgotten.
My father is a very similar man. There are hardly many situations that I can recall that he’s shared something with me. He has always been a wonderful and devoted father and husband, but there seems to be something missing. Maybe he inherited it from his father; that sheltered and closed-off quiet that is so easy to overlook.
Pap was always a small man, though much more so as he aged. As the years progressed he became more stoop-shouldered and seemed to shrink. Towards the end of his life he shuffled slowly around the house that had previously shared with my grandmother. He rarely ventured out to the river in those final years. His fishing pole was laid aside and forgotten. The tall boots only came out of the closet on days of particularly heavy snowfall. The river was still there, rising and falling as usual, but my grandfather didn’t seem to notice it. He didn’t have the energy to stand for as long as he used to.
I think he knew that his life was winding down when he called me. It was the first time I could remember him calling me, at least without my grandmother initiating it. I was surprised when I heard his voice, faint and old, on the other end of the phone.
“It’s Pap.”
“Hi! How you doing?” I tried not to sound too excited or nervous, pushing myself to small talk about the weather like we usually did.
“As good as can be,” he chuckled lightly and coughed into the phone. “How are things in Ohio?” I didn’t remind him that I’d moved to New York months before, it wouldn’t have done anything but embarrass him.
“Things are going well. It’s been beautiful here lately.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Really nice. Warm, but with no rain.”
“Well, you gotta send some of that weather my way.”
“Will do.” We both laughed slightly. “Will do.”
There was a pause in the conversation. Usually this is when my grandmother would jump in and ask how work was going or how my parents and sister were. Without her we just had this silence. I was about to add something about the weather when he spoke.
“Well, I just wanted to say hello.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“I hope you’re doing well.”
“Yes, certainly. And you?” We’d already done this but it seemed like the only thing I had left to say.
“Well, I’m feeling old, huh? Just feeling it in my joints these days.”
“Did you go to the doctor?”
“Naw. I’m done with doctors now. Too many pills to take and things to eat or not eat. Who can remember it all?”
“Well, if you need anything—“
“No, no. I’m fine. Just wanted to say hello.”
“Okay.”
“Nice talking to you.”
“You too.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
The receiver clicked on his end and I hung up the phone. That was our last conversation. When I saw him next he was in the hospital, a few weeks after we talked, and had slipped into a coma.
He looked peaceful in the coffin. My mother had arranged for him to wear a suit; she had to buy one for him because he didn’t own any that fit him. I’d never seen him in a suit before, it was unfamiliar. She wanted him to look his best and my father didn’t seem to care what he wore. At least I didn’t think so, until I approached the coffin and, smiling softly down at him, noticed that he was wearing his tall, waterproof fishing boots.
We went back to Pap’s house to tidy up some things and begin preparations for packing the house up. An hour or so after we had started, my mother found an old cardboard shoebox underneath Pap’s bed. It was filled with pictures of my father and his brother, of my sister and my cousins and me, and, on the very bottom, a faded black and white photograph of a young man in military dress. Written on the back, underneath my grandfather’s name, was the following:
photo taken May 1, 1945
wounded June 6, 1944
He had been wounded on D-Day. I flipped the photograph over again and saw it: underneath his stiff collar, pinned tightly to his left breast pocket, was the Purple Heart. This was amazing. I wondered if my dad knew that his father had sacrificed so much and been honored for it. I had to tell him.
“Dad!” I called out, leaping up from next to my mother, who looked curiously at me before turning back to the stack of old photographs from the shoebox.
“Dad?” I called again, heading into the living room where I’d seen him last. My sister was there, flipping through the television.
“He’s outside,” she said. “He went out back a few minutes ago.”
I stepped out of the front door and turned, photograph in hand, to walk to the river behind the house. When I looked up after a few steps, I stopped myself. My father was standing ahead of me, along the bank of the river. He was as still as a statue, looking out at the wild trees and slowly rolling river as it passed. He was stoic. I turned around and headed back towards the house. I could always tell him about the photograph later. He’d come back in soon enough. For now he looked content to be alone, gazing out at the woods and waiting for the line to pull.