Chapter 5 - Outside In The Snow
The cold came through the open doorway in a solid sheet and cut right across the marble floor. I could feel it on my knees where my socks had slipped down. Grandpa hadn't stepped outside yet, but Dad had moved to the threshold like he was trying to block the snow from getting in, one hand on the door as if he was going to close it.
My sister's hand found the back of my sweater. She didn't pull me, just rested it there. Her fingers were cold.
Dad looked past Grandpa at the snow falling on the steps, then back into the warm light of the entryway. His tie had loosened and his face was gray under the tungsten glow.
"You're making a scene, Frank," he said. His voice was low, the way he talked when he didn't want the people in the living room to hear. "In front of everyone. On Christmas Eve."
Grandpa didn't move closer to him. He kept his shoulder turned just enough that I was still in his periphery, still in sight the way he'd promised. Snow had collected on the burgundy scarf again.
"I didn't make anything," Grandpa said. "I knocked. Your wife opened the door."
Dad glanced over his shoulder toward the living room. The woman in green was near the cake table, talking too loudly, laughing for the guests. Her voice carried, but she wasn't looking at us.
"It was temporary," Dad said quickly. "She thought — we thought it was better to have some space. After Linda. For the kids to adjust. She didn't want them confused, with you coming over all the time and reminding them."
I stared at his shoes. He was still using that word, temporary. He'd used it the night Grandpa called for my birthday and Dad said we couldn't come to the phone. He'd used it when we stopped going to Grandpa's house on Sundays after Mom died.
Grandpa breathed out and it showed in the cold air.
"Temporary," he repeated. Not angry, just flat. "It's been fourteen months, Michael. Fourteen months of me calling every Sunday. You answering half the time and saying they're busy. I'll keep a record of that if you want to call it temporary."
He reached into his overcoat pocket but didn't pull his phone out. He just patted it.
"I've got every call logged," he said. "Dates. Times. What you said. What she said when she picked up instead. I'm not here to threaten you. When I said it ends tonight, I didn't mean in your living room. I meant I'm filing. First thing in the morning, emergency guardianship at the county courthouse. Judge knows me. He knew Linda."
Dad's hand tightened on the door. His knuckles went white.
"You can't just—" he started, then stopped himself. He lowered his voice even more. "Frank, you need to think. This house — it's in her name. Her father put the down payment down. That's why she can say it. That's why she says my house when she gets upset. If you push this, where do you think we go?"
The words hung in the cold. I didn't understand all of it at the time, but I understood the way he said her name like it belonged on the deed and we didn't. I looked at the pile of coats still on the floor behind us, the red scarf bright against the marble, the puddle spreading under it. I thought about my sister and me having to keep our shoes by the door and not the closet because there wasn't room.
My sister's fingers tightened on my sweater.
"So that's why," she whispered, so quiet I barely heard it. She wasn't talking to Dad. She was talking to me.
Grandpa heard it too. He looked down at us for a second, then back at Dad.
"That's exactly why," Grandpa said. "A house isn't a home if my grandkids are told to stay with the dirty coats in the entryway so the guests don't see them. You signed that over without talking to me. Linda would have never—"
"Don't," Dad said sharply, then checked himself. His eyes flicked to me. "Don't bring Linda into this."
"I have to," Grandpa said. His voice never rose. Snow was landing on his hair now and not melting. "Because you let someone else decide when her father gets to see her children. You let her tell a seven-year-old boy to stand in a puddle of snow melt while adults drink by the fire."
Dad didn't answer. Outside, a car went by slow on the county road, its headlights throwing our shadows long across the marble. Inside, the woman's laugh came again, thinner this time. I could see her heels near the fireplace, not moving toward us.
Grandpa stepped back half a step, just enough that the cold wasn't on his face anymore, but he didn't close the distance to Dad. He kept that line of sight to me and my sister intact.
May you like
"I'm not asking you for permission," he said to Dad. "And I'm not fighting you out here in the snow. I'm telling you what's happening so you can decide what you're going to do before a sheriff decides it for you. You can tell your wife I'm staying until someone official tells me to leave."
Dad stared at him, breathing hard through his nose. He didn't say yes. He didn't say no. He just let go of the door and let it stay open, the blue night and the warm house existing in the same frame, and for the first time that night I realized Grandpa hadn't been kept away because he stopped trying. He'd been kept away because someone had made it a rule, and Dad had let the rule stand.
