I Will Say, “But For Him It Was”

A month after my grandfather's funeral, I am on the floor of his study sorting his flood of typewritten manuscripts. Genealogy notes belong on the couch, Mary Magdalene notes belong on the little table, editorials beside the wall, the poem about Wilbur Wright in one folder, the poem about God in another; duplicate poems are trash. My blind grandmother has flown me in for this task because I'm the grandson who just graduated with a bachelor's in English. She does not know I got around to reading his self-published novel only after I heard he was ill—and then only because I wanted to tell him I'd liked it while I still had time. She does not know how little I know about the personal narratives on the carpet.Some things I've heard about my grandfather: Once when given a bottle of Scotch, he marched his children to the creek where he poured it out to show them a good use for alcohol. He taught himself German. He stuck pushpins in a world map to remember what he'd seen. In his eulogy, my aunt said he never cussed a word.Others at the funeral nodded because they already knew this, but I'm a grandson from the family that left the state.On the phone with me, my grandfather did not speak much.A packet about Huguenots, a clipping about writing greeting cards, a pile of Xeroxes about guide dogs. In his desk drawer, I find a manila hanging folder labeled “Sunday School.” And it holds a single envelope with a Hollywood return address. He used his letter opener on it. The paper inside unfolds like a newsletter, but it is, in fact—yes, it is—an order catalog for pornography. Black-and-white photos of wide mouths, bare chests, and full beds. Descriptions of movies and of synthetic replicas.My grandfather kept this in his desk.At first this repulses me. This is Gramma and Grampa's House—a home filled with potpourri air spray and yarn-stitched tissue boxes. It's as if I've reached into the refrigerator for a leftover sandwich and grabbed a dissected frog. But even as I look at the packet, I'm doubting he ever ordered from it. The postmark is from two years ago; if he'd bought something, why keep an outdated catalog? The envelope is junk mail—it's addressed to the current resident. Still, how many times did he slip this booklet from the envelope and graze through its pages, stare at the order form and the toll-free phone number, and then crease it back up? Did he ever linger for a second, thinking, this time, of tossing it into the wastebasket?I hide all the pages in the envelope, bury them in the trash beneath the duplicate poems, and return to the stacks on the floor. For years, I will keep his secret to myself. And then one night at a cocktail party, my coworkers will tell bizarre stories about objects they found, about walking in on their dads, and when I mention my grandfather's catalog and regret it, my boss will dismiss, “By today's standards that's nothing.” And I will want to defend my grandfather then. I will say, “But for him it was,” and ignore my own question, Do I know he even looked at it more than once? That it wasn't just junk mail lost in a riot of papers? because I want this to matter very much. Because maybe no one else realizes it, but maybe my grandfather was a man who struggled between two opposite desires. A man who, for an occasional few minutes, stared at models and felt closest to people he didn't really know.Because, a month after his funeral, I am crouching in the corner of his study, throwing away manuscripts and genealogy charts. And I am looking up at the empty desk chair where he sits, and I am watching him slide open the drawer at his right side and retrieve the manila folder. He drops it open onto his lap as if by accident. I don't want him to keep the envelope. I want him to throw it away, kiss my grandmother's forehead, and tell her some good news as he guides her out along the sidewalk. But I also want him always to own the envelope, to open it and unfold its contents like a treasure map. I watch him scoop it into his hand as if weighing it. And now I've forgotten that our phone conversations lasted only four to six minutes. And I've forgotten how last month the family asked me—the former speech and debate team coach—to give the eulogy and I said, “I'm sorry, I didn't know him well enough.” I am watching his finger trace the open edge of the envelope like an elastic waistband. I am watching him swivel in his chair toward me. His mouth is a wide flat line and our eyes are the same color. I place one finger to my lips. We nod to each other.