then he gets frustrated. He uses up all patience. I think he enjoys it for a time, like that game? What’s it’s called? Where you act out something and people guess?”
“Charades.”
“Yes, that one. But then he gets tired of the game and boom, something hits the floor, or maybe he just slumps. Oh, nothing valuable. He would never ruin anything Mrs. Bee had picked out.”
Esme pushes the drink across the counter to me. “Now, there you are. Cheers.”
“You should have one too, for a proper ‘cheers.’”
“No, miss, this is not for me.”
“Oh, Grampa wouldn’t mind, he’d probably make you one himself.”
“No, I mean I drink nothing more than communion wine.”
“Good for you, then. L’chaim.” I down half the drink and it slams into my chest. “Does Uncle Paul really want to see me, or was that an excuse to get me out of the room?”
“No, he does. He’s in the library.”
I sneak a glance into the parlor as I ascend the stairs. Grampa Milo is leaning on one hand again and if he noticed me walk past him in the foyer he didn’t acknowledge it.
Grandma Bee decorated the library in red and gold to look like the inside of a theater. The grand piano in the corner bounces the stark August sun into the room, and Uncle Paul, rubbing his temples behind Grampa Milo’s desk, looks so much like his dad that I could be back in time with two braids holding back my frizz and the taste of grape Popsicle on my tongue.
“Hi, Uncle Paul.”
“Hey, El, have a seat. I was just doing some work while you two visited downstairs. I don’t like to leave him alone, but it’s so hard to communicate with him for very long. At work I feel bad I’m not here, but here I feel pointless and like I should be at work. Anyway, your aunt should be along soon, and I think Naomi said she’d drop by.”
Taking turns. Like with my dad at the end. When it was my time, I’d be motionless in a hard chair, pulled apart by agony and guilt, as I watched the second hand tick along.
“So, what did you need?”
Uncle Paul looks up from his papers. “Right. So. This is a little strange, given everything. But I wanted to talk to you about it before, and anyway, it appears time is ticking. So we want to get it all teed up.”
“Get what teed up?”
Uncle Paul folds his hands and leans over them. “Your grandfather’s biography. His definitive life story, complete with full-color, never-before-seen photos and behind the scenes anecdotes.”
“I thought Grampa hated that idea.”
Paul waved his hand through the air and shrugged. “We were talking about it. He was coming around. See, I think it would be a great idea to mount The High Hat again, in grand style. You know, try to get Bernadette, wouldn’t she be terrific? Just imagine. We give the book the same title, have the show premiere in New York the same week the book comes out. I was even going to try and get him to write a new song or two for the revival. It would be a smash, I can feel it. I’ve already got investors sniffing around.”
“Wow. Good luck.”
“I’m not just making small talk here. I want you to write the book.”
“Me?” I grab the arms of my chair like I might be flung out of it otherwise.
“Of course! Strangers have written about him before and it’s always been boring as shit and half of it wrong. Maybe you can be the one to find out why he quit songwriting after The High Hat , and switched to producing. Never made any sense, to have one huge hit and give it up. A writer in the family and we should ask someone else? Please.”
“No, I can’t write it. It’s a conflict of interest—”
“Only if we hide it, which we won’t. We’ll be perfectly up front about it. ‘By Eleanor Short’ on the New York Times bestseller list, tell me that doesn’t sound good to you.”
“But I’ve got work…” My voice fails me in the lie.
“I know, you’ve got your own things going but it’s a bit of a lull, isn’t it?” Does he know
“Charades.”
“Yes, that one. But then he gets tired of the game and boom, something hits the floor, or maybe he just slumps. Oh, nothing valuable. He would never ruin anything Mrs. Bee had picked out.”
Esme pushes the drink across the counter to me. “Now, there you are. Cheers.”
“You should have one too, for a proper ‘cheers.’”
“No, miss, this is not for me.”
“Oh, Grampa wouldn’t mind, he’d probably make you one himself.”
“No, I mean I drink nothing more than communion wine.”
“Good for you, then. L’chaim.” I down half the drink and it slams into my chest. “Does Uncle Paul really want to see me, or was that an excuse to get me out of the room?”
“No, he does. He’s in the library.”
I sneak a glance into the parlor as I ascend the stairs. Grampa Milo is leaning on one hand again and if he noticed me walk past him in the foyer he didn’t acknowledge it.
Grandma Bee decorated the library in red and gold to look like the inside of a theater. The grand piano in the corner bounces the stark August sun into the room, and Uncle Paul, rubbing his temples behind Grampa Milo’s desk, looks so much like his dad that I could be back in time with two braids holding back my frizz and the taste of grape Popsicle on my tongue.
“Hi, Uncle Paul.”
“Hey, El, have a seat. I was just doing some work while you two visited downstairs. I don’t like to leave him alone, but it’s so hard to communicate with him for very long. At work I feel bad I’m not here, but here I feel pointless and like I should be at work. Anyway, your aunt should be along soon, and I think Naomi said she’d drop by.”
Taking turns. Like with my dad at the end. When it was my time, I’d be motionless in a hard chair, pulled apart by agony and guilt, as I watched the second hand tick along.
“So, what did you need?”
Uncle Paul looks up from his papers. “Right. So. This is a little strange, given everything. But I wanted to talk to you about it before, and anyway, it appears time is ticking. So we want to get it all teed up.”
“Get what teed up?”
Uncle Paul folds his hands and leans over them. “Your grandfather’s biography. His definitive life story, complete with full-color, never-before-seen photos and behind the scenes anecdotes.”
“I thought Grampa hated that idea.”
Paul waved his hand through the air and shrugged. “We were talking about it. He was coming around. See, I think it would be a great idea to mount The High Hat again, in grand style. You know, try to get Bernadette, wouldn’t she be terrific? Just imagine. We give the book the same title, have the show premiere in New York the same week the book comes out. I was even going to try and get him to write a new song or two for the revival. It would be a smash, I can feel it. I’ve already got investors sniffing around.”
“Wow. Good luck.”
“I’m not just making small talk here. I want you to write the book.”
“Me?” I grab the arms of my chair like I might be flung out of it otherwise.
“Of course! Strangers have written about him before and it’s always been boring as shit and half of it wrong. Maybe you can be the one to find out why he quit songwriting after The High Hat , and switched to producing. Never made any sense, to have one huge hit and give it up. A writer in the family and we should ask someone else? Please.”
“No, I can’t write it. It’s a conflict of interest—”
“Only if we hide it, which we won’t. We’ll be perfectly up front about it. ‘By Eleanor Short’ on the New York Times bestseller list, tell me that doesn’t sound good to you.”
“But I’ve got work…” My voice fails me in the lie.
“I know, you’ve got your own things going but it’s a bit of a lull, isn’t it?” Does he know
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