"Are you going to die?" I asked. Fear filled my expression.
A smile washed over his face. "Of course I am."
"What? Are you sick or something?"
"Sick of the East Coast and the cold weather."
"Then why the big deal?"
"It will happen someday, you need to know what to do when someday comes. Your mother thinks you're still a child. She'll use your age as an excuse not to talk with you about death - that's her problem. You're twelve, you're going to be a teenager next month. I think you're old enough. You need to know its inevitability."
"I know everyone croaks."
"Good. And when I do, It's your job to make sure I get my wishes."
"Why me?" I protested. "Why not dad?"
He sat back in his chair and looked me in the eyes. "Your father doesn't have the balls."
I laughed. "… like I do?"
He leaned forward. "You may not know it, but you're a tough little bastard. What I've seen, you do a damn good job standing up to her. If you have any trouble you can always count on your neighbors."
"The Ortolan's?"
"They're good people. And that friend of yours, Shannie, she has spunk."
"Yeah she does; she's a trip."
"I know she does. She would make a father proud."
"Granddad." I ask on the way home.
"It's Stan; I hate being called Granddad. I call you James right? I don't call you Son-Son, Grandson. I could call you Pissboy."
"Mom would throw a seven is she heard me call you Stan."
"She would, wouldn't she," his eyes gleamed.
"Fucking A," I said.
"Fucking A" he laughed.
As we pulled onto Cemetery Street I told him I didn't feel like going home yet. "Let's get a cup of coffee," he said.
"Why don't you want to be buried when you die?" I asked Grandfather after we settled in at the diner.
He replaced his cup in its saucer and leaned back against the back of the booth. "You ask the damnedest questions," he peered at me over his glasses.
"Sorry," I tried not to squirm in his stare.
"Don't be. I've been dying to answer it forever."
We giggled at his pun.
"The dirt and mud." he took off his glasses. As he spoke he cleaned them with a napkin. "I spent lots of terrifying times crammed into foxholes and slit trenches. I'm too familiar with the smell and taste off mud and dirt. I still can't stand the smell. It brings back lots of bad memories; memories of buddies whose foxholes were their graves." He replaced his glasses.