erases the wrinkles, and in the flickering light, they could almost pass for the young couple who fell in love half a century ago.
Every time I visit, I always have a moment of dread, of thinking that one or both of them won’t be there. But they’re there. The only ones who love me unconditionally. The only ones I love without reservation. I pray that they’ll live into their nineties.
Letting myself in with the key I wear on a cord around my neck, I call out, “I’m home; it’s Ruth, it’s me,” so they’ll know I’m not a home invader, a murderer, or a thief.
Back before I was born, their neighborhood had gotten pretty sketchy, but by now it’s almost totally safe. Emphasis on the almost.
Last spring, a woman was killed in her own home, a young mother who had just bought the brownstone with her family and was in the midst of renovating it. The dead woman was found lying at the foot of her stairs. At first they thought she’d fallen down by accident, but later the forensic team found signs indicating that someone else—two people—had been in the house at the time.
I make my grandparents swear that they’ll keep their front door locked, which they forget to do. But they’re not worried. I’m the one who’s scared. Sometimes I’m scared of the dark, though not the dark in their house, which feels like hiding under a blanket.
When I lived with them as a child, I’d close my eyes and pretend to be blind, which is useful now as I drift past the shadows trying to spook me, the furniture conspiring to trip me. I navigate by smell (furniture polish, floor wax, dust), by sensations (carpet, rug, wood, linoleum) under my feet, and by the muted explosions of the laugh track on TV.
I’ve learned to move through the dark house without passing the basement door. I’ve always been scared of their basement. It’s one of those childish fears that won’t go away. Granny and Grandpa have shown me countless times: a furnace, old dishes, a shelf of home-canned tomatoes and peaches that no one will ever eat. Nothing to be frightened of! Once, I saw a wolf spider crawl out from under the basement door. Granny Edith says that maybe once, when I was little, I had a nightmare about the basement.
I don’t remember a dream like that. I don’t want to. I’m just glad to be here.
In the comfy TV room, Grandpa Frank lies on the sofa, his head cradled in Granny Edith’s lap. They’ve already eaten one of her delicious healthy meals—her cooking is probably why they’ve lived so long. Every evening they watch the news, and later the cable channel I added on for them as an anniversary present. The Time Travel Network shows only old films, black-and-white programs from when Granny Edith was stuck home raising Mom. Even the ads are vintage. Chorus lines of cartoon cigarettes high-kick across the screen; men in shirtsleeves raise beer mugs foaming with brands that no longer exist.
“Ruthie!” my grandparents cry at once.
In a heartbeat they’re on tiptoe to hug me. The warmth of their arms makes the world outside disappear. I forget the people who have hurt me, the glances and smirks of the lucky ones who have everything life can offer without having done one thing to deserve it. I forget what the Baroness Frieda did to me. I forget that I’m unemployed. My grandparents rub my shoulders and pat my back until the misery vaporizes like the nightmares I had as a child.
Granny Edith pulls me into the kitchen. Even though I’ve just eaten. Iceberg lettuce wedges with homemade bleu cheese dressing, crispy roast chicken, buttery mashed potatoes, food so old-fashioned it’s trendy again. They have an extra tray table for me so we can fit on the sofa and watch TV.
My grandparents’ home is a time machine. Their Hoboken neighborhood is popular now with young families and trust fund hipsters, but once you get past their front door, nothing’s changed. They don’t even have a flat-screen. Surrounding the mountainous TV are two enormous stereo speakers on which Grandpa Frank plays opera and Granny Edith plays Swan Lake or The King and I on records, not (hipster speak!) vinyl.
Upholstered in an indestructible brownish tweed, the sofa’s in perfect shape, except for one leg scratched raw by the Persian cat I had before Grandpa Frank left the door open and Tabibi ran away. That was the