Free One More Stop by Lois Walden Page A

grandfather.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘He died when I was very young. I didn’t really know him. I went back to some time before I was born, but I was a grownup , not like you, but my age grown-up. I think it was the Depression. I’m not sure … I felt the time. Does that make any sense?’
    ‘Definitely.’
    ‘We spoke to each other. He was with me in this time now, and I was with him then. Time got confusing.’
    ‘Time is confusing. What did he say?’
    ‘Wait. Let me tell you this first.’ She describes his navy blue suit, how his shirt sleeves stuck out from the end of his jacket, his little gold, square, shiny cufflinks. ‘He was handsome, like my father.’
    ‘Did he look like your father?’
    ‘No. But something about him reminded me of my dad. It surprised me.’
    ‘Surprises are good.’
    ‘I was afraid of him when I was little. I liked him so much more in this whatever you call it?’
    ‘Process. Where were you?’
    ‘In our house here in Beatrice.’
    ‘What room?’
    ‘My bedroom.’
    ‘What were you doing?’
    ‘Brushing my hair. I kept brushing my hair.’ She demonstrates . Her gestures have an other-timely feel to them.
    ‘What was he doing?’
    ‘Staring … at me.’
    Be careful. Get back to the exercise. ‘What advice did he have for you?’ I stop at the driveway entrance, look both ways. A yellow school bus turns into the driveway.
    She stops. ‘He told me that I must never grow old; stay young forever. It made me sad.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘What else?’ I walk
    ‘Asked me to forgive my father? Said he couldn’t help himself.’
    ‘What’d he mean?’
    ‘I guess he meant the bimbo.’ She doesn’t move.
    ‘You don’t know that for sure. He might have been talking about something else altogether.’
    ‘I doubt it.’ We walk due east, down a little country road that leads us to a bigger country road, that leads us to the biggest country road of all. An oversized dump truck rumbles by at breakneck speed. It kicks up a life-load of dust. I cough. Molly stops in her tracks. She has something on her mind. ‘Do you love what you do?’
    ‘I do. I love a lot of things, even what I don’t do.’ I laugh.
    ‘Do you make a living being a writer?’
    ‘Sometimes yes, sometimes no.’
    ‘Is that why you teach?’
    ‘No. I have to teach because … I just have to teach. And … I have to write. I don’t know why.’
    ‘Are you successful?’
    ‘Did you stay in the room?’
    ‘Yeah.’ She laughs.
    ‘Did you discover someplace special?’ She nods yes. ‘Do you want to go back there?’ She nods yes again … ‘Knowing that it may never be the same, that place, are you absolutely sure that you want to go there again?!’
    ‘Oh yes.’
    ‘I am very successful.’
    ‘Because of me?’ She doesn’t understand.
    ‘You got it.’ Such sweetness. Mustn’t say too much. Have to maintain some sense of grown-up rank here. We cannot be friends. Maybe we can? What if I’m trying to get to her mother through her? Keep it on the creative level. Maybe I can help her? I don’t want to impose in any way. Man oh man would I love to be her age again … It is a terrible age. Poor baby. Maggie has her hands full.
    ‘Are you married?’
    ‘I am not married. Enough on that subject. I want to get back to you. I want you to go deeper into that exercise. Tonight, at home, go back to the scene with your grandfather. Talk to him. Listen to what he has to say. Put it on paper. Ask him what he meant about forgiving your father. Would you do that for me?’
    ‘I guess. If I have time. I’m having dinner with my father tonight.’
    ‘If you have the time.’ We turn around. The garbage truck rumbles by us one more time.
    ‘I hate him.’
    ‘Your father?’ She nods a definitive teenage yes. ‘I know that one. I’ve hated my father for years.’ Too personal.
    ‘Is he still alive?’
    ‘He is. He’s terminally ill.’
    ‘Do you ever talk to him about how it