Close to the Heel Read Free Page A

Rennie.” The Major scowled disapprovingly at me. His eyes went to my wrist—See what I mean?—and his scowl deepened. “I told you four o’clock, mister.”
    I mumbled an insincere-sounding sorry and turned to look at the old guy.
    â€œI’m John Devine,” he said. “I was your grandfather’s lawyer.”
    I was pretty sure he wasn’t talking about the grandfather I’d sort-of been named after. He had died right before I was born. He had to mean the other one, the one I only found out about after my mom died.
    â€œ Was his lawyer?” I said.
    â€œHe passed away. I’m sorry.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œA little over two months ago.”
    â€œTwo months ago?” I turned furiously to the Major.
    â€œI didn’t know, Rennie,” he said. “The first I heard of it was fifteen minutes ago when Mr. Devine arrived.”
    I believed him. One thing the Major never did was lie, not even to me.
    â€œPerhaps we can all sit down,” Mr. Devine said.
    We went into the living room. Mr. Devine sat on the couch. I sat on an armchair. The Major grabbed the remote from the top of the TV and took another armchair.
    â€œWhat happened?” I asked. “How did he die?”
    â€œNatural causes,” Mr. Devine said. “At his age, things just give out.” I guessed that was true. The old guy had been pretty slow by the time I’d met him.
    Mr. Devine set his briefcase in his lap and clicked open the hasps. He took out an envelope, closed the case again and put the envelope facedown on the coffee table. “I’ll answer all of your questions in due course,” he said. “Major, if you wouldn’t mind, perhaps we could watch that DVD now.”
    The Major held out the remote and pressed one button to turn on the TV and another to start the DVD . Suddenly, there was my grandfather on the screen, looking pretty much the same as he had the last—and first—time I’d seen him.
    â€œI’m not sure why I have to be wearing makeup,” he said, turning to face somebody off camera. “This is my will, not some late-night talk show… and it’s certainly not a live taping.”
    A couple of people laughed offscreen. My grandfather turned to the camera.
    â€œGood morning…or afternoon, boys,” he began.
    Boys? Who was he talking to?
    â€œIf you’re watching this, I must be dead, although on this fine afternoon I feel very much alive.”
    I peered at the face on the screen. It was impossible to tell when he’d made the recording. For all I knew, it could have been a year ago or even longer. Or—I swallowed hard—it could have been just before I met him back in early spring. Or just after. Had he known then that he wouldn’t be around now? Had he been sick, had things been giving out, and I’d been too stupid or too self-absorbed to notice?
    â€œI want to start off by saying that I don’t want you to be too sad,” he said, as if he was right there in front of me, reading my mind the way he’d seemed to during my unexpected stay with him. “I had a good life and I wouldn’t change a minute of it. That said, I still hope that you are at least a little sad and that you miss having me around. After all, I was one spectacular grandpa!”
    He wasn’t kidding! Five minutes after I’d met him, I’d found myself wishing I’d known him my whole life.
    â€œAnd you were simply the best grandsons a man could ever have.”
    Oh, he was talking to my cousins. And to me, I guess, which was why Mr. Devine was here.
    Maybe the others had been fantastic grandsons—I didn’t know them, so I couldn’t say. If he was including me, it wasn’t because of anything I had done. It was because that’s the kind of guy he was. At least, it was the kind of guy he had seemed like to me, a guy who treats a garbageman the same way he’d treat