They Didn’t Mention Papa
Copyright © 1969; 2014 by Peter Weiss
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Nathan cannot think clearly. They walk along row six, watching the signs for path twenty four. The rain falls hard and steady, as it has been for the past hours. Papa is dead, Nathan thinks. Now I know. When I was still working, each night at dinner Papa would say the blessing, and before he would eat, he’d survey the table, making sure there was enough food. He looked deep into my eyes, one night, and said to me “My baby, you’re grown, but you’re still my baby.” I ran to Papa and kissed him.
He extended his hand and said “Squeeze.” I knew what he meant and wrapped my fingers around his hand then squeezed as hard as I could. I knew I hurt him. “You’re getting strong,” he told me. But he didn’t flinch, not once. I held out my hand and said “Your turn.” He laughed and repeated my words. He was weaker that night than ever before and for the first time I had to fake it. “Ouch, Papa,” I said, quickly pulling my hand away from his. He looked at me. He knew. He looked at Mama and said “I’m getting old.”
Nathan and Pearl turn onto path twenty four.
“If I remember,” Pearl says, “it’s not far from here.” But Nathan has already run ahead and when Pearl catches up to him he is kneeling in the mud at the foot of Papa’s grave. Tears slide down his cheeks then fall to the ground mixing with the rain. Pearl stands behind him and rests her hands on his shoulders.
“I’m sorry, Papa.” Nathan frees himself from Pearl’s grasp and begins to fuss with the plants which cover the grave. Two years, he thinks, noticing that the plants have grown thick and are green and nourished. He pulls out weeds lightly, removes them without upsetting the soil, then begins to shape the plants by patting here, then there, as if he were a woman shaping her hair.
The rain continues to fall. Satisfied with his work, he turns to Pearl. Her raincoat is almost saturated; the pellets of water are absorbed rather than repelled by the material.
“You’ll catch cold,” he tells her.
He reaches into the mud and pulls out two stones, then places them on top of Papa’s head stone. He puts his arm around his wife, holds her to him and feels her shivering against him.
“Let’s go home,” he says.
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