Grandpa Fritz

	When Pascual came back from the War in November 1917 with a terrible limp and two missing fingers no one knew what to say. He seemed shorter than before, thinner, and haggard. His hair was streaked with grey, his eyes had sunken as though retreating into his face. Everyone in town stared as he hobbled past and I could almost feel the pent-up questions of our neighbours. The only person who didn’t hold back was Grandpa Fritz.
	“He’s a damn fool boy, he is!” Grandpa Fritz gruffed when Hank went to tell him about Pascual’s return. “Only a damn fool gets himself injured in the first few months of fighting!”
	He had slammed the door and no one saw him for over a month.
	“It really isn’t his fault,” I told Hank as we got into bed one night. “Don’t be too hard on your father.”
	“But he should know better!” grumbled Hank.
	“Yes… but he loves Germany. This must be difficult for him.”
	“He doesn't even remember it.”
	“Well, he thinks he does.”.
	“It’s his own grandson!”
	I did not reply. We sat for a long time, each of us with a book open but neither of us reading. Finally, I looked at Hank in the slanting kerosene light. “Did he ever talk about it?”
	“Who?”
	“Your dad.”
	“Talk about what?”
	“The Civil War.”
	Hank sighed. “Not really. A few things. Said he fought in the Carolinas. Something about Fort Fisher. It’s not the kinda thing you ask!”
	“Was that where he ruined his leg?”
	“Don’t know. He fought the whole war, I know that. The only pictures show him sitting down. So yeah, yeah, he probably hurt it there. But no one ever wanted to ask and I guess he never said. He’s like that -won’t talk to anyone.”
	I stared blankly at my book. I could feel hopeful words pressing their way up my throat. At last I whispered: “Perhaps things will change at Christmas.”
	Hank sighed. “Christmas! That should be quite the time!”
	And with that he threw his book down beside the bed, and rolled over.

*		*		*

	Despite Hank’s pessimism, the Christmas preparations went as usual. My nieces, Sally and Libby, arrived on the 23rd to help with the baking. They were not much use and spent most of their time giggling and joking but every time Pascual entered the room they became very solemn and asked if he needed anything. Hank killed a goose and the whole farm was decked out in holly and cedar boughs. But there was also a great deal of anxiety.
	Everyone was burning to ask about the War. Pascual must have known, but it would be awkward for him to bring it up and no one was rude enough to question him. No one except Grandpa Fritz. But then, you could never predict what he might say: there was almost no one in the family he had not reduced to tears. For all my optimism, I was worried sick: Pascual was still very fragile.
	When the family began arriving there was much ado about Pascual. As they saw him each guest would hesitate, then, composing themselves, rush forward and embrace his frail figure. The women quickly excused themselves to help in the kitchen. The men reclined in the living room, drinking brandy and talking about farm equipment and grain prices. Pascual sat at the far end of the couch, listening. 
Grandpa Fritz was late. He stepped in, took one look at Pascual, shook his head, and said: “No, no. I’ll be on the porch.”
	He slammed the door and sat down on the old rocking chair where he stared sourly across the snowy lawn.
	Just as dinner was ready I stepped outside. 
“Grandpa? Won’t you come in? I think everyone would like to see you.”
Grandpa Fritz didn’t answer. He just shook his head and sighed.
“The goose smells heavenly, and everyone is excited. I think Pascual would really like to see you,” I lied.
The jowl-lines deepened on the old man’s cheeks. “Shuddup, woman. He’s a damned fool. You’re all damned fools! I’ll stay out here!”

*		*		*

	At dinner conversation was strained. The talk was of school and town marriages and sports. Everyone asked Pascual if he had bumped into so-and-so or been back to such-and-such a place or seen how this-or-that building had been renovated. His answers were short and polite. But I know my son. Before he had taken his first bite he was exhausted.
	Slowly the brandy worked on the men and the wine started showing in the cheeks of the girls. Curious glances at Pascual’s mutilated hand, or sunken eyes betrayed unasked questions. Libby, who had never been allowed a drink before, even asked what the weather was like in France. But everyone shushed her and quickly turned the conversation to safer matters.
	To my surprise Pascual offered to help clear the table. Everyone gave him a wide berth and drink-relaxed eyes followed his halting steps. I was getting the dessert plates when I realised Pascual was no longer in the kitchen. His seat at table was empty, too.
	“Libby, have you seen Pascual?”
	Libby looked over at me from the sink, her face flushed. “Huh? No, I haven’t. Oh no, no you don’t think I’ve offended him, do you? I really didn’t mean to, Auntie Hattie! Really-”
	“No dear, it’s fine. I just don’t know where he is.”
	“I’m so sorry. Really! I didn’t mean to. I mean, I was just trying to make conversation, and I thought it would be alright to ask that, I mean, it’s not about what happened to him, so-”
	I put my hand on her shoulder, “Shhhhhhhhh. It’s alright, dear. I’ll find him.”
	“I think he might have seen me looking at his… bad leg,” said Sally, almost whispering. “I was only curious how he walks now…”
	I smiled, “It’s alright, dearies. Stop worrying. Get the plates out and put the holly on the pudding. I’ll find him.”
	As I left the kitchen I could hear them giggling again.
	I looked in Pascual’s bedroom. He wasn’t there. Through the window I could see the outhouse door was open, and it wasn’t like Pascual to relieve himself by the barn like the other men. He wasn’t in our bedroom either. At length, I thought I would risk asking Grandpa Fritz. When I peered through the little window in the door I saw something I will remember for the rest of my life.
	There they were. Grandpa Fritz and Pascual. Sitting in the cold, a kerosine lamp on the table in front of them. They weren’t talking. Grandpa Fritz was watching his grandson and the lines on his cheeks seemed less severe.
	Pascual sat beside him, thin, hunched, his sallow face staring out across the snowy lawn, his hands on the arms of his chair. They sat, almost motionless, for a long time. Behind me I could hear singing and laughing but it might as well have come from the other side of the state.
	Then, very slowly, so slowly I almost didn’t see it, Grandpa Fritz’s hand moved from the folds of his jacket and rested on Pascual’s mutilated arm. After a moment the young man’s eyes reached over to his grandfather. I realised that their cheeks were stained with tears.

*		*		*

	Grandpa Fritz died on New Year’s Day, 1918. Pascual found him that morning. Although my son’s face remains sallow and he will always walk with a limp, his eyes are brighter and he is not so haggard.

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Erik Peters is a teacher and avid mediaevalist from Canada. Erik’s work with marginalised students has profoundly influenced his writing which has been published in numerous magazines including Coffin Bell, Superlative Lit, Prospectus, The Louisville Review, and The Dead Mule School. Read all Erik’s publications at www.erikpeters.ca or @erikpeterswrites.