In the summer of 1956, any Saturday at midnight, especially when the
moon was out and the stars were bright, you would be able to see Grandma
Groth sitting on her front-porch swing waiting for her son, Clarence, a
bachelor at 53, to make it home from the Blind Man's Pub. He would have
spent another evening quaffing steins of Heineken's.
Many times that summer before I went away to college, I'd be strolling
home at midnight from another pub, just steps behind staggering
Clarence. But unlike Clarence, I’d be sober so I'd always let him walk
ahead of me and I'd listen to him hum "The Yellow Rose of Texas."
Sometimes, very quietly, I’d join in. I don’t think he ever heard me.
However, on the last Saturday night that Clarence and I came down the
street in our odd tandem, I didn't see Grandma on her swing even though
the stars were out and the moon was full. For some odd reason, on this
particular night, she wasn't waiting to berate him.
So far so good, I thought, for Clarence. He won’t have to listen to
Grandma give him hell. But then, not far from his house, and without
warning, he toppled into Mrs. Murphy's hedge. It was like watching a
sack of flour fall, in slow motion, off a truck.
When I finally got him up, I managed to maneuver Clarence slowly down
the sidewalk toward his house. He didn’t make a sound but it wasn't easy
moving a man that big who was essentially asleep on his feet.
Somehow I got him through his back door only to encounter Grandma, a
wraith in a hazy nightgown, standing in the hallway, screaming. She
began thrashing Clarence with her broom, pausing only for a moment to
tell me,
"Go home to your mother now so you won't be late for Mass. It's almost Sunday morning!"
After
that, she resumed thrashing Clarence. He never made a sound, just took
the blows across his back, head bowed, without moving. But Clarence was a
man who said very little even when he was sober.
After that sad night in 1956, I never saw Clarence again, either
marching to work in the morning, his lunch pail gallantly
swinging, or staggering home at midnight from the Blind Man's Pub.
But many a midnight after that, years later, I'd be coming home from
the other pub and I'd see Grandma reigning on her front porch
swing, broom in hand, waiting. Maybe Clarence was coming, I thought. But
if he was, I never saw him.
I remember coming home from college every summer and asking the
neighbors if they had seen Clarence. Not a sign of him, they said. But
on a Saturday night when the moon was out, they’d still see Grandma, on
her swing, waiting.
Now, so many decades later, as I stroll home at midnight, after an
evening at the Blind Man’s Pub, I can see the moon is as big as it was
the last night I saw Clarence.
Suddenly I realize I’m older now than Clarence was the night he
disappeared. And even though Grandma's been dead for many years, I can
see her in the starlight. She's sitting regally on that swing, broom in
hand, waiting. So for old time’s sake, I give her a big wave, hoping to
hear her say, just one more time,
"Go home to your mother now so you won't be late for Mass. It's almost Sunday morning!"
Author Bio:
Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, Donal Mahoney has had work published in a variety of print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa.
Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12(dot)blogspot(dot)com
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