Chapter Eleven #2
“I like it here. So I move it here.” He’s got the last drawer in its place, closes it solid, and turns to me, grabbing one shoulder and my hand to shake in one swift motion. “Thank you for your help.” He heads out of the bedroom and I follow.
“Why don’t you just leave it where it was?”
Abruptly, he turns and stops dead in front of me. He’s got a serious look on his face and one hand is balled into a fist, pointing to the floor. “Because, Liam, no one is going to tell me where I can or can’t put my dresser. It’s my dresser, and I will put it where I want.”
He stares at me, waiting for it to register. I’m not sure what to say, but I feel like we’re not talking about dressers. He turns and heads back to the patio area, talking ahead of him, “More coffee?”
“Thank you, no.”
I’m still trying to process our clandestine furniture move.
I’m imagining Gregory unbolting and moving that dresser over and over again.
I wonder how many times it’s been moved and why it’s so important to him.
I’m also bolstered by the audacity and perseverance of it all.
We deposit ourselves back at the outdoor table and I notice Gregory has produced a deck of cards and a pegboard.
“Ever play cribbage?” he asks.
I haven’t played since college and my mind echoes with the “15-2, 15-4, double-double” words of the game. “It’s been a while,” I say.
“Good. Then you’ll lose for a while.” He begins shuffling the cards with crooked-finger fidelity, and the dealing begins.
Before I know what’s happened, the sky has begun to darken, and the living room lights are illuminating our little game through the window.
We’ve both won our share of games, but he’s the only one who’s ever gotten “nobs” which, for some reason, he celebrates like it’s worth more than the one single point it actually is worth.
He keeps shuffling the cards even though it’s been non-verbally agreed upon that we’re done playing.
“I think it’s great what you are doing,” he says. “You and your secret…”
I smile at him waiting for him to finish the sentence. Is he avoiding the rest of the sentence, or can he not recall? I can’t tell, but I wait patiently. He doesn’t recover, and the sentence ends there.
“My secret person,” I say, digging into his expression for answers. My mind begins to spin.
“It’s great,” he says, his gaze matching mine. “It sounds like something Jonathan would do.”
My body seizes upright and I’m trying not to blurt. “Who’s Jonathan?”
His focus blurs like he’s seeing something far away, beyond the little patio. “The love of my life,” he hums. “He passed away ten years ago now. He would’ve hated this place.” Gregory looks around the patio and through the window into the living room.
I slump back in my chair.
“Jonathan would do things like that: create new ways to experience the world. You never knew what he’d come up with, but whatever it was, it was solid and whole.
As long as he was involved, my world was grounded.
” He stops speaking, but I can see the stories still playing in his mind.
His eyes glisten a little. “I had forty-seven years with him.”
I feel like he’s stolen a feeling I have and imprinted it onto the world: solid and whole.
“Can I tell you a secret?” he asks.
I’m nodding my head, but I’m a little nervous.
“I asked to see you. I asked if you could come visit me.” His gaze digs into me, demanding a response, but there’s nothing to answer. “When I heard that you were throwing caution to the wind and challenging yourself in so many ways, I had to meet you. I had to know you.”
He pauses for a breath, and then drums his bent fingers on the wicker table. “It’s kind of inspiring, Liam. You inspire me, what you are doing. It’s not every day that we are allowed in this life to be in the presence of something inspiring and when I heard about you, I had to see for myself.”
I’m moved by his words, but they don’t compute. What have I done that’s inspiring at all? I’ve just followed some anonymous instructions from some stranger. I tell him this without eloquence.
“You dare to dream, Liam,” he says. “You set aside your what-ifs and why-nots and your afraid-tos and you dare to dream. That’s inspiring.” He’s staring at me solidly, “And do you know what you did when you were asked to come see a crazy old man?”
I shake my head slightly.
He leans forward, reaching a spotted hand across the table and whispers loudly: “You came!”
I’m wordless as he reclines, sliding his hand back across the table.
“You’re not seeking anyone’s permission to live your life.
Don’t ever stop doing that, Liam. And when you either meet your secret person, or don’t meet your secret person, don’t forget that you don’t need anyone’s permission to be you.
” He looks at the floor and sighs. “That’s what Jonathan would say.
He would’ve loved this.” I can’t tell if he’s speaking to me or to himself.
I have no words. I just feel solid and whole, like my secret person—my secret guy—wanted me to come here to feel this way. I see the years and wisdom and lifetime of love in Gregory’s eyes, and I’m astounded that I have a place in that. That he would seek me out.
He looks at me again, “You’re something special, Liam. Thank you for coming to share that with me.” This small outdoor space has become both profoundly peaceful and mildly awkward.
We both rise slowly from our seats and I’m lovingly ushered toward the door. I don’t even know what I say as I leave, or how he says goodbye, but my body remembers the one-hand shoulder squeeze while his other hand shakes mine firmly. The door closes behind me and I smile all the way down the hall.