Dana’s Delivery

I was twenty-two when I met Dana, a sixtyish fellow with a puffy cloud of gray hair who stood less than five feet tall. He owned a small office supply store, and every few months he visited the finance company where I worked as a secretary, looking for Audrey, the person in charge of ordering goods. One of Dana's legs was shorter than the other, which gave him a rolling gait like a pull toy for toddlers. He teetered down our row of L-shaped desks, his rubber-soled shoes squeaking, a naive grin plastered on his face like he expected to be welcomed.

If Audrey was busy, Dana waited off to the side until she had time. He operated from a bygone era when he'd been the only game in town, before the savvy national mail order companies with their discounted office supplies popped up in the mid 70s.

Dana spoke in a raspy, excited voice. "Need any typewriter ribbons? How about steno pads or folders?" Audrey said, "Nothing today," or she'd throw him a bone and purchase one or two items. Order or not, he left with his grin.

His presence always forced my throat to close as I fought tears. My maternal grandmother had had that same wild, gray hair. Each time I saw Dana, I felt the jolt of shame.

The other secretaries only tittered behind his back.

In grade school I knew what it was like to be laughed at, clad in my charity clothing—my mud-colored dress and blue coat two decades behind the current style. Girls whispered and laughed behind me, discussing how odd and ugly I dressed. I pretended I didn’t hear. At home, my seat at the dinner table was next to my father, where in terror my siblings and I endured his cruel barbs: "You don't have a lick of sense," or “You’re absolutely good for nothing.” I never knew when I’d be the target. My mother never stopped him or indicated she disagreed.

Only my grandmother made me feel worthwhile.

Grandma, my childhood angel, had been my only living grandparent. She lived in Chicago, a day's drive away from my Missouri hometown. Most years, my family drove there, six kids crammed in a car of tortuous chaos while my father hollered and slapped one or the other. Grandma also visited us, taking an overnight train. I loved waiting for her in the leathery-smelling depot. The melancholic train whistle sliced the thick air, and the ground shivered when the engine grew closer. Grandma emerged and I wrapped my arms around her in joy.

Grandma cherished connect-the-dot books, chocolate covered cherries, and Heckle and Jeckle cartoons. When we went to any store, she bought me something—candy, a bottle of bubbles, or gum. I adored her for loving me and for being like a best friend rather than a grown-up. Her visits, full of cookies, games of Old Maid, and endless coloring, brought miraculous relief from my father's unpredictable physical and emotional rages.

Once I entered high school, I didn’t pay much attention to Grandma. I had a boyfriend, a job, Pom Pom Girls, and social activities. I didn’t care about candy and crayons.

I married my high school sweetheart when I turned nineteen. He enlisted in the Air Force and we moved to Texas. After his technical training ended, we'd been desperate for our first visit home, a fourteen-day leave over a Christmas vacation.

Four days into it, while at my in-laws, I got the phone call. The words "Grandma" and "dead" struck me numb. I’d never experienced a death in the family. Behind me, my husband’s family drank high balls and chatted, full of holiday cheer. I couldn't think with their noise. I knew I should be crying, having a reaction, but I couldn’t feel anything.

I didn't go to Grandma's funeral. I could have gone. I should have. My husband’s leave contained ten more days. My mother and father and two siblings packed the car for the drive to Chicago. They'd only be gone four days tops, with room in the back seat for me. My husband would stay behind with his parents. I thought of the many childhood trips with my father at the wheel. I couldn't imagine another journey with him. Also, I didn't want to leave my husband alone with my mother-in-law, who held a grudge against me. She thought I forced her beloved boy to leave our hometown, to leave her. She'd be in ecstasy having me out of the way with her son to herself, reminding him of my faults. For years, I'd listened to her tearing down her other daughter-in-law in her absence, criticizing her cooking or lamp choices. I didn’t want to think about what judgements she had about me.

Grandma couldn't be brought back to life, I reasoned. I deserved a full two weeks of fun.

I tamped down any guilt until I buried it.

The last time I’d seen Grandma was when I drove to Chicago for a few days with my brother when my husband first entered boot camp. She could no longer see well. Dried food stuck to the fork tines in her dish rack. She had trouble bathing, too, and smelled musty and sour. Her clothes were shabby--the same dresses and shoes I’d seen her wear for twenty years. She smiled like always, an innocent and open smile, delighted to have me there. I kissed her cheek. She seemed so childlike, making me pity her with a hint of disgust.

I should have held her tight that last visit and thanked her for all she did to brighten my life. I should have told her how she’d been my magical garden during many bleak days. I should have given her more attention when I got older.

Absolutely, I should have paid last respects to the one person who loved me as a child.

Instead, I got in my car and headed for my future.

Until Dana reminded me of my past.