Free All Your Pretty Dreams by Lise McClendon

the polka
mass. He parked, shaking off the doldrums of Artie and Sonya’s
basement and the unknown future.
    Reinholt was eating lunch
from a tray. He looked more fragile, as if he’d shrunk in the last
week, grown paler and thinner. When Jonny appeared at the door the
aide at his bedside stood up. “Would you like to?” She handed Jonny
a spoon and disappeared.
    As he spooned applesauce
into the old man’s beaklike mouth, Jonny talked about the
accordion, about Artie, about the Twins, about the concert that
night, about the music he would be playing. That Ozzie had decided
to play the drums after all. Reinholt finished his sandwich,
humming with pleasure but not responding to Jonny’s
chatter.
    A nice visit, until Jonny
stood up to take the empty tray away and Reinholt grabbed his arm.
“Where are you taking my food?”
    Jonny lowered the tray.
“I’ll see you later, Grandpa.” The whole thing was unbearably sad.
As he passed the recreation room he saw a familiar figure at the
window. Claude was playing solitaire, his walker next to
him.
    “ I haven’t had my
critique,” Jonny said, stepping closer. “For the polka
mass.”
    Claude looked up. “Come,
sit.”
    “ We can skip the
critique.” Jonny winced, laughing as he pulled out a
chair.
    “ You did a very good job.”
The Frenchman looked sharp today, his blue eyes clear as the lake.
“And handled all the difficult bits.”
    Jonny shrugged. “Polka
music isn’t all that difficult.”
    “ I was not speaking of the
music.” Claude looked over Jonny’s shoulder and his face
brightened. It was his grandmother, bringing food. “Blueberry
muffins again, mon
chèrie ?”
    Nora wore another track
suit, this one pumpkin orange. She smiled at Claude then stumbled,
as if startled that Jonny was here.
    “ Apple pockets.” She set
down the foil package and gripped her elbows. Claude kicked out a
chair for her opposite her grandson but she didn’t seem to notice.
Jonny stood up and hugged her. She felt stiff.
    “ I was down to see Holti
and spotted Claude here,” he explained.
    Nora frowned at the chair.
“I’m on my way.” She picked up the foil packet again. “He loves
apple pockets. They’re still warm.” She turned quickly. Odd. She
was usually so— so grandmotherly.
    Claude shook his head.
“Hard for her to see him like that. They were so devoted. Now there
are days he doesn’t even know her name.” He tapped his skull with a
gnarled finger. “Thank the good Lord I still have all my eggs in
the basket.”
    “ And that she has you as a
friend,” Jonny said.
    Claude tipped his chin, a
twinkle in his eye. Jonny sat back as the old man licked his lips.
“We have become close.” The white eyebrows wiggled. “Very
close.”
    Ahh . Jonny let this new information
settle around them. Claude and Nora. Why not? But it didn’t quite
compute somehow. These were his grandparents, people of the old
mold, uncomplicated souls who belonged together,
forever.
    Their last dance in the
church had seemed to epitomize love, a lifetime of togetherness. A
pure sort of devotion rare these days. What an idiot. He was still
the dazed optimist who saw what he wanted to see, the romantic who
could write a chirpy little memoir called The Cuppie Years: A Tale of Pretense and
Clogging . He rubbed his face. Maybe love
came and went. His grandmother deserved happiness, didn’t she? Of
course she did.
    And who could blame Claude,
in the winter of his life? An old man, eyes bright, color in his
cheeks. Jonny admired the old guy. The flirtation, baked-goods-love
or whatever, looked good on him. As Jonny walked away Claude was
chuckling. He fingered his playing cards and smacked down a Jack of
Hearts.
    Jonny drove slowly through
the blocks of storefronts of downtown Red Vine. This took about
forty-five seconds. He felt the tug of the Owl Bar. He didn’t want
to go back to the familial dwelling just yet, its dust and gloom
and— coffee. Lenny could generally be found at a