Robert lives in Folsom, about twenty-five minutes east of me. A big two-story house in a nice subdivision. White Christmas lights along the roofline. A wreath on the door that probably cost more than my first car.
I got there at 6:20.
Every window was lit up. Through the front window, I could see the dining room table set for three. Candles. Cloth napkins.
Three places.
Not four.
I rang the doorbell.
Robert opened it. He looked at me. Then he stepped out onto the porch and pulled the door almost closed behind him.
“Dad. I told you not to come.”
“I want to see Tommy.”
“He’s grounded.”
“Then I’ll say Merry Christmas through his bedroom door.”
“No.” He crossed his arms. “You need to leave. This is my house. You don’t get to come here and override my parenting on Christmas Eve.”
Behind him, the door opened a little wider. Jennifer stood there. My son’s wife. Tommy’s stepmother for seven years.
She smiled at me. The careful kind of smile you give somebody at a hospital.
“Joe,” she said softly. “I know this has been a hard year. Since Mary. But you’re confused. Tommy’s fine. Go home and get some rest.”
Confused.
I’d remember that word later.
“I’m not confused, Jennifer. My grandson called me whispering. Where is he?”
“Upstairs,” Robert said. “In his room. Goodnight, Dad.”
He went inside. The door clicked shut. I heard the deadbolt.
I stood on that porch under the white Christmas lights for a long time.
Here’s the thing.
I’m a stubborn old man. But I’m not a fool. If my grandson was upstairs in his bedroom, his light would be on.
I stepped back off the porch and looked up at the second floor.
Tommy’s window was the one on the left, over the garage. I’d helped him hang a Warriors poster in there last Christmas.
It was dark.
Then I remembered the sound behind his voice on the phone. That low hum.
A washing machine.
The laundry room in that house is on the ground floor. In the back. It has a small high window that faces the side yard.
I walked around the side of the house. Past the trash cans. Through the little side gate that never latches right.
The laundry room window was about six feet off the ground. There was a faint light behind it.
I knocked on the glass.
“Tommy?”
Nothing.
I knocked harder.
“Tommy. It’s Grandpa.”
And then, very faint, from the other side of that wall:
“Grandpa?”
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