Read Online For Your Tomorrow by Melanie Murray - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Melanie Murray
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house; races back into the house and grabs the phone.
When Marion answers, he blurts out, “Jeff’s gone.”
“What do you mean?”
“I put him down for his nap, then fell asleep on the couch. He was gone when I woke up. I’ve looked everywhere—in the house and outside.”
“I’m leaving now—I’ll be right home.”
As soon as Russ hangs up, the phone rings.
Jeff strides along the grassy edge of Waasis Road—the town’s main thoroughfare—with a Big Bird knapsack on his back. His red snowsuit gapes open, his boots flap unbuckled. His sandy brown hair blows in the biting wind. Cars and trucks swish past. A van pulls over to the side of the road just ahead of him. Two men get out.
“Where are you going, son?”
“To my granny’s house.”
“Would you like a ride?”
“Okay.”
“Where does your granny live?”
“You go down this road. I can show you.” Jeff watches out the window of the back seat as they drive past the soccer field, past the track where his mom goes running. “There it is!” he says, when he sees the red-brick apartment building on the corner of Gilmour Street, “That’s Granny’s house.”
Alma has her hands submerged in a bowl of bread dough when the doorbell rings.
Wouldn’t you know it—who could that be?
She scrapes the sticky dough from between her fingers as the ding-dong sounds again. She peeks through the tiny viewer in the door—two men in khaki uniforms, provosts, the military police. She fumbles with the safety latch and opens the door. Her gaze drops to a freckled face, hazel eyes looking up at her. “Jeffy!”
“Ma’am, is this your grandson?”
Jeff doesn’t wait for an answer. “Hi, Granny.” He breezes past her through the door. “I wanted to see you today.”
A S A BOY , J EFF OFTEN revealed the courage and determination to “slay the giant,” to challenge the authority of an adult who tried to block his intentions or, perhaps, his soul’s yearnings. Longing to connect with his unknown grandfather-namesake, he would search through the stacks of old photo albums to find pictures of Clifford, and question his grandmother about each one. He’d sit in her rockingchair, staring up at his grandfather’s Second World War service certificate, and ask if he could hold his grandfather’s military medals with their colourful ribbons. He would rub his fingers over their shiny faces, wanting to know what each bronze disc signified.
One day, when he was in first grade, Jeff pleaded with his mother to let him take one particular picture of his grandfather to school. It was only a 2-by-2-inch, black-and-white photo, but it loomed large in the imagination of six-year-old Jeff: his uniformed grandfather sits, smiling, atop a huge Centurion tank. “Sorry, Jeff,” his mother said, “but you can’t take the picture to school. It might get lost or torn.”
A few days later, Marion was doing the laundry and about to put Jeff’s blue jeans into the washer. She felt something tucked inside the front pocket, reached in and pulled out his grandfather’s photo—crumpled and creased from its journey to school and back.
Now, it seems that Jeff’s grandfather was like a spirit guide for him—the semi-mythical ancestor who embodied Jeff’s own calling. Thirty years later, when Jeff was perched in the commanding hatch of his LAV in Afghanistan, Marion taped this wrinkled picture of his grandfather onto her fridge. Beside it, she placed a photo of Jeff in his uniform, and the lyrics of “The Atholl Highlanders”—
All we Murrays ride with you every day
.
I T’S A S ATURDAY afternoon in early November just before his eighth birthday. Jeff and his grandmother are playing a game of crazy eights at the kitchen table. He’s staying for the weekend with her and his step-grandfather, Jack, at their home in rural New Maryland. “Granny, can we go to the mall? Jeff asks. “I want to show you this really cool race car set at Zellers.” He flashes a
When Marion answers, he blurts out, “Jeff’s gone.”
“What do you mean?”
“I put him down for his nap, then fell asleep on the couch. He was gone when I woke up. I’ve looked everywhere—in the house and outside.”
“I’m leaving now—I’ll be right home.”
As soon as Russ hangs up, the phone rings.
Jeff strides along the grassy edge of Waasis Road—the town’s main thoroughfare—with a Big Bird knapsack on his back. His red snowsuit gapes open, his boots flap unbuckled. His sandy brown hair blows in the biting wind. Cars and trucks swish past. A van pulls over to the side of the road just ahead of him. Two men get out.
“Where are you going, son?”
“To my granny’s house.”
“Would you like a ride?”
“Okay.”
“Where does your granny live?”
“You go down this road. I can show you.” Jeff watches out the window of the back seat as they drive past the soccer field, past the track where his mom goes running. “There it is!” he says, when he sees the red-brick apartment building on the corner of Gilmour Street, “That’s Granny’s house.”
Alma has her hands submerged in a bowl of bread dough when the doorbell rings.
Wouldn’t you know it—who could that be?
She scrapes the sticky dough from between her fingers as the ding-dong sounds again. She peeks through the tiny viewer in the door—two men in khaki uniforms, provosts, the military police. She fumbles with the safety latch and opens the door. Her gaze drops to a freckled face, hazel eyes looking up at her. “Jeffy!”
“Ma’am, is this your grandson?”
Jeff doesn’t wait for an answer. “Hi, Granny.” He breezes past her through the door. “I wanted to see you today.”
A S A BOY , J EFF OFTEN revealed the courage and determination to “slay the giant,” to challenge the authority of an adult who tried to block his intentions or, perhaps, his soul’s yearnings. Longing to connect with his unknown grandfather-namesake, he would search through the stacks of old photo albums to find pictures of Clifford, and question his grandmother about each one. He’d sit in her rockingchair, staring up at his grandfather’s Second World War service certificate, and ask if he could hold his grandfather’s military medals with their colourful ribbons. He would rub his fingers over their shiny faces, wanting to know what each bronze disc signified.
One day, when he was in first grade, Jeff pleaded with his mother to let him take one particular picture of his grandfather to school. It was only a 2-by-2-inch, black-and-white photo, but it loomed large in the imagination of six-year-old Jeff: his uniformed grandfather sits, smiling, atop a huge Centurion tank. “Sorry, Jeff,” his mother said, “but you can’t take the picture to school. It might get lost or torn.”
A few days later, Marion was doing the laundry and about to put Jeff’s blue jeans into the washer. She felt something tucked inside the front pocket, reached in and pulled out his grandfather’s photo—crumpled and creased from its journey to school and back.
Now, it seems that Jeff’s grandfather was like a spirit guide for him—the semi-mythical ancestor who embodied Jeff’s own calling. Thirty years later, when Jeff was perched in the commanding hatch of his LAV in Afghanistan, Marion taped this wrinkled picture of his grandfather onto her fridge. Beside it, she placed a photo of Jeff in his uniform, and the lyrics of “The Atholl Highlanders”—
All we Murrays ride with you every day
.
I T’S A S ATURDAY afternoon in early November just before his eighth birthday. Jeff and his grandmother are playing a game of crazy eights at the kitchen table. He’s staying for the weekend with her and his step-grandfather, Jack, at their home in rural New Maryland. “Granny, can we go to the mall? Jeff asks. “I want to show you this really cool race car set at Zellers.” He flashes a
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