Tall and skinny, untidy white hair, arms folded, wearing a faded blue denim jacket and jeans to match, with a wry grin on his face, he leaned against a battered blue Oldsmobile called Brewster that looked as if it had more years on it than even Grandpa Melwin. Grandpa’s smile broadened when he spotted Sagandran, and he butted himself clear of the car and began ambling over. Sagandran ran toward him and into his arms. The next he knew, he was almost being lifted off the ground in Grandpa’s great big bear hug.
“Hi there, big fella,” said Grandpa. “You’ve grown a bit since I last saw you. Next thing I know, you’ll be too big for an old man like me to keep under control.”
Sagandran chuckled into Grandpa’s denim shoulder. It smelled of wood smoke and pipe smoke and all things good. For such a lanky man, Grandpa Melwin was astonishingly strong; he could have picked up three Sagandrans at once without breaking a sweat.
“Missed you, Grandpa,” he murmured.
“Missed you too, young lad,” said Grandpa, setting him back down again. “Course, there’s a good reason you missed me.” He paused for just a beat. “It’s because nobody else spoils you the way I do.” He patted his grandson on the shoulder and let out a guffaw.
Grandpa took Sagandran’s bags from the driver and gave the man a tip, then led the way across to put them into Brewster’s littered trunk. The car looked even worse close up than it did from a distance but Grandpa loved it, so Sagandran did as well. The inside of it smelled good: old leather upholstery, spilled beer, pipe smoke, happy journeys. When the family was going through one of its occasional marginally wealthier phases, Sagandran’s mom had once mooted the idea of buying Grandpa a second-hand car to take Brewster’s place, but Grandpa had shushed her crossly, telling her that talk like that did nothing but hurt Brewster’s feelings.
Still, as they bumped onto the rutted lane that led to Grandpa’s house, the Oldsmobile’s ancient shock absorbers absorbed none of the shock. As Sagandran’s spectacles kept being jolted askew on his nose, he reflected that Brewster’s feelings weren’t the only thing capable of being hurt. But Grandpa didn’t seem to notice, but just carried on chatting about the great adventures they were going to have this summer – all liberally spiced with those epithets that Sagandran sensed his mom wouldn’t like.
The lane was thickly lined on either side with hedges and trees, and coming along here, during the summer months, always made Sagandran think of crawling through a long, cool tunnel with the prospect of enticing mysteries at the end. It was as if Grandpa’s house by the lake wasn’t really a part of the everyday world, and when you were going through this green tunnel, you were leaving the world behind. Well, that was how it had been until a couple of years ago, when someone had built the big summer mansion up on the hill beyond Grandpa’s house. Shared with other people, the lane wasn’t a magical tunnel any longer; it was just a lane.
And now the O’Malley family had bought the summer house. Maybe that was why the ruts in the lane seemed to be bigger and the bumps had stopped being fun and started hurting.
As Grandpa’s house came into sight (now that he looked at it, Sagandran thought, maybe it really was a bit of a shack after all) they could also see the hated mansion perched above it. It looked from here as if the walls were made of white plastic, and the tall plastic security fence made your eyes constantly want to turn away and find something better to look at. In contrast, Grandpa’s cottage was tucked comfortably in among the trees, which ventured down to the edge of the water. It seemed to be a piece of the forest, not something that had been built at all. Sagandran had looked out its windows and seen deer and foxes and raccoons and groundhogs and heaven knew how many squirrelsand chipmunks. Every once in a while,
“Hi there, big fella,” said Grandpa. “You’ve grown a bit since I last saw you. Next thing I know, you’ll be too big for an old man like me to keep under control.”
Sagandran chuckled into Grandpa’s denim shoulder. It smelled of wood smoke and pipe smoke and all things good. For such a lanky man, Grandpa Melwin was astonishingly strong; he could have picked up three Sagandrans at once without breaking a sweat.
“Missed you, Grandpa,” he murmured.
“Missed you too, young lad,” said Grandpa, setting him back down again. “Course, there’s a good reason you missed me.” He paused for just a beat. “It’s because nobody else spoils you the way I do.” He patted his grandson on the shoulder and let out a guffaw.
Grandpa took Sagandran’s bags from the driver and gave the man a tip, then led the way across to put them into Brewster’s littered trunk. The car looked even worse close up than it did from a distance but Grandpa loved it, so Sagandran did as well. The inside of it smelled good: old leather upholstery, spilled beer, pipe smoke, happy journeys. When the family was going through one of its occasional marginally wealthier phases, Sagandran’s mom had once mooted the idea of buying Grandpa a second-hand car to take Brewster’s place, but Grandpa had shushed her crossly, telling her that talk like that did nothing but hurt Brewster’s feelings.
Still, as they bumped onto the rutted lane that led to Grandpa’s house, the Oldsmobile’s ancient shock absorbers absorbed none of the shock. As Sagandran’s spectacles kept being jolted askew on his nose, he reflected that Brewster’s feelings weren’t the only thing capable of being hurt. But Grandpa didn’t seem to notice, but just carried on chatting about the great adventures they were going to have this summer – all liberally spiced with those epithets that Sagandran sensed his mom wouldn’t like.
The lane was thickly lined on either side with hedges and trees, and coming along here, during the summer months, always made Sagandran think of crawling through a long, cool tunnel with the prospect of enticing mysteries at the end. It was as if Grandpa’s house by the lake wasn’t really a part of the everyday world, and when you were going through this green tunnel, you were leaving the world behind. Well, that was how it had been until a couple of years ago, when someone had built the big summer mansion up on the hill beyond Grandpa’s house. Shared with other people, the lane wasn’t a magical tunnel any longer; it was just a lane.
And now the O’Malley family had bought the summer house. Maybe that was why the ruts in the lane seemed to be bigger and the bumps had stopped being fun and started hurting.
As Grandpa’s house came into sight (now that he looked at it, Sagandran thought, maybe it really was a bit of a shack after all) they could also see the hated mansion perched above it. It looked from here as if the walls were made of white plastic, and the tall plastic security fence made your eyes constantly want to turn away and find something better to look at. In contrast, Grandpa’s cottage was tucked comfortably in among the trees, which ventured down to the edge of the water. It seemed to be a piece of the forest, not something that had been built at all. Sagandran had looked out its windows and seen deer and foxes and raccoons and groundhogs and heaven knew how many squirrelsand chipmunks. Every once in a while,
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