A red felt beret, with a large silver pin. The pin is in the shape of a star, and studded with blue and white rhinestones.
The woman wearing the hat is 95 years old. Her hair is whiter than white, so white it seems fluorescent. She has a small, wrinkled face with snappy blue eyes in it. Though her lips lost their pout years ago, she wears lipstick in the same patriotic red shade of her hat.
She wears a navy and white striped shirt, the kind French sailors wore when she was a girl, and white pants that have been painstakingly ironed by her devoted great grandson.
She refuses to sit in plastic folding chairs. She does not like the lines they make on her slacks, she says, so the aforementioned great grandson (Michael) and his father (Danny) carry one of the Queen Anne dining chairs outside for her to sit on. She sits under the shade of the big cherry tree, with a glass of lemonade in one hand and a paper fan in the other.
The tree is older than all of them. The large, imposing house was built there because of it.
Noise is coming from above. The high pitched squeals of girls whose parents are more permissive than Agnes’s were (little girls did not climb trees when she was one such, regardless of their desire to).
Twelve year old Sophie jumps down from the tree. She hastily plants a kiss on Agnes’s cheek. “Did you see that, Granna? Did you see how high I was? That was awesome!” Seven year old Julia starts wailing “Sophieeeeeee” from the branch she is afraid to get down from.
Agnes smiles as the daredevil runs off towards the tree and turns her focus to the other side of the lawn, where a gaggle of men (how many make a gaggle, she thinks it is six) surround a grill. She can’t hear this, but they are trying to figure out which burgers are the veggie burgers and why George didn’t mark them when he put them on. Beloved Michael breaks away from the group and walks toward her, lifting his hands in a gesture of hopelessness.
“I said to just give Karen a regular one and tell her it’s veggie, but Uncle George said she’d know, and he’d be the one to suffer for it.”
He throws himself on the ground and gazes at Agnes. “How you doin’, you gorgeous old lady?”
Agnes answers him with a tilt of her snowy head and a soft tiny hand under his chin. She raises his face and beams. He looks the most like her son, his grandfather when he was a boy. This boy is twenty-six.
It is the fourth of July, and it is her favorite holiday. Her family does this bigger than Christmas and Thanksgiving combined. As many as can make it travel to this old house in the Berkshires. It has been years since anyone has asked Agnes why she loves this particular holiday so much more than the others, and even when they did, she never gave them the real answer.
“I am wonderful, dear. Wonderful.”
The massive lunch is over. Either the veggie burgers were discovered, or Karen didn’t know she wasn’t eating one. The lobster rolls Amelie and Steven bought very early that morning survived the car trip and were delicious. Amanda’s potato salad had the perfect amount of paprika. The pie recipe that has been passed down from Agnes’s own mother was expertly made by Danny (with assistance from his granddaughters).
Danny is sleeping in a lounge chair, his old fishing hat over his face. The baby boomers are in chairs around Agnes, talking about work, politics, their kids. Amanda’s husband has carried their unconscious three year old upstairs to nap. Sophie is halfway up the tree with a book. Julia is sleepier than she wants to admit, and has retreated indoors to play with some dolls. When her father comes down the stairs in less than ten minutes, he will find his daughter face down in a small pile of Groovy Girls, out cold. Amanda and Michael sit a few yards away from the others, heads together, voices low.
Agnes turns her head only a little, but she sees all of this. At the moment, no one is directly interacting with her, so she lets her memories of twenty, forty, sixty years occupy her mind.
“So, how is Eddie?” Amanda asks her brother “How long until he’s back?”
“Ugh. Eight more weeks. You’d think after a year it wouldn’t be so hard, but I swear the days get so much longer the closer it gets. And he’s fine. Misses me more than he can say.” Literally. Eddie is Michael’s boyfriend of the last four years, the latest one of them spent in Afghanistan with the Marines. Some people do not care how many lives you have saved. If the love you left back home is a dude, you could get into trouble. Michael tries not to be bitter about this, but months ago he was denied entry to a support group “for military wives”. He has found support on the internet, and what little his sister can offer him, she does. He does appreciates it. Danny and his ex-wife Debbie have tremendous pride in their gorgeous daughter, with her perfect marriage, blossoming career and healthy, bright children. Michael is their gay son, and they love him. It is not Amanda’s fault that they do this, but it itches Michael.
His two favorite relations are his Granna Agnes, and his cousin Caroline.
Agnes slowly beings to rise from her chair. People ask her if she needs help with anything.
“I’m fine, dears. I think I’ll just go lie down in my room for a while. Michael can help me in.”
She smells like sunshine and tea leaves. Michael has her on his arm, and he walks her into her house and down the hall to her first floor bedroom. She has a large bed with a plethora of crisp white pillows, ARL embroidered on them. An entire wall is covered with photos, all in black wood frames, spanning over seventy years. They are not in any order, but Agnes can tell you who they all are, and when they all are, even when her mind wanders.
It doesn’t wander much, but she has moments. Moments when she’ll speak to someone as though they were someone else, but catches herself before she gets to far. The other day she told Amanda she should put “that pretty yellow dress” on, and realized only when she saw puzzlement that she had been thinking of her daughter Shirley, who died twenty years ago. Had she thought Amanda was Shirley, or did she just see a curvy female with dark hair in a certain dress, and not realize how old the mental picture really was.
——–
Caroline’s ancient Jetta pulls into the driveway. She has missed the meal, but that’s okay. Right now she is more tired that hungry. She is nearly yanked from the car by her parents and aunts and uncles, yammering questions about the drive from New Hampshire, about how long she can stay.
No, the traffic wasn’t bad. Four days, then she’ll need to get back to the bakery. No, she’s not hungry. Really, she’s fine. Okay, one piece of pie. Thank you.
A window opens, and Michael sticks his head out. “Caro!” he barks, like an order, and she pulls herself away from older folks and enters the house.
The yellow bedroom has two twin beds, and is Michael’s room every summer. Caroline tosses her backpack on the other.
“Is that all you brought?”
“Nah, there’s another bag in the car. How’s Granna?”
“She’s sleeping. She had a good day.”
Caroline stretches her tiny frame “Aw, I’m stiff. I really shouldn’t have been out so late last night before all the driving I did today.”
The conversation pin balls from Tania the roommate, Jeff the possibly ex boyfriend, the bakery, demanding brides, demanding mothers of brides, Eddie, Michael’s students, Michael’s coworkers, the health of their elders. They chatter until the light patterns change, and they realize that the sun is going down.
——–
The house sounds like sleep. Small children and AARP members are tucked into beds throughout the house, or at the nearby hotel. Amanda, Michael and Caroline are sitting on the living room floor, couch and wing chair, respectively, gazing at their Granna.
Out of the blue Agnes asks for a white leather box. It is in the Nursery closet, she says. Amanda and Caroline quietly fetch it, using a tiny flashlight. Their attempt to not wake the small children is sucessful. Agnes rifles through it, clearly looking for something. This box has very old photographs in it. Not old, from a generation ago. From World War Two and before. They are like dried leaves, and something tells the young adults that these are sacred.
They have seen the framed photos in the library, large handsome shots of their grandfather with his Hollywood pals. Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn and Jimmy Stewart. With Rock Hudson, Lucille Ball, Bill Holden. With George Burns and Gracie Allen. In this box are not the famous photos. People on a beach, people at a bar. People laughing on a sofa and shots of her, young and lovely, looking out a window or playing with a dog. Her husband, John, bent over a typewriter, glasses slid down his nose or deep in sleep with a newspaper over his face. The Greatest Generation living their lives.
Finally she stops, and sighs. Three by five inches, sepia and white. Two very happy people on a boat, windblown.
She hands the photo to Michael. “That’s it. That’s why this has always been my favorite holiday. Nineteen thirty nine. Best weekend of my life.”
“Damn, Granna. Look at those gams!” Michael wolf whistles. He is the only person who swears around her, and she loves it.
“They called me a Good Lookin’ Class Act.” says Agnes with a touch of smugness.
Mike passes it to his sister, who passes it to Caroline. Agnes leans back on the couch and closes her eyes.
“I don’t remember whose boat it was. Just that he was there, and there was so much champagne. Caviar, too. I loved caviar! Ate so much of the stuff on toast with salmon! I was so embarrassed to have him see me eat so much…but he always said he thought I was too thin. He used to whisper “Yer, too thin, Baby.” and pinch me on my rear when he thought no one was looking.”
Agnes giggles, as something in Amanda’s brain goes ping and she thinks this is odd. She was a teenager when her great grandfather died, but that doesn’t sound like something he would ever say. Or do. He was a very genteel, well mannered man. Intelligent, witty, cultured. He looked on Agnes with reverence. This is what she has been told from her relations. What they were all told. They were told the truth.
Agnes continues, her voice is dreamy. “When the fireworks started…I don’t remember who John was talking to, some producer, I think. Anyway, we went below deck with a bottle of bubbly and screwed for an hour! No one even knew we were gone!” she laughs and then sighs again.
What?
It is the word flashing in the minds of her great grandchildren. Black letters on their now blank brains.
What?
Followed shortly by
Ew.
Eww!
Ewww!
Caroline recovers her voice (sort of) first. “Gran. Um. Granna?” she squeaks. She clears her throat and tries again. “Granna, who were you…screwing?”
Agnes opens her eyes and looks at her, as though she should know. “Milton. You know!” They all stare back at her, and realize that Agnes does not know she is talking to them. She does not know that she is not their contemporary, and their ancestor. She looks at them all in disbelief, then gives a derisive chuckle.
“Milton Berle, you numbskulls!”
——–
Agnes has gone to bed. Smiling peacefully, her great grandchildren betrayed nothing until her door had closed and they were alone.
“I’m going to bed.”
“Seriously, Amanda? Now?”
“I have a long drive tomorrow with three kids and I am tired and there is a mental picture that I desperately want to get out of my head. Caroline, I will see you at breakfast. Good night.”
“Mandy, come on!”
“Good night, Michael.”
Amanda mounts the stairs, shell shocked. Moments later, as she slides into bed, her husband murmurs “Hey Love…” and tries to stroke one of her breasts. She responds with “Oh, Good Lord, no way! Not tonight, I am sorry, I will explain in the morning.” Poor guy.
Caroline and Michael look at each other. Silently, Michael grabs the box and they dash to the yellow room.
“Holy shit, holy shit holy shit shit shit!” Michael hisses. They overturn the box onto Caroline’s bed and carefully spread them out with their fingers. “Do you think it’s true?”
“Gran gets stuff kind of off, but never anything that didn’t happen.”
They search for photos of Milton Berle, and find none. These are all regular people.
“She fucked Milton Berle!”
“Dude, shut up!”
“Our Great Grandmother fucked Milton Berle!”
“Shh! What if someone hears you?”
Michael leans back onto his bed and starts laughing. Caroline throws a pillow at him, and he laughs into it.
“Oh, man…” he says when he catches his breath. “That lady was a tramp!”