“Al desserts,” Grandfather says with a grin. “Cake. Pudding. Cookies. And something else. But let me see your gift before we do any of that, Bram.”
Bram beams. “Close your eyes.”
Grandfather obeys and holds out his hand. Bram places the rock gently into Grandfather’s palm. A few particles of earth fal on the blanket covering Grandfather, and my mother reaches to brush them away. But at the last second, she pul s her hand back and smiles. Grandfather won’t mind the dirt.
“A rock,” Grandfather says, opening his eyes and looking down. He smiles at Bram. “I have a feeling I know where you found it.” Bram grins and ducks his head. My grandfather holds on tight to the rock. “Who’s next, then?” he asks, almost merrily.
“I’d like to give my gift later, during the good-byes,” my father says quietly.
“That won’t leave me very much time to enjoy it,” Grandfather teases.
Suddenly self-conscious about my letter—I don’t want him to read it in front of everyone—I say, “Me too.” There is a knock on the door: some of Grandfather’s friends. A few minutes after we let them in, more arrive. And more. And then the nutrition personnel, with al of Grandfather’s desserts—his last meal—and the separate trays for his guests.
Grandfather lifts the cover from his plate and a heavenly, warm-fruit smel fil s the room.
“I thought you might like some pie,” Grandfather says, looking at me. He saw me, then, the other day, and I smile at him. At his signal, I lift the covers from the guest trays and we al gather around to eat. I serve everyone else first and then I pick up my piece of pie, flaky and warm and fruit-fil ed, and lift a forkful of the pastry to my mouth.
I wonder if death wil always taste this good.
After al the guests have put down their forks and sighed in satiation, they talk with Grandfather, who leans back on a pile of thick white pil ows.
Bram eats on, stuffing himself with bites of everything. Grandfather smiles at him from across the room, amused.
“It’s so good,” Bram says around a mouthful of pie, and Grandfather laughs outright, a sound so warm and familiar that I smile, too, and put my hand down. I was about to touch Bram’s arm, tel him to quit feasting. But if Grandfather doesn’t mind, why should I?
My father doesn’t eat anything. He puts a piece of pie on a round, white plate and then holds it in his hands, juice seeping out onto the china without him noticing. A little drop of it fal s to the floor when he stands up to say good-bye to Grandfather’s guests after the viewing of the microcard.
“Thank you for coming,” Papa says, and my mother bends down behind him to dab up the drop with her napkin. Someone else wil move in after Grandfather leaves, and they won’t want to see the signs of another person’s Banquet. But that’s not why my mother did it, I realize. She wanted to spare my father any worry, any tiny bit at al .
She takes the plate from my father as the door shuts behind the last guest. “Family time now,” she says, and my grandfather nods.
“Thank goodness,” he says. “I have things to say to each of you.”
So far, except for that one moment when he talked about what might come next, Grandfather has been behaving as usual. I’ve heard that some of the elderly have surprised everyone at the end, by choosing not to die with dignity. They cry and get upset and go crazy. Al it does is make their families sad. There is nothing they can do about it. It’s the way things are.
By some unspoken agreement, my mother and Bram and I go into the kitchen to let my father speak with Grandfather first. Bram, drowsy and stuffed with food, puts his head down on the table and fal s asleep, snoring gently. My mother smoothes his curly brown hair with her hand, and I imagine that Bram dreams of more desserts, a plate heaped with them. My eyes feel heavy, too, but I don’t want to miss any part of Grandfather’s last day.
After my father, Bram has a turn, and then my mother goes in to speak with Grandfather. The gift she has for him is a leaf from his favorite tree at the Arboretum. She picked it yesterday, so the edges have curled and become brown, but there is stil green in the middle. She told me, while we waited and Bram slept, that Grandfather had asked if he could have his final celebration at the Arboretum, out in the blue-sky air. Of course, his request was denied.
My turn at last. As I go into the room I notice that the windows are open. It is not a cool afternoon, and the breeze feels urgent and hot as it blows through the apartment. Soon, though, it wil be night and things wil be cooler.
“I wanted to feel the air moving,” Grandfather says to me as I sit in the chair next to his bed.
I hand him the gift. He thanks me and reads through it. “These are lovely words,” Grandfather says. “Fine sentiments.” I should feel pleased, but I can tel there is something more coming.
“But none of these words are your own, Cassia,” Grandfather says gently.
Tears sting my eyes and I look down at my hands. My hands that, like almost everyone else in our Society, cannot write, that merely know how to use the words of others. Words that have disappointed my grandfather. I wish I had brought a rock like Bram. Or nothing at al . Even coming here empty-handed would be better than disappointing Grandfather.
“You have words of your own, Cassia,” Grandfather says to me. “I have heard some of them, and they are beautiful. And you have already given me a gift by visiting so often. I stil love this letter because it is from you. I don’t want to hurt your feelings. I want you to trust your own words. Do you understand?”
I look up and meet his eyes, and nod, because I know that’s what he’l want me to do, and I can give that gift to him even if my letter is a failure.
And then I think of something else. Since that day on the air train, I’ve kept the cottonwood seed in the pocket of my plainclothes. I pul it out now and give it to him.
“Ah,” he says, lifting it up to look at it more closely. “Thank you, my dear. Look. It’s trailing clouds of glory.” Now I wonder if Grandfather is starting to slip away already. I don’t know what he means. I glance at the door, wondering if I should get one of my parents.
“I’m an old hypocrite, too,” he says, his eyes mischievous again. “I told you to use your own words, and now I’m going to ask you for someone else’s. Let me see your compact.”