The Post Card
Dear Joel,
Before making a decision, both of you should visit the lake this Saturday.
Love, grandpa.
Round Valley, New Jersey was about three hours from Middletown, Connecticut. But if you by-pass the George Washington Bridge, and take 287 instead, the detour reduces the trip by 45 minutes. Angelica and I refused to speak the entire drive.
We had met at LSU during the Shaquille O’Neal days. And got married five years after he entered the NBA. She was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. And according to her, I was the most handsome. Yet, the concept of marriage always frightened me. All of my relatives—except one—were either single or divorced. My father abandoned my mother when I was eight years old. And the senior year of high school, my mother died in a car accident, never remarrying. I struggle at times, though, wondering which was worse: dying from a car accident or from a broken heart. As for my grandfather, he’s unique. He actually married and endured. Yet, his wife died, too. Which, really, has left him just as divorced as all the others.
When Angelica got pregnant, her family pressured her about marriage. Puerto Ricans looked down on daughters who have children out of wedlock. So, to soften the blow, I proposed without a ring, and married at City Hall. But, when Symphony turned two years old, and our careers began to prosper, we officially had a wedding ceremony—flower girls and all.
Angelica majored in Music Theory, and has been professor of music at Roosevelt High School since graduating college. Her salary ($105,000). As for me, I majored in Sports Therapy and currently work for the University of UConn under the basketball program. My salary ($130,000). Money has always been a source of contention. We bought our first home, but purchased too much. Last year, Angelica called the cops for the first time and I was arrested for domestic violence.
—
Pomme de Terre—which is French for potato—barked from the front porch, alerting his master we’d arrived. The dog only had three legs and blind in one eye. But, it was either that, or pay eighty a month for Slomin’s Shield. Too expensive, though, for an old man, living mostly off social security. We eased into the gravel driveway, grabbed our luggage from the trunk, and smiled pretentiously, as if neither of our hearts needed triage.
The dark clouds hinted rain as the wind swung a tire hanging from the tall Chestnut oak branches, which as a kid, was my favorite. My grandfather would push me until I fell dizzy, and then I’d ask to do it again. He was the best. His house sat perfectly at the foothills of Cushetunk Mountain, low enough to go fishing, but just above lake levels to avoid hurricane season floods. He’s lived at Round Valley 57 years. And 13 of those, alone. My grandmother died of congestive heart failure in 1989, and he deeply misses her. He opens the front door and steps out.
”Shut up Old mutt. You ain’t scarin’ nobody. Fool. Ya’ barkin’ the wrong direction, anyways”.
He sweeps the dog from his path with his right foot, and gingerly descends the steps to greet us. Overwhelmed with joy, he then signals with both hands to have us meet him halfway. We do. And exchange warm embraces.
“Jo-Jo my boy, so glad you made it. Hardly slept last night, thinking ‘bout you guys. And, Angelica, wow. Look at you. My gosh. You never disappoint. Lemme Guess…”, as he tugs on the sleeves of her red trench coat, “Louis Vuitton?”
“Thank you Mr. Saintvil. Too kind.”
“Goodness gracious. How many times must I tell you, It’s Norvin. Call me Norvin”. He grins. His eyes are filled with life.
“Alright. Will do, Mr. Saintvil”. Grandad catches her joke, laughs some more, and then hugs her again.
We continue exchanging pleasantries in the front yard for another 10 minutes, lightly discussing the weather, the Saturday traffic, and the new toll plaza the city recently added few miles from his exit. He then asks if we’re hungry and insists that we eat. In Haitian culture it is blasphemous to decline food after being offered. So, out of respect, but more so fear, we accept—even though we’d already eaten, hours earlier. He encourages us to step inside. But not Pomme de Terre. His shift isn’t over. And neither is his marriage. Granddad shuts the door, lowers the blinds, and illuminates the front porch with a bright tungsten light.