A Matter of Time, by Paul Waldhart

Autumn
      It’s the middle of October in Minnesota, and half bare trees line the worn-out street. I step
over the curb and approach the old townhouse for the first time in years. The siding, once bright
yellow like a baby chick, has molted to match the color of the stray oak leaves at my feet. All my
childhood birthdays, Halloweens, Thanksgivings, Christmases, Easters, and Fourth of Julys live
inside these walls. My grandma, Nan, would always be waiting by the window for us to arrive.
      It worries me that I don’t see her now.
      A wooden ramp rises from the sidewalk to the front door. Steps, like much of the
everyday, have become hurdles for Nan. The boards bend a little as I walk up and ready the spare
key.
      I ring the doorbell and wait.
      Over the summer, my wife and I moved with our four-year-old daughter from Ames,
Iowa to Eden Prairie, a suburb outside the Twin Cities. Claire followed her dream of a PhD, and
I got another job in IT consulting. We were still unpacking when my mom called to say that Nan
was losing her strength and reminded me that I now live only an hour away. The question was
answered before it was asked: I agreed to help when I could.
      After standing outside Nan’s door for a moment and hearing nothing, I insert the key and
let myself in.
      The house was built in the 1950s, and save for the TV and microwave, it looks much the
same as it did then. Except now a child-proof gate blocks off the upstairs, though no children
have run through these halls in decades, and the basement door stays closed. There are so many
ways to fall.
      Now that I am in my thirties, six feet tall and broad-shouldered, Nan’s townhouse feels
more cramped than I remember. The air is thick and tastes stale. It’s likely been weeks since Nan has cracked a window. I add that to my list of chores.
      In this warm stillness, my footsteps take on added weight as I walk deeper into the house.
The kitchen and bathroom make an upside-down L to my left, while the den opens to my right.
      “Nan?”
      I find my grandma sitting in the wingback Ruthanne chair, her favorite spot. Her hair
floats above her head like a cloud taking on rain. Nan’s eyes shine at seeing me, and I feel light
and loved.
      “Benji, Benji, Benji.” She’s the only one who still calls me that. To everyone else I’m
Ben. “My special little guy, but not so little anymore. How are you these days?”
      “Fine, thanks.” It’s an easy lie.
      There’s an orange circle of yarn in her lap. Growing up, Nan crocheted mittens and
gloves for me, switched to hats and scarves, and then downsized to bookmarks. I rarely use them, but I appreciate the warmth they give off. It looks like Nan has started making child’s hat. Her crochet hook curves at the end like Nan herself. Osteoporosis has bowed her at the shoulders. If I live to be her age, the unstoppable forces of time and gravity will also pull me back to the earth.
      “Can I fix you some coffee?” Nan asks. “I won’t water it down for you like usual. I know
you like it strong.” By strong she means normal.
      “I can make some later if I need it.”
      Behind the den there’s Nan’s bedroom, which connects to the bathroom by the kitchen. I
imagine my mom and her siblings as kids, flinging open the bath and bedroom doors and running
loops like chariots around the hippodrome. Such antics, any fun, would have happened when
Grandpa Thom wasn’t around. I hope to leave behind a better life for my wife and daughter than the one he left for his.
      “No, let me...” Nan tries to push herself out of her chair, but I rest a hand on her arm and
sit across from her.
      “You take it easy.”
      We talk a little more before I excuse myself to do the chores she needs. First, I open the
kitchen window a bit to let in the breeze. Then after I take out the trash and recycling, I start the mower and push it back and forth across the lawn.
      Seeing the veins branching at my wrists makes me think of the blood bank where I first
met Claire. She was volunteering for nursing school, and I needed money. Competent and caring, as she wrapped her fingers around my wrist we got to talking. Later that day she stopped by the coffee shop I worked at. Instead of Claire taking my blood, I poured her a latte. The world felt so open then.
      When I come back inside Nan’s house, my palms are still vibrating from being clamped
around the lawnmower handle. Grass clippings cling to my shoes and jeans. I smell like a
novelty candle someone in the city might buy.
      In the den, Nan drapes a blanket over her shoulders. She nods to the empty armchair
opposite her, the forest-green Calliope with its oval base and curved backseat. That’s where
Grandpa Thom used to sit by the window before he left Nan and the family for a woman in
Montana.
​      “Did the mower give you any trouble?”
      “Nope.”
      I’m busy thinking about the job that will have me on the road tomorrow. My mind flashes
with computer screens and lines of code. I’m supposed to travel with my coworker, a woman in
her late twenties and new to the area. Already I’m dreading the trip: the painful small talk with
her, the forced politeness with customers, the long drive across this tundra state.
      Nan peers at me through her horn-rimmed glasses, and I realize I’ve fallen behind in our
conversation.
      I grow quiet, but silence doesn’t faze her.
      “Did you know that your grandpa never liked fish? His parents were from Wales, so
you’d think he would. I don’t know why not...” She lowers her crochet hook and sighs. “I can’t
believe that woman didn’t hold a service or anything. Just burned him up.”
      There’s a bite to her words when she talks about him, even in death.
​      I most remember Grandpa Thom as the tall, sinewy man by the window. An impassive
man, a hard man. If he allowed a grin, you knew he was beaming; and if he chuckled, then deep
inside Grandpa Thom was bent over with laughter. Maybe we were poor amusements. I’d like to
think he loved us, or at least me.
      Each holiday Grandpa Thom would take the bus across town, walk the last two blocks to
his old home, and ease himself into the chair I’m now sitting in. He’d grip the ends of the
armrest as if bracing for takeoff. Meanwhile, I’d be cross-legged on the carpet, tearing at
wrapping paper and shouting thanks. All those family memories over the holidays, and I never
knew how much hurt there was.
      I ask, “Would you like it if there was a service held here?”
      “No.” With great effort, she begins to stand. “I’m not going anywhere for him.”
      I get up and let her grab my arm like it’s a railing, then guide Nan to her walker. “Steady
as she goes.”
      “I was talking to my friend Rosie on the phone...” She takes a small step forward, and I
shadow her steps, just in case. “Her husband also had a woman on the side, and we agreed: You
can’t wish ‘em back, and we wouldn’t if we could.”
      My phone buzzes in my pocket. I try to ignore it.
      “How did you catch him?”
      “He didn’t make much attempt to hide the cheating.”
      I rest my hand against Nan’s back to steady her. “What would it take to forgive him?”
      She scoffs. “He’d have to ask to be forgiven, for one, which he never did.”
      My phone keeps vibrating, and when I take it out I see that it’s from work.
      With my hand to Nan’s back, I feel her lungs draw harder as she recovers her breath.
Chills slide down my arms.
      Nan’s walker drags louder once we reach the hardwood floor of the kitchen and dining
area. She grabs the nearest chair and slumps into it. Her fingers tremble as she clumsily pulls at
the wool blanket shawled around her shoulders.
      “Did you do something?” Nan asks, half pleading, half accusing, and I think about the
open window. “It’s so cold.”

Winter
      It’s the first weekend in December, and when I visit Nan I bring my daughter with me. I
want Maddie to see me on my best behavior. It’s been a few weeks since she and I have had
quality time together, and I don’t want her to grow cold toward me.
      November came and went like a whiteout storm. Blinded and sideswiped by snow, you
can’t see the road. Accidents happen. Someone I never met wrote some bad code, which caused
problems at an office up north, which sent me on a four-hour drive with a coworker I barely
know. Clients vented their anger about things beyond my control, and I took the blame. The trip
got extended after the client complained anyway. I drank with my coworker until we became
more than strangers, until it was just me and the other new hire, and we both wanted--
something—and then something happened.
      Claire doesn’t know. Not yet.
      This morning she seemed relieved to be left alone. Things haven’t been right between us
lately. I don’t know how to touch her or what to say. When she looks at me, I feel like I’m
getting scanned at the airport. I can never find the words I need. I’ll find myself standing before her with my mind screaming but my mouth slack, like a straitjacket has my tongue. Some force
keeps holding me back.
      Once my daughter and I get out of the car, Maddie runs in her puffy pink coat up the
wooden ramp. My back strains as I follow her to the front door. I’m happy to see Nan at the
window this time, waving and smiling wide so you can see her purple gums.
      Inside the kitchen, Nan has set out mason jars and plastic containers filled with
strawberries. She pushes her walker toward us.
​      “Why, is that my great-granddaughter I see?” she asks coyly and looks down at Maddie,
who says, “Nan-ma,” and rushes to give her a hug.
      I nod toward the kitchen. “What’s all this?”
      “We’re making jam.” Nan tousles my daughter’s hair. “Me and the little one here. We
discussed this, or at least your mother and I did.”
      Maybe we talked about it, maybe not. My family has a history of acting as if a
conversation between two members will convey relevant information through osmosis. Wires
cross, schedules clash, mistakes abound. My mind’s racing, and I leave Nan and my daughter to
go outside.
      They take longer than I expected. The two of them are wrapping up after I’ve shoveled
the walkways, brought out the trash, and gone back inside to set up Nan’s collectible Christmas
village. Quaint homes, perfect little families, the miniature shops and figures look like they’ve
been pulled from a Norman Rockwell painting.
      “Dad, come here!”
      I set down the last figurine, a man shoveling snow and looking all too happy about it, and
follow my daughter’s voice to the kitchen.
      Maddie stands on a stepping stool and smiles. Her a mouth is lined with strawberry jam, a
clown’s smile, and her red hands scream Lady Macbeth. But she’s not the one with something to
hide.
      I run my finger along a dull, jam-dipped knife and lick it. The sweet hit of strawberry and
seeds between my teeth, I can’t help but smile.
      “How did everything go?” I ask.
      “Great!” Maddie hops down from the step stool and holds her arms out in front of her,
zombie-like, as she approaches the sink.
      Nan sits in a wooden chair near the stove, looking weary. “Maddie’s a good helper. She
must get that from you.”
      “Want a hand in getting up?”
      “If you wouldn’t mind.”
      I help Nan rise from her chair. Once she has hold of her walker, I let go. My daughter
finishes washing her hands, though her garish grin remains, and the three of us shuffle into the
den.
      Nan takes her usual seat, while I sit near the window. Maddie plunks down between us on
the carpet. She faces the wood curio cabinet, where ceramic orioles and blue jays stare from
behind curved glass. Along the top of the cabinet are three wood shelves with latch handles. God
knows what junk Nan keeps there.
      Classical music starts playing from inside my pocket. Someone’s calling me.
      Maddie perks up. “Is that Mommy?”
      I pull out the phone and see my coworker’s number. Her messages are filled with re-words: reckless, regret, remember, really sorry.
      Heat climbs up my neck. “It’s work.”
      In my mind I’m back at the hotel bar, wine-sloshed and propping my head in my hands.
My coworker’s talking about her failed engagement, cold feet, colder hearts. When she sets her
glass down, her hand nearly touches mine. She has no ring, and in that moment neither do I.
      “Is everything okay?” Nan’s question snaps me back.
      “Things aren’t great right now.”
      Not great: Midwest for awful.
      Nan gives a faint smile. “Whether I was working on the farm or in the office, I never
liked being told what to do.”
      “Me, either.”
      “But what is it that you do?”
      I’ve learned that when talking to people my parents’ age or older, it’s best to start
broadly. “I help fix things with computers.”
      “Computers were starting to roll out when I retired. When the light at the end of the
tunnel looks like a train, it’s time to step away.” Nan turns to my daughter and out of nowhere
asks, “Maddie, do you think you might want a little brother or sister?”
      Maddie doesn’t look up. “I don’t know.” She has opened the curio cabinet and holds a
ceramic bird in each hand.
      I square my shoulders to Nan and try to get her attention. “Claire going back to school
has left a lot up in the air. We’d have to plan it out...”
      “Reminds me of how deer birth their fawn while standing and send them wobbling off.”
She gestures toward the back yard. “Some nights you can hear them crying in the woods. A
terrible sound.”
      “Who?”
      “The little ones left on their own.”
      Thankfully, my daughter doesn’t appear to be listening to us. Maddie bobs the birds’
heads together, and I wonder what secret conversations she takes part in.
      “Anyway,” Nan continues, “I’m sorry that your work has you so busy. I had to go back to
work once your grandpa left.”
      I picture Grandpa Thom handing me one of his old books, a thick tome with gold
lettering on the cover: The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. I was eight
years old and couldn’t read half the words. I kept the book but haven’t finished it. Empires rise
and fall. People live and die. We all know how it ends.
      Nan winces at some pinched nerve.
      When the pain lessens, she says, “I forgot to mention: You wouldn’t believe what that
woman in Montana sent me.”
      “What?”
      She points at the middle drawer atop the cabinet. Purple spots the size of pennies dot her hands.
      I pull the small drawer toward me, and a glass vial knocks against the wood sides. It’s packed with a powder like salt mixed with pepper.
      “Is that...”
      “Thomas. Part of him, anyway.”
      I stare at the drawer, this small coffin, at my grandpa rolling in his grave. Maddie’s still
chatting with the birds.
      I lean forward and whisper to Nan, “Where’s the rest of him?”
      Nan stays focused on her fingers and crochet hook. “Ask that woman. He always feared
hellfire, not that he did much to avoid it. I can’t believe she cremated him.”
      Maddie looks up from the floor. “Cream?”
      She’s wide-eyed because last week I came home from work to find Claire making
chocolate pudding and spraying Cool Whip into Maddie’s mouth. Our daughter had returned
from preschool crying about not having any friends. Claire reminded her that, “Some things take
time,” and went about preparing Maddie’s favorite dessert. As soon as I stepped inside our
house, their laughter hushed. I had caught a glimpse of their happiness, their glow, and felt it
fade before me. Claire asked me what was wrong. What was I supposed to say? Nothing and
everything.
      Now my daughter is staring up at me, and my hands are empty.
      “Not right now,” I say. “We can get you some whipped cream when we’re back home.”
      “‘Not right now,’” she imitates with a blue jay, as if it had become a parrot.
      Nan keeps talking like Maddie isn’t there. “He was a good grandpa, wasn’t he? At least
he wasn’t bad to you.”
      I nod. He never hit me or raised his voice except to say, “Sit still!” He was just kind
enough to have earned a grandson’s love.
      Nan glances out the window. “She could have sent flowers.”
      “Did you send her flowers?”
      “Why would I? She’s the lily pad he hopped off to when life got difficult.”
      “What about—”
      “She knew what he was.” Nan pulls hard on a strand of yarn. “Thank God you’re not like
him.”
      A knot tightens inside me when she says it. I mumble thanks and gaze out the window.
It’s starting to snow; the drive back gets longer by the minute.
      Nan intertwines her bony fingers. Bluish white with polished nails, her hands look like a
mountain range.
      “You have his height and face, though. Sometimes I think I’m getting dementia when I
see you, but your clothes are nice. Thom was never good with money...”
      I feel a chill off the windowpane as snow whips past us. My blue car is now mostly
white. I tap my daughter on the shoulder to get her up, but she doesn’t budge.
      “Sorry, Nan. If you—”
      “And I had to do so much on my own. The bank came after me for his debts until there
was nothing left for the kids.” Nan stops crocheting. When she flexes her fingers, it sounds like
twigs snapping. She looks so tired. “Some things I can’t forgive.”
      “I’m sorry...”
      For now, we let the conversation die. I rise to leave. When I motion for Maddie to do the
same, she stays put.
      Nan reaches for her walker and grimaces. “Is it that time already?”
      I point at my snow-covered car. “It’s getting bad outside, is all.”
      Maddie’s still on the floor playing make-believe and whispering to herself. I can’t tell if
she’s lost in her own world or ignoring me.
      “Put the birds back.” I sound harsher than I want, and Maddie gets quiet.
      My daughter won’t look at me.
      “Sorry, Maddie.” I stoop down and lighten my voice. “It’s time to say goodbye to Nan,
before it gets too scary outside.”
      Spry as a grasshopper, Maddie leaps to her feet and hugs Nan goodbye.
      I take my daughter’s small hand in mine. Her palm is very much a child’s, pudgy like
playdough and pounding with a hummingbird’s pulse. Full of life. Claire and I tell Maddie she
can become whoever and whatever she wants. It’s the one thing we still agree on.
      “Dad!” Maddie pulls free and waves her hand like she’s cooling a burn. “Stop holding so
tight, please. You’re hurting me.”

Spring
      It’s March and the sidewalk is mostly slush. Gray snow and mud cling to my boots.
Inside Nan’s house they’ll crust over like dried coral.
      This time I come alone. I made sure Nan knew in advance, so as not to get her hopes up
for Maddie.
      I enter the house and find Nan fast asleep in her chair. She has a skein of yellow yarn on
the floor. I don’t know if I have seen her so peaceful, and if I were to find her skin cool to the
touch, I would say she went out as best as anyone can hope for. But I don’t reach out. I let her
sleep as I carry out the chores.
      The truth is I’m avoiding her.
      I sent Nan a Christmas card and called, but I stayed home with Claire and Maddie. I
thought that’s what we needed. Even if Nan asks, I’d rather not talk about it. I had planned on
telling Claire so many times, but on Christmas Eve she found my phone. Every day since then
has been a waking nightmare. We shout when Maddie isn’t home and sit in silence when she is. I
don’t know how to answer my daughter’s questions, like why am I sleeping on the couch? Why
am I so sad? When can she see Nan-ma? Claire’s done asking questions. Instead, she tells me things: her schedule, the name of a hotel, a lawyer’s phone number. My coworker feels bad about it all. She keeps her distance, and she’s stopped taking my calls.
      In Nan’s backyard there’s a small shed. I pull out the metal ladder and prop it against the
house. As I climb up to clean the rain gutters, the ladder presses deeper into the ground. I think
of Nan, hunched with age. Once I’ve scaled high enough to touch the eavestrough, I reach up and
grab a handful of acorns and molten leaves. Wet, grainy decay slicks my hand and gets under my
fingernails. A loamy smell, like topsoil and worms, nauseates me, but it keeps my mind off
everything else.
      The rain gutter rattles.
      A squirrel sprints down the trough toward my hand, and I startle.
      I pull back and the ladder comes with me—for a second vertical—before the ladder and I
fall. I jump off and hit the ground. The ladder strikes the earth and reverberates loudly. I think of
the acorns, the squirrel’s savings and safety net, and how like a flash flood I’ve taken everything.
      Getting up isn’t easy. I let out a sigh without meaning to. My knees are sore and muddy,
and my hands look covered in shit.
      Past the edge of the lawn, the woods creep in. Underbrush gives way to spindly pine and
birch trees. You can see where deer have peeled off strips of bark. I listen, but I can only hear my
own raspy breathing. The ladder is still lying on the ground. I imagine having to climb back up
and scoop out all the muck and gunk with my hands like shovels. It’s cold, and I’m tired. Neither
Nan nor the house are going anywhere. There will be other days.
      I put the ladder away and go back inside.
      I find Nan’s small coffeepot filled with water and ready with a filter and some grounds.
The smell of coffee beans calms me. I turn the pot on and let it sputter.
      “Is that you, Benji?” Nan surprises me from the hallway, stooped over her walker. “I
heard a racket outside.”
      “Who else would it be?”
      “You never know.”
      It doesn’t take long before we sit in our usual places, a chipped mug steaming between
my hands.
      Nan asks, “Is your work going any better these days?”
      “A little worse than before...” I glance at the curio cabinet and wonder about Grandpa Thom’s ashes. “It’s a bit complicated.”
      “I’m sorry to hear that.” When I don’t say more, Nan changes tack. “And how’s the little
one?”
      “Maddie’s doing great in pre-K, making lots of new friends.” Or so Claire told me over
the phone.
      I can feel my phone in my pocket, a phantom limb I keep checking on, but it’s been a few
days since anyone has called. Nan still doesn’t know anything. My parents don’t either, but
they’re starting to ask questions about Claire and Maddie. I plan to roll back the lies slowly, like
a glacier, and in their wake see what debris remains. It’s a matter of time.
      I wonder if Grandpa Thom went to Glacier National Park in Montana before he died, or
was he too used to living near special things and not knowing it?
      Nan studies me. “You’ve been quiet about Claire lately. Is she all right?”
      “She’s okay...” My watery silhouette looks up from the coffee mug. I think of when I
made Claire’s latte, my weeks of frothing flowers in customers’ drinks put to the test.
      “What is she going to school for again? Epidurals or—”
      “Epidemiology.”
      “What’s that?”
      “Sickness and diseases.” More things I don’t understand.
      “A lot of that going around. Job security...” A wan smile crosses Nan’s face. “Smart girl,
isn’t she?”
      I nod and take a sip of weak coffee.
      She taps her temple. “I still have my mind. That’s the most important thing.”
      “You’re doing great, Nan.”
      “It’s a terrible thing to lose yourself.”
      “It is.”
      She gives me a curious look and chuckles softly. “You don’t have to worry about that for
a long time. I spend so much time thinking. There’s not much else I can still do.”
      Nan may be the only person left who doesn’t see me as a letdown. If I tell her the truth
then her “special little guy” dies, even though a lie is a lie, and I’ve already dug young Benji’s
grave. Unlike me, she’s honest and unafraid. With her health every day is a blessing, and every
season is an open question. This could be the last time I see her.
      So I ask, “If Grandpa Thom were here now, what would you say to him?”
      “I can’t wish him back, and I won’t.”
      “Please, Nan.”
      She picks up her crochet hook and a yellow square of yarn, the start of a scarf for my
daughter.
      “I’d ask him what made it so easy to leave. I’d ask him why he is how he is.” Tears shine
at the edges of her eyes, and I feel a deep pull down my chest. “How he was.”
      A school bus drives past the window and stops down the block. A few kids around
Maddie’s age hop off. They’re wearing galoshes, and the sidewalk’s half drowned. It must have
rained last night.
      “What if he didn’t want to leave?”
      “He left, Benji. Several times. Now he’s in some jar in Montana. That’s the life he
chose.”
      I slump back in the Calliope chair. Claire doesn’t want me around, and there’s no woman
in Montana waiting for me. Maddie I barely see. Over the phone she sounds so distant.
      “But what if he had asked to stay?”
      “Then you’d be talking about someone else’s life, not mine.” Nan rests her crochet hook
in her lap. “I don’t understand this sudden interest of yours. You don’t have to worry. You’re not
like him.”
      “You keep saying that.”
      Nan turns her gaze to the curio cabinet, where our reflections bow along the glass. “Every
marriage has its problems.” Her even-handed tone comforts me. “We have to unlearn all the bad
habits we can and try our best. What else is there?”
      The kids down the street stomp through puddles, and I can almost hear them laughing.
      “What if you’ve already messed up?”
      “Then learn from it and do better going forward.” As Nan stares at the curio cabinet, her
face darkens. “I didn’t know people could lie like he did. How could I have known?”
      “I’m sorry, Nan.”
      She rests her head back and almost melds with the chair. “I wish I could tell you we lived
happily ever after or that Thomas and I became friends, but I can’t.”
​      Our talk seems to have taken something from her. “Be gentle with her,” my mom had
urged. “She’s a tough cookie, but she’s been through a lot.”
      Nan blinks her eyes at me as if fighting off a nap. “When will I see you next?”
      “I can stay a bit longer.” It’s not like anyone else is expecting me.
      “Stay as long as you like.”
      The two of us settle into a shared silence as we stare out the window, each of us
searching for our own meaning. I think hard about what I’ll say next, weighing each word and
bracing myself. Nan closes her eyes with the hint of a smile. I keep staring out at the empty street
as children laugh in the distance.
      I don’t know if I will ever set foot in this house again, and I don’t know if I will ever
leave.

---

Paul Waldhart holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Roosevelt University in Chicago. While at Roosevelt, he served as managing editor of the Oyez Review Literary Journal. His fiction frequently explores life in the Midwest and has appeared in Whitefish Review, Peninsula Pulse, and N.O.T.A.