One Thousand Word Withdrawal

My grandparents’ house has been growing and evolving for over half a century.  Once a humble two bedroom home, it has swelled under their guidance to include a basement, a garage, two enclosed decks, an open deck with a small garden, an open deck with a hot tub and grill, a second bathroom with a full shower and laundry, two guest rooms on a previously nonexistent second floor above a parlor and hairdressing salon, in which my grandma still takes clients despite the rheumatoid arthritis that has hindered the use of her hands.  They raised a family that has grown and evolved just as much:  consisting of my father and three aunts, then an assortment of foster children culminating in the adoption of a sister and brother pair when I was in high school, the youngest of which is now seventeen while the elder serves in the armed forces.

Despite all of this, my grandparents’ house has not changed for as long as I can remember.  Sure, a couple of the additions I mentioned were built in my lifetime.  I can recall stepping carefully across gravel that was once sidewalk pavement and through plastic-lined construction zones to enter their house on more than one occasion, but I always entered the same home.

My grandmother’s sense of interior design is as eternal as her youth, dominated by the liberal use of floral patterns on the walls and upholstery, hanging woven baskets of all shapes and sizes, a collection of porcelain dolls, and—most importantly—photographs.  They cover the walls in nearly every room, filling each with a different story of our family history.  For every picture worthy of display, there are at least a hundred more stashed in boxes and photo albums scattered throughout the house.

The majority of these are family portraits that have remained in place for decades.  Removing one would, no doubt, reveal the original color of the wallpaper behind it.  There are black and white photos of my great-grandmother with my grandma and her sister as toddlers.  Dominating a single wall of the family room are group portraits from the early 1980s, when the hair was big and composite photos were all the rage, of my newlywed parents with my mother’s new family.  Tucked here and there are the youthful faces of every single one of my cousins, over twenty in total.  Pictures of their adopted children, now as much a part of the family as those born into it, hold the highly honored positions on end tables, mantels, and bookshelves.

Among these images that could be considered common in any household are a few equally permanent oddities that have drawn my attention since I was a boy.  The landscapes my grandmother painted, in a style roughly akin to the master of happy trees, Bob Ross, always make me smile.  There are framed drawings—presumably by some combination of my aunts—of early versions of the house and Precious Moments figures traced out of a coloring book.  That last one is unavoidable as it currently hangs above the toilet in the main bathroom, as it has since I was in elementary school. 

There’s a poster of two farm boys, neither older than five, in flannel and denim overalls standing on a gravel road with hands in their pockets.  The first is leaning over to the second with the caption, “You been farming long?”  Yes.  Yes, he has.  That poster’s been there for nearly twenty years.

Yet, there is one photo in particular that always seemed more unusual than the rest.  I’ve never quite understood why.  With its religious theme, it should fit right in but the manufactured perfection of the image never quite jived with the story it was attempting to tell.  It has been a fixture in my grandparents’ home almost as long as I’ve been alive and, despite its remote location, that mere suggestion of a greater story has always drawn me to it.  It is one of the first things I imagine when I think of my grandparents’ house and I’ve found myself looking at it nearly every time I’ve visited. 

If you enter the house through the rear, cross the kitchen, descend the few steps into the parlor to the right, and then climb the stairs to the immediate left of the electric fireplace—minding your head—to the first guest room on the second floor, you will find near the back wall a staged portrait of a balding, bespectacled, and bearded elderly man dressed in the black robes of a monk praying over the Holy Bible, a loaf of bread, and a pocket watch by the light of a nearby lantern.  The name of the photographer, copyright 1988, graces the lower corner in gold text. 

Like all pictures, we know how many words it’s worth.  To my astonishment, I learned it only concerned itself with the final five:  “Then, he prayed.  The End.”  The previous 995 are a good deal more interesting.  My grandmother told me the story—embellished a little, I’m sure—during my recent visit to that same, ever-changing house. 

So, I’m going to share it with you with some embellishment of my own:

Picture, if you can, the early 1980s.  An almost stifling cloud of hairspray hung in the air.  There were shoulder pads as far as the eye could see.  Our President’s name was Ronald.  MTV rose to kill radio stars.  Apple was taking its first steps toward world domination.  Their disks were still floppy.

The praying man was in his mid-seventies.  My grandmother never mentioned his name when telling me this story, so I’ll call him Hamish because I’m the one telling this version and the power is intoxicating.  He dutifully ran his own business to provide for his wife, who was—as my grandma implied—a wretch of a woman who taught Sunday school at their church.  He worked hard to buy her a Cadillac sedan she treasured so much that he wasn’t allowed to touch it.  Instead of a kiss after work, he was greeted with a list of chores to complete while she occupied herself hosting guests and generally lounging about.

She was so dominating that when his business declined, Hamish feared what she might do when she found out.  So, he did what any reasonable gentleman of advanced years would do in this situation.  He didn’t tell her.  Instead, he drove to Iowa and prepared to rob a bank.

The plan was as simple as it was perfect.  There was already a relatively notorious serial bank robber on the loose in the area. If he played copycat, he could get away with the other thief taking all the blame.  No one would suspect an elderly man.

The preparation was deliberate.  He observed the target for several days, taking note of the employees’ routines.  He prepared his disguise, fabricating a note to give the teller that would fall in line with the other robber’s modus operandi.  Then, he waited for the perfect opportunity.

When it came, he parked some distance away and walked to the bank.  It was almost closing time.  Discretely, he veiled himself under his stolen persona and charged in.  Idle threats were made.  Forged notes were passed.  Canvas bags of cash were relinquished with the teller’s car keys.  The alarm lighting a fire in his blood, the surprisingly spry Hamish rushed to the parking lot, found the teller’s car, and sped off.  By the time the police arrived, Hamish successfully transferred himself and his bounty to his real getaway vehicle.  When the teller’s car was finally located, the dust of Hamish’s escape had long since settled.

Hamish was exhilarated.  This was, perhaps, the most exciting thing he’d done in decades.  Despite this, old Hamish was a cautious sort.  He kept a grandfatherly pace to avoid suspicion.  The smaller the town shrank in his mirror, the calmer he felt.  Then, it fell over the horizon never to be seen again.

He’d done it.  He’d really done it.  He’d gotten away.

A flicker of red and blue lit the rearview.  Panic gripped his chest, but he’d come too far to let it get the better of him.  To flee would, more than likely, end in tragedy.  Hamish played it cool.  He pulled over, watching the officer call in his plates through the mirror.  Sweaty palms gripped his steering wheel.

The officer stepped out of his vehicle.  With a cautious, well-practiced pace, he sauntered up to the driver’s side window.  Tapping twice, he gestured for Hamish to roll it down.  With a grunt, Hamish turned the crank.

“Evening, sir.  License and registration, please.”

“Of course.  What seems to be the problem, officer?  I don’t think I was speeding.”

The policeman scrutinized his documents with his flashlight.  “Are you aware your passenger side brake light is out, Mr. Hamish?”

Deep inside, a part of Hamish breathed a sigh of relief.  “Oh?  No, I didn’t.  Thank you.  I’ll have it replaced when I get home.”

“Where is home?”  He shined the light on Hamish’s face, comparing it to the outdated photo on his license.

Hamish squinted under the scrutiny.  “Peoria, Illinois.”

“What are you doing in Iowa?”

“It was a business trip.  I’m on my way home now.”

The officer returns the documents.  “I hope it went well.”

“It did.”

“Drive safely, Mr. Hamish.  Be sure to get that light fixed as soon as possible.”

Hamish smiled.  “Yes, of course.  Thank you, officer.”  He reached to put the car in gear.

“Hold up.”

Hamish froze, his heart in his throat.  The officer’s genial tone had been abandoned, replaced by the stern tenor of a lawman.  Hamish released the shifter.  “Yes?”

“What’s that?”

Hamish followed the course of the flashlight beam to his backseat.  In the halo of light was a pile of canvas bags printed with the name of a recently robbed bank not far down the road.  There was silence between them as the truth broke free.

“Mr. Hamish, would you step out of the car, please?”

The old man was arrested for the robbery and, in a poetic twist, had to prove his innocence in the other robber’s crimes.  He was sentenced to nine years in federal prison.  A model prisoner, having rediscovered his faith, Hamish was released after six.

In his eighties, Hamish returned to the world a happier man than when he left.  Finding purpose and learning the true value of freedom will do that to a man.  Also, his wife had died.

He spent the remainder of his years living humbly, earning his way with a handyman service he’d started.  No job was too small.  Fences were mended.  Clogged toilets saw the business end of a plunger.  Lawns were mowed.  He kept his tools on a trailer pulled by a hitch he’d welded to the rear bumper of his Cadillac sedan.

One day, a photographer friend of his from church needed a man to model for a picture series.  Hamish agreed, dressing himself in the costume of a monk.  A thin coat of makeup was applied to dull the glare off his balding head.  He took his place on the constructed set.  Then, he prayed.

The End