At six-thirty in the morning, Jim’s new grandchild Andrew was crying in the back bedroom. Jim
lay still in the dim morning light, while his wife Betsy got out of bed and padded away. The
baby stopped crying. Jim heard Betsy murmur something, and then his daughter-in-law Valerie
murmur in reply.
And now that he was truly awake, the realization shifted into his consciousness: Their son
Scott was not in the back bedroom, where he had slept every summer of his life while they
were in Stone Harbor. Scott was in Iraq.
Betsy returned to bed.
“Everything all right?” Jim asked over his shoulder.
“Yes. She’s nursing him.”
Andrew was seven weeks old. He’d been born a full month early, and was still scrawny and
starved-looking. He was continually writhing and grunting to be picked up, his whole head
darkly flushed, like a tiny old man with high blood pressure. According to Jim’s calculations,
Valerie was nursing him every two and a half hours, sometimes sooner. Even though the
doctors had gone over Andrew and declared him healthy, Jim’s gut reaction, the first time he
laid eyes him, was that there would be some sort of bad news they’d get later on.
“I think she’s going to make a good little mother,” Betsy added.
Betsy had been thrilled to learn that Valerie would bring the baby down to the beach. “I get to
be the grandma for a whole month,” she said. She and Valerie had phoned and emailed back
and forth, and it was Valerie says this, or Valerie says that, until Valerie actually pulled into the
driveway with the baby and all his paraphernalia. Apparently Betsy had managed to control
her resentment—or maybe to wipe it out entirely—that Valerie had stolen Scott from his long-
standing college sweetheart, and then sealed the coup with a wedding so simple that only the
immediate family could be invited. Somehow Betsy had welcomed Valerie with arms flung wide,
a change in attitude that continued to surprise Jim, and that he could only attribute to the
effect babies have on women.
He rolled over onto his back. “Why do you think she wanted to come and stay with us?” he
asked, directing the question softly to the ceiling.
Betsy turned to face him. “Because we’re the grandparents.”
He kept his eyes on the ceiling. “You’d think she be more comfortable with her own mother.”
“In that tiny apartment?” She yanked the sheet over her shoulder and turned away again.
“You’ve got to give her a chance, Jim.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. She’s our daughter-in-law, and she wants to be with us. You should
be glad.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t glad.”
“And besides,” Betsy said, “you’re the only grandfather Andrew has.”
Valerie’s own father had died when she was a child, and her mother had never re-married.
They had learned that much during the hasty planning for the wedding. Later, Jim had pressed
Scott for more details. “Well, first her father just left them,” Scott reported. “I think he was sort
of screwed up. And then later he died. I don’t know of what.” It wasn’t the sort of story Jim
had expected, and he was sorry he’d asked.
Betsy settled back into sleep, but Jim lay awake, lining up the day’s projects in his head. It
had rained overnight, and the forecast was for a gradual clearing—probably not a good beach
day, but a good morning to make the drive over to Wildwood. Betsy had asked him to pick up a
dozen apple fritters from Britton’s bakery. Around noon their two daughters, Chris and Angie,
would be arriving, along with Angie’s fiancé Logan, and possibly a friend of theirs. Betsy
wanted to have the apple fritters—a family tradition—on hand.
Jim pictured the bakery box laden with the dark, sweet apple fritters, but found it hard to work
up any enthusiasm. Still, he got up and dressed quickly at the foot of the bed. If Betsy was
awake, she didn’t let on.
Heading for the stairs, passing the back bedroom, he heard Valerie talking quietly. He thought
she might be on the phone, then realized she was talking to the baby—matter-of-factly, as
though an infant might say something matter-of-fact in response. Suddenly the door opened
and Valerie stepped out, lugging the carrier with the baby already strapped in like a little
astronaut.
She was wearing a red T-shirt pulled snug over her breasts, and jeans that undercut her belly,
which was still rounded from the pregnancy. Andrew was wearing baggy shorts and a shirt
with a 4th of July firecracker on the front. He was writhing around already.
“Oh,” she whispered. “I’m sorry we woke you.”
“It’s OK, ” he said, continuing down the stairs. “I’m an early riser.”
She followed him into the kitchen, set the Andrew in his carrier on the table, and put the
pacifier in his mouth. “Should I make coffee?” she asked.
“Sure. But none for me, thanks. I’m on my way out to the bakery. They open at six.”
She smiled. She was not an especially pretty girl, but was striking somehow—arresting—with
those wide blue eyes. Her strawberry blonde hair was pulled back from her face with a red
elastic band. She seemed barely more than a kid, but she was 26—Scott’s age—and like Scott
had a graduate degree in computer science. “You going to get the apple fritters?” she asked.
“That’s right.”
“Scott told me about them.”
“Gotta have those apple fritters.” He smiled back hard, then quickly glanced away, out
through the screen door to the beach towels, which had been left on the line overnight, and
were sodden with rain.
For the past two days it had given him a wrench every time she spoke Scott’s name. She was
practically a stranger to the rest of them, and yet she spoke as though Scott had been hers
forever. His mind veered to the old girlfriend Alicia, who had fit so naturally into the family
vacations and holidays, four years in a row, the whole time Scott was in college. But he couldn’
t allow himself to think about Alicia, whom he hadn’t particularly missed before, but now
suddenly did, deeply.
Valerie was still smiling. “Maybe we’ll ride along with you,” she said.
“Oh. Well, the bakery’s way over in Wildwood . . .”
“I know. Andy loves to ride. He’ll probably sleep.”
He looked at his grandson, who was sucking weakly on the pacifier now, just enough to keep
it from falling out of his mouth, his eyelids drifting down towards sleep. “OK. Sure.”
“It would be easier to take my car, if you don’t mind. It’s all set up with the car seat.”
“Right. We’ll take yours.”
“You hear that, Andy?” she cooed. “We’re going for a ride with Pop-Pop.” She picked up the
baby carrier and Jim followed her out to the car that she called hers, though it had actually
once belonged to Jim and Betsy—the old Taurus station wagon, which they’d passed down to
Scott when he was in graduate school.
“How many miles you got on this thing?” Jim asked, getting behind the wheel.
“A lot.” She was fussing expertly with the baby’s safety belts and buckles. “I’ll sit in the back,”
she said. “That way I can keep him happy.”
He leaned down to read the odometer: 183,000. He’d taken good care of the Taurus, and he
imagined Scott had too, at least when he was home to do it. Of the three children, Scott had
always been the most sensible—careful, good with his hands, methodical around the house
and the garage. Jim remembered the Taurus parked in the driveway at home in Baltimore, the
hood propped open, Scott peering into the engine. His heart beat weightily in his chest.
next page
lay still in the dim morning light, while his wife Betsy got out of bed and padded away. The
baby stopped crying. Jim heard Betsy murmur something, and then his daughter-in-law Valerie
murmur in reply.
And now that he was truly awake, the realization shifted into his consciousness: Their son
Scott was not in the back bedroom, where he had slept every summer of his life while they
were in Stone Harbor. Scott was in Iraq.
Betsy returned to bed.
“Everything all right?” Jim asked over his shoulder.
“Yes. She’s nursing him.”
Andrew was seven weeks old. He’d been born a full month early, and was still scrawny and
starved-looking. He was continually writhing and grunting to be picked up, his whole head
darkly flushed, like a tiny old man with high blood pressure. According to Jim’s calculations,
Valerie was nursing him every two and a half hours, sometimes sooner. Even though the
doctors had gone over Andrew and declared him healthy, Jim’s gut reaction, the first time he
laid eyes him, was that there would be some sort of bad news they’d get later on.
“I think she’s going to make a good little mother,” Betsy added.
Betsy had been thrilled to learn that Valerie would bring the baby down to the beach. “I get to
be the grandma for a whole month,” she said. She and Valerie had phoned and emailed back
and forth, and it was Valerie says this, or Valerie says that, until Valerie actually pulled into the
driveway with the baby and all his paraphernalia. Apparently Betsy had managed to control
her resentment—or maybe to wipe it out entirely—that Valerie had stolen Scott from his long-
standing college sweetheart, and then sealed the coup with a wedding so simple that only the
immediate family could be invited. Somehow Betsy had welcomed Valerie with arms flung wide,
a change in attitude that continued to surprise Jim, and that he could only attribute to the
effect babies have on women.
He rolled over onto his back. “Why do you think she wanted to come and stay with us?” he
asked, directing the question softly to the ceiling.
Betsy turned to face him. “Because we’re the grandparents.”
He kept his eyes on the ceiling. “You’d think she be more comfortable with her own mother.”
“In that tiny apartment?” She yanked the sheet over her shoulder and turned away again.
“You’ve got to give her a chance, Jim.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. She’s our daughter-in-law, and she wants to be with us. You should
be glad.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t glad.”
“And besides,” Betsy said, “you’re the only grandfather Andrew has.”
Valerie’s own father had died when she was a child, and her mother had never re-married.
They had learned that much during the hasty planning for the wedding. Later, Jim had pressed
Scott for more details. “Well, first her father just left them,” Scott reported. “I think he was sort
of screwed up. And then later he died. I don’t know of what.” It wasn’t the sort of story Jim
had expected, and he was sorry he’d asked.
Betsy settled back into sleep, but Jim lay awake, lining up the day’s projects in his head. It
had rained overnight, and the forecast was for a gradual clearing—probably not a good beach
day, but a good morning to make the drive over to Wildwood. Betsy had asked him to pick up a
dozen apple fritters from Britton’s bakery. Around noon their two daughters, Chris and Angie,
would be arriving, along with Angie’s fiancé Logan, and possibly a friend of theirs. Betsy
wanted to have the apple fritters—a family tradition—on hand.
Jim pictured the bakery box laden with the dark, sweet apple fritters, but found it hard to work
up any enthusiasm. Still, he got up and dressed quickly at the foot of the bed. If Betsy was
awake, she didn’t let on.
Heading for the stairs, passing the back bedroom, he heard Valerie talking quietly. He thought
she might be on the phone, then realized she was talking to the baby—matter-of-factly, as
though an infant might say something matter-of-fact in response. Suddenly the door opened
and Valerie stepped out, lugging the carrier with the baby already strapped in like a little
astronaut.
She was wearing a red T-shirt pulled snug over her breasts, and jeans that undercut her belly,
which was still rounded from the pregnancy. Andrew was wearing baggy shorts and a shirt
with a 4th of July firecracker on the front. He was writhing around already.
“Oh,” she whispered. “I’m sorry we woke you.”
“It’s OK, ” he said, continuing down the stairs. “I’m an early riser.”
She followed him into the kitchen, set the Andrew in his carrier on the table, and put the
pacifier in his mouth. “Should I make coffee?” she asked.
“Sure. But none for me, thanks. I’m on my way out to the bakery. They open at six.”
She smiled. She was not an especially pretty girl, but was striking somehow—arresting—with
those wide blue eyes. Her strawberry blonde hair was pulled back from her face with a red
elastic band. She seemed barely more than a kid, but she was 26—Scott’s age—and like Scott
had a graduate degree in computer science. “You going to get the apple fritters?” she asked.
“That’s right.”
“Scott told me about them.”
“Gotta have those apple fritters.” He smiled back hard, then quickly glanced away, out
through the screen door to the beach towels, which had been left on the line overnight, and
were sodden with rain.
For the past two days it had given him a wrench every time she spoke Scott’s name. She was
practically a stranger to the rest of them, and yet she spoke as though Scott had been hers
forever. His mind veered to the old girlfriend Alicia, who had fit so naturally into the family
vacations and holidays, four years in a row, the whole time Scott was in college. But he couldn’
t allow himself to think about Alicia, whom he hadn’t particularly missed before, but now
suddenly did, deeply.
Valerie was still smiling. “Maybe we’ll ride along with you,” she said.
“Oh. Well, the bakery’s way over in Wildwood . . .”
“I know. Andy loves to ride. He’ll probably sleep.”
He looked at his grandson, who was sucking weakly on the pacifier now, just enough to keep
it from falling out of his mouth, his eyelids drifting down towards sleep. “OK. Sure.”
“It would be easier to take my car, if you don’t mind. It’s all set up with the car seat.”
“Right. We’ll take yours.”
“You hear that, Andy?” she cooed. “We’re going for a ride with Pop-Pop.” She picked up the
baby carrier and Jim followed her out to the car that she called hers, though it had actually
once belonged to Jim and Betsy—the old Taurus station wagon, which they’d passed down to
Scott when he was in graduate school.
“How many miles you got on this thing?” Jim asked, getting behind the wheel.
“A lot.” She was fussing expertly with the baby’s safety belts and buckles. “I’ll sit in the back,”
she said. “That way I can keep him happy.”
He leaned down to read the odometer: 183,000. He’d taken good care of the Taurus, and he
imagined Scott had too, at least when he was home to do it. Of the three children, Scott had
always been the most sensible—careful, good with his hands, methodical around the house
and the garage. Jim remembered the Taurus parked in the driveway at home in Baltimore, the
hood propped open, Scott peering into the engine. His heart beat weightily in his chest.
next page
Pop Pop by Madeleine Mysko
r.kv.r.y. quarterly literary journal summer/fall 2007 fiction
r.kv.r.y. quarterly literary journal summer/fall 2007 fiction
