Will McIntosh - Hitchers

Only thirty minutes separated my grandfathers death from Lorenas. I didnt find out Grandpa was dead until the next day, but I knew he was dying, so it wasnt exactly a surprise. I figured the selfish old bastard would live a few more months, at least. His lungs had seemed fine when wed argued that morning.

About the time dear old Grandpa was dying I was pulling a dripping oar into a canoe on the Chattahoochee River, thinking it would be nice to drift with the current for a while. The morning had been one long relentless paddle upstream (metaphorically speaking) and I felt I deserved a break.

You dont think shell get fired, do you? Lorena had asked drowsily as we drifted. I didnt mean to get her in trouble, even though she was incredibly rude to me. She was still ruminating about the argument shed had with our waitress at the Blue Boy Diner. I was ruminating about the argument Id had with my grandfather that morning, which had far greater implications for our future.

What I didnt know at the time was that we had no future. We had about twenty-five minutes.

Id feel terrible if she got fired, Lorena added.

I doubt theyll fire her, I said, not sure if that was true. The truth was, I thought Lorena had overreacted a little. If it had been my pancakes I would have let it go. But Id never tell Lorena that now. What would be the point, except to make Lorena feel bad?

It had been one of those loud, public confrontations that made me cringe inside, even when it was taking place at someone elses table, and as I said, Id already had one extremely traumatic argument that day. Lorena had asked nicely for the waitress to take the pancakes back, and I distinctly remember her telling the waitress to hold the butter. Of course she hadshes lactose intolerant. She always does.

When the pancakes arrived and Lorena pointed out the butter, the waitress suggested Lorena move it into the cup that held the little cream containers. Shed been frazzled, slightly huffy, her dark bangs pasted to her forehead by sweat. She was about our agelate twentiesand had long tattoos of assault rifles morphing into flowers trailing up each of her forearms. The tattoos suggested she was an easygoing neo-hippy sort of woman, but her eyes suggested much of that peace, love, and good times listening to Phish had been blunted by double-shifts at the Blue Boy.

Faces had lifted from grilled chicken sandwich platters to watch Lorena and the waitress go at it.

I said Ill take it back.

I heard what you said. Its the tone and the eye roll I didnt appreciate.

The waitress had backpedaled from her huffiness as soon as Lorena reacted, but it was too late. Lorena looked like such a sweetheart that people sometimes made the mistake of thinking they could push her around, but Lorena was a sweetheart who would bite if poked.

Look at the bright sidewe got our meal for free, I said.

Not that I could eat after that. My lunch is still in my throat, Lorena said.

Id dropped a ten dollar tip on our table when Lorena wasnt looking. Somehow I sensed that the waitress had been having a bad day, just like us.

The scenery unrolled along the Chattahoochee River, shifting from dense forest to cozy cabins to grassy hills. I can still see it. Dense clouds formed a low ceiling just above the treetops. Everything was crisp and clear.

Eyes closed, Lorena stretched languidly, her wrists bent, her Latin-with-a-touch-of-Asian face turned toward the sky. This is so beautiful. We should do this more often, when were not feeling so depressed. She reached out and massaged my neck. I remember feeling that familiar jolt of pleasure and surprise that this incredible woman had married me. It was a sensation Id felt almost hourly during the first few months of our marriage. In all of our wedding photos I look stunned.

Can I say something thats sneaky and makes me seem like a bad person? Lorena asked, kneading the knots in my neck.

You? Youre incapable of sneaky. Youd bleed out your ears if you tried to be sneaky.

Oh, thats a lovely image, Lorena laughed. It would be sneaky, though.

We paused to admire a dilapidated shack leaning out over the river, clearly abandoned. On another day we might have paddled over to take a peek inside. We both had a weird fascination with abandoned places.

I turned in the canoe, sat with my hands between my knees. So whats your sneaky idea? I had no way of knowing how profoundly her words would affect my life. Not her life, of course. Just mine.

Lorena waited a beat, as if deliberating on whether she should say it.

Do you think your grandfather set it up legally so you cant continue the comic strip after he dies? Maybe he just told your grandma thats the way he wanted it.

I dont know. I could see him doing either. We passed out of thick woods into open fields; I noticed a line of black clouds dividing the sky. I pointed at them. We may get rained on.

Lorena looked up, shrugged. Oh, well. Well survive.

Grandma would never go against his wishes, I said. I was pretty sure my grandmother hated my grandfather, but they had faced the outside world as a grim, unassailable wall for sixty years, and I didnt see that changing just because he was dead.

It was so hard to grasp that he was dying. This morning as he sat hooked to an IV bag, telling me in no uncertain terms that I would not be succeeding him as the artist of his comic strip, Toy Shop, he seemed ready to roll himself to the summit of Bear Mountain in the wheelchair hed occupied for the past fifty years.

How much is he leaving her again? Lorena asked. She knew it was almost nothing. Grandpa had never made huge money, and he lost most of what hed made bankrolling Toy Shop Village, my fathers lunatic idea for a themed amusement center (and, unbeknownst to me at that moment, soon to become my home). Grandma would get the house and some merchandising and royalty money, but after the strip was discontinued the merchandising would dry up. When was the last time anyone manufactured a Nancy and Sluggo t-shirt, or a Dick Tracy toy radio watch? When a strip dies (unless its an iconic strip thats become part of the fabric of our culture. Like, oh, I dont know . . . Peanuts?), people tend to forget it.

An icy rain began to fall. I looked at the clouds, heavy and dark, bunched like fists. Maybe youre right, maybe she would be willing to cut a deal after hes gone, I mused. Shes a child of the Depression, not one to put sentimentality above the practicalities of paying the bills. I considered for a moment, then shook my head. Nah. I couldnt do it even if she was willing.

I feel slimy even bringing it up, Lorena said, shrugging.

Theres no harm in looking at all the options. Lorena had nothing to feel slimy about. Shed been nothing but kind to my grandfather in the face of his thinly veiled contempt. Grandpa was certain all Latinos would be cleaning ladies and lawn mowers if not for that affirmative action crap.

My phone rang. It was my mom (calling, I would learn much later, to tell me Grandpa was dead), but I stashed the phone in my pocket as the rain turned into a pelting downpour, soaking my thin t-shirt.

Lorena shrieked with delight and held a sweatshirt over her head. In a moment the sweatshirt was soaked and she tossed it aside. We grabbed our paddles and got moving.

Were probably half an hour from the pickup area if we go hard, I said, shouting to be heard over the splashing. The rain formed a lovely dappled pattern on the surface of the water. I still remember that so vividly.