The Right Kind of Wrong (11 page)

"There are actually books and shit in there?"

"Something like that." I walk to the front doors.

 
Inside, the building has been split in half. A podium and a row of chairs are to the right. To the left, there are a few bookshelves and a portly woman sitting at a desk in the middle of the room. She looks up when we approach.

"How can I help you?" Her face flashes with recognition. "I'll be damned. I wasn't sure we'd ever see you around here again."

I offer a sincere smile and point to Vince. "Hi, Miss Cross." I introduce them. She reaches for her cane and hobbles from behind the desk. "I know you didn't come in here just to see little old me. What can I do for you?"
 

"We're doing a project on World War II with our focus on Grandpa. I wondered if you had anything for us to look at?"
 

"Oh, dear. Our budgets have been cut several times and they’ve moved most of our reference section to the main branch in Cranton. Dr. Adams took what was left to the historical society."
 

Damn. I hoped to get all our background information done before we started interviews. "It was worth a try. Thanks, anyway."

"I can give Dr. Adams a call and see if he has anything at the historical society you could look at?" She hobbles back around the desk and picks up the phone.

Miss Cross nods and mhmms and uh-huhs through a conversation and then hangs up the phone.

"Dr. Adams said he could meet you tomorrow or the next day if you want to stop by there."

"That's great!" I say too enthusiastically. "Thanks, Miss Cross. We'd better get going but it was great to see you again." She reaches for my hand and holds it for a few seconds. Her hand shakes against mine. "Your grandfather would be proud of you."

My breath catches in my throat. I don't know what to say, so I just whisper, "We have to go." I pull my hand from hers.
 

As we drive down Main Street, a stagnant silence fills the car. I can't stand the quiet accusations that fill my ears. I clear my throat. "When we get back to the house, we’ll see if Grandma is up to an interview?"

Vince fiddles with his phone, his fingers sweeping across the screen at ridiculous speeds. “Sure.” Who is he talking to? And why do I care? But I do care. My curiosity tugs at me until I just say it. "That must be some girl."
 

He looks up from his phone and I alternate between watching the road in front of me and his confused expression. "Huh?"
 

I nod toward his phone. "Your fingers haven't left your phone since we left the library. She must be pretty interesting." Probably more interesting than being stuck with some chick in Iowa, working on some stupid project.
 

"Someone is a little jealous." I catch his grin out of the corner of my eye and become defensive.
 

"Oh yeah. Jealous. That's me." I shake my head. "I’m happy anyone would willingly spend their time with you."
 

I hit the gravel path and his grin widens. "Right. I forgot, you are the hater of everything me. Well, just for the record, it's not a girl."

"Then who is it?"

"None of your business."

I should be embarrassed and apologize. But I don't. I spend every second controlling the small smile that wants to come out and play. I wonder why his admission makes me happy.
 

When we pull up to the house, Grandma is on the porch swing, her glass of sweet tea sweating in the sun. Softball sized balls of rainbow colored yarn surround her on the swing.
 

"Where have you two been?" She looks up from her crocheted masterpiece.

I squint, adjusting to the shade of the porch after the sunlight. "Around. Took him to Grandpa's grave. And Cooper's. You wouldn't believe who I ran into there."

"Who?"
 

We sit down in the chairs across from her. “Sean.”
 

"Oh, yes. Verna said he might be back this week."
 

I squirm. Grandma loved Sean. Thought he was the perfect gentlemen. She was planning a wedding before we ever graduated high school. "You haven't seen him since he's been here?"

Grandma shakes her head. "No. I don't imagine I will. He has no reason to come over here anymore." She looks at me pointedly.
 

I get it. I broke the heart of the only boy who's ever loved me and who probably ever will.
 

"You don't have to worry about his broken heart anymore. He's got a skinnier, prettier girl on his arm now." My voice holds more venom than I intend. I’m not sure why, since I'm the one who broke up with him.
 

"Uh-huh." Grandma's focus is back on her crocheting. It annoys me to no end that she doesn't acknowledge that what I did was the right thing. Just ignore it, Kara. Move on.

"You think you're up to an interview, Grandma? We have a lot of questions about Grandpa."

"Sure. Get me some more tea, will you?”

She used to drink tea by the gallon, but these days getting to the bathroom is a challenge for her. I pick up the sweating glass and make my way inside.
 

In the house, all the windows are open, and the incoming breeze whistles through the screens. I stop right where I am and close my eyes. I listen as the wind dances across my skin.
 

This. These are the moments I miss the most.
 

I hear Grandma ask Vince something and I tip-toe over to the closest window. Investigative journalism at its finest.
 

"Did you enjoy the burger?" Grandma asks.

"Oh, yeah. It was great. Awkward, seeing that guy though. What's his story?"

Don't do it Grandma. Don't you dare.

 
"Sean Prescott? I was so sure Kara would marry him when they were out of high school. He comes from a good family. Hardworking. He's going to Drake to be a lawyer, she tell you that?"

"No, she didn't." Vince’s tone is dry.

"He was good for Kara. Would have given her everything. I should've known not to get my hopes up. Kara’s like one of those exotic birds you try to keep in a cage. The harder you try to keep it, the harder it fights to get loose." So, that's how she feels. She's never said the words—never had to. But now I know for sure.
 

Vince clears his throat. "You know what happens when you tell those exotic birds how beautiful they are and then trust and encourage them to spread their wings and discover the world?” I hear creaking on the porch. “They come back to you just as beautiful as when they left."

The screen door in the kitchen opens and Vince walks in. Seeing me by the window, he drops his gaze and walks to the bathroom, leaving me totally confused.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

My heart pounds like I just ran a marathon. I try to shake the I'm drowning feeling.
 

"What are you doing?" Vince asks.

"Nothing. I was just going to refill Grandma's sweet tea." I walk to the kitchen.
 

He gives me a dubious look and goes back out to the porch. I fill the glass quickly and join them outside.
 

"Okay, is everyone good to go?" I ask.

Vince nods, and opens his camera. "Ready when you are."

"Are you good?" Grandma’s eyes pass over me, and for a minute, I think she's going to burst into tears. "I'm okay, but I don't know how to do this, Kara. Do I look at him? Do I look at you? Do I have to talk loud? I'm not sure about this camera thing." Her voice has whittled down to soft, wispy words. I cup her hand in mine.

"Just look at me and tell me a story. There's nothing else to it. You'll be great."

Grandma nods. "Okay."

 
I glance at Vince and give him the go-ahead. He pushes a button on his camera and the little light goes from green to red. I look back at Grandma.

"I guess the best place to start is the beginning. So introduce yourself."

Grandma bristles. She doesn't like talking about herself. "Well. I'm Elaine Yvonne Pierce. Born and raised in Everson, Iowa. What else you want to know?"

Vince chuckles behind the camera. I'm guessing we'll have to do a fair amount of editing.

"Let's talk a little about Grandpa. Who was he?"

"You know who your grandfather was. Wesley James Pierce. The day I met Wesley, I thought he was the most handsome man I'd ever seen. Even his name was handsome. His voice was deep and gravelly, you'd wonder if it was a man talking or something else. And those eyes. I used to say it was like God unearthed two perfect emeralds and used them for Wesley's eyes."
 

"Where did you meet?"

Grandma picks up her crocheting and fiddles with it. "It was the summer my father made us all help out in the fields. It was 1940. We'd lost our farm help and so it was all hands on deck. Wesley came down the driveway like he was running from a demon, a trail of dust following him. To say my father was unimpressed is an understatement." She picks up her glass of tea and sips on it before she continues. "My father told us to keep working but once Wesley stepped out of his vehicle, I snuck as close as I could to listen in. He introduced himself to my father."

"What did he want?"

"He was trying to sell us the newest John Deere tractor on the market. He believed it could help my father capitalize on our crops, cut the labor in half. Of course, my father was skeptical of all technology and machinery." A small smile dances across Grandma’s lips.
 

"Wesley was a goner before he ever stepped out of the car. My father was a stubborn man. And so was your grandfather. They butted heads all the way till my father died."

I sit up in my chair, she's never told this story before.
 

"Why wouldn't your father want a tractor that could increase his crops and make him more money?"

She laughed. "Because it was thirteen hundred dollars. It doesn't sound like a lot today, but back then, it was more than we could afford. Even if he actually wanted it."
 

"So Grandpa never got the sale then? How do you come into the equation?" I ask.

"When I heard my father arguing, I stepped from my hiding spot. I don't know what I was thinking. There wasn't anything I could have done to change my father's mind. All I remember is wanting to meet the man who could get my father so worked up."

"I bet your father wasn't happy you interrupted."
 

"He was spitting mad. But it only took one look into Wesley's eyes and I was hooked. He asked my name and before I could say, my father told him to leave our property. You know what really got me, though?"

"What?" I indulge her.
 

"Wesley didn't argue. He looked at me, smiled and then tipped his hat, then thanked my father for his time. It was the ultimate show of respect."
 

"So how did you two end up together, then?" Vince asks from behind his camera.
 

Grandma's smile morphs into a mischievous grin. "He came back the next day and told me if I went out with him, he'd give my father the tractor for a trial period. What kind of daughter would I have been if I didn't oblige?"

"So he bribed you?"
 

"Well." Grandma thinks about it. "I guess he did. We were married seven months later, so I guess we both got what we wanted." I think about their faded wedding picture hanging in the hallway and it stirs up nostalgic memories. When I was younger, I'd pass the picture and I was sure it had two movie stars trapped inside. They were perfect in a completely flawed way.
 

"What was Grandpa like as a husband?"
 

"Oh, dear. Like I said, he was such a stubborn man, but lord did he love with all he had. He wasn't the type to do anything halfway. It was all or nothing with him. He couldn't sit back and watch his friends go to war without him. He wanted in on the action. I begged him to stay behind, but he wouldn't hear it. He was stubborn for sure, but he was gentle, kind and he loved his son and granddaughter fiercely."

Hearing her talk about my grandfather is like cutting myself open and letting the blood flow. How she talks about him without wanting to die amazes me.
 

But she doesn't have any guilt on her hands, either.
 

I change the subject. "When did Grandpa go to the war?"

"He was shipped to North Africa in April of 1943. From there he went to Sicily and then..." Her nose scrunches up all adorable-like. "Lord, I can hardly remember these details, Kara. All of his army papers are upstairs in the attic. I haven't been up there in years but you're welcome to go up and take a look for anything useful."

Grandma yawns. "I think it's time for my afternoon nap. Kara, help me up?" Vince turns off the camera and hands me her walker. She shuffles through the front door.
 

I pick up my notebook and look over the questions I'd written down. We only touched on a few. So much for making progress on the project.

"She's quite the storyteller." Vince sits beside me on the swing, his foot forcing the swing backward. We move back and forth rhythmically.

"Yeah, she is," I say. "You know what's funny? I lived with them for almost my entire childhood and I've never heard the story she told us."

"What, you think she's lying?"

I wave him off. "No! Not at all. But aren't these the kind of stories grandparents are supposed to tell?"

Vince looks at me with a blank expression and shrugs. "I dunno. I probably know less about my own parents than you know about your grandparents. I think it's just an age thing, you know?"

I nod. "It's because we're too selfish. We don't think about asking about other people until it's too late."

Vince holds my gaze and it feels like he's not looking at me, but
through
me. It’s like he wants to find out every little thing that goes on in my head. Maybe he wants to talk about what happened earlier.
 

I flirt between bringing it up and letting it go. I want to do both. Don't I always? We swing in silence. The birds and wind pick up our slack.