Page 67 of An Introvert's Guide to Life and Love
“Delicious,” he says with his mouth full.
“It’s Lottie’s recipe.”
“Oh.” He looks down at his bowl in surprise. “So it is.” He twirls more spaghetti around his fork and then adds, as though realizing he’d been remiss, “It’s just the way she always made it.”
I smile to myself. I know he was just being polite, but it’s still nice to hear.
We eat in silence for a minute, and then I ask something that’s been on my mind. “Hey Gramps, what do you want for your birthday?”
“Cake,” he says decisively.
“I mean, yeah, there will be cake. I meant for a present.”
“Oh!” The question seems to take him by surprise. “You know, Mallory, we old men don’t typically expect a gift on birthdays.”
“Why not?”
“That’s a young man’s game. Or a young boy’s game, rather.”
“Everyone gets presents on their birthday. Didn’t Lottie get you gifts?”
“Yes, she did. Every birthday and every Hanukkah. But everyone else stopped buying me birthday gifts ages ago. After all”—he gestures around to the condo at large—“what do you get the man who has everything?”
I smile at this. “Okay, well, what did Lottie used to get you? What were some of your favorite birthday presents ever?”
“Ever?” He leans back in his chair thoughtfully, hands folded over his stomach. “Let’s see. Last year Lottie got me a porcelain bowl for my shaving soap.”
I feel my eyebrows flick up quizzically, and Gramps chuckles. “It might not sound like much, but I use it every day. And it was the last birthday present she ever got me. So I’ll never forget it.”
“Of course,” I say quietly.
“Other than that, let’s think. There have been ties. Many, many ties. I only ever wear ties to weddings, or to conferences back in my working days. Most of them I’ve never had occasion to wear.”
“So you’re telling me I shouldn’t get you a tie.”
He shakes his head and takes a sip of iced tea.
“When I was thirteen, my aunt Mills got me a bicycle. A cherry-red Schwinn Phantom. She was a spinster with no children of her own, so she doted on us quite a bit.” He smiles dreamily, and I refrain from calling out his use of the word “spinster.” “I rode that bike for years. Gave it to a neighbor kid when I went off to university.”
“Sounds like the perfect gift.”
“It was. Other than that, my birthdays included a lot of sports equipment, books, and clothing. My mother was always giving me shirts and socks. We only got new clothes once or twice a year.”
I suppress a shudder at the thought.
“Although…” Gramps continues, sitting up straighter and holding up one finger. “There was one year—my ninth birthday—that my mother got me something entirely different.”
“What was it?”
“It was—” He breaks off, grinning widely, and suddenly stands. “Wait here.”
Very mysterious. I finish my chili, wondering if he’s going to bring back some ancient, beloved telescope or maybe a wristwatch. When he returns five minutes later, however, he’s holding an old photograph. He carefully moves my bowl aside and sets the picture down in front of me.
I gasp. It’s the most precious thing I’ve ever seen. Smiling up at mein black and white is Gramps as a young boy, his face beaming and dimpled, a cap perched on top of thick black hair. He’s sitting on a stoop with one arm around a dog. The dog’s tongue is hanging out happily, his head cocked to one side, dark eyes glittering. His fur looks wiry and light, although I can’t tell what color it was from the black-and-white photograph. He has the sweetest black nose and perfect floppy ears.
“Waldo,” Gramps says.
“Your mom got you this dog for your birthday?” I’m getting emotional, and I’ve never even been a huge dog person. The picture is just so cute; Gramps and the dog both look so happy.
