Things Hoped For Read Online Free PDF

right?”
    “He told you that?”
    “Yes. And you’re in college?”
    “Not yet.”
    The lawyer pauses. “So, what’s going on with Lawrence? Is he okay?”
    That tells me Grampa hasn’t told this man about him leaving.
    More cautious, I say, “Sure—fine. He’s fine,” but I don’t believe that.
    Neither does Kenneth Grant. Picking his words, he says, “You know, your grandfather’s been my client for twelve years now, and I’ve known him all my life. And if he needed some help—or if you needed any help—it would be all right to tell me about that. I know how he’s under pressure to sell his house. I know about his brother, his finances, his health, everything.”
    I can feel how nice it would be to talk with this man, to ask him for advice. But Grampa’s instructions on the answering machine are clear: Please don’t tell anybody.
    So I say, “Grampa naps a lot, and I think he gets worried about me being out around the city all day. And sometimes I don’t get home until after dark. He gets worried. That’s all.”
    A long pause, and then Mr. Grant clears his throat. “So you don’t think it’s odd that I’ve tried to reach your grandfather six times since nine-thirty this morning and he hasn’t answered, hasn’t called me back? You think he’s just napping a lot?”
    I’m not ready to play this game, and it shows. “Um . . . he might have walked over to the park. Or maybe he’s been with some friends at the coffee shop. Down the block.”
    “Oh. So he’s doing better with stairs now?”
    “Yes . . . much better.”
    This man knows I’m lying, but I don’t care. I don’t want to talk about Grampa, or think about Grampa or worry about Grampa. And I need to get back to Sibelius. So I say, “Well, thank you for calling me, Mr. Grant. I’m sure this will make my grandfather feel better.”
    “All right,” he says. “My cell phone number’s in your phone now, so if you need anything, either of you, call me. And I mean that. You probably don’t know this, but Lawrence saved my dad’s life in Italy in 1943, took a bullet in the leg doing it. If it wasn’t for your grandfather, I wouldn’t be here. And I live close by, right at Riverside and Ninety-fifth, so you can call me day or night, okay?”
    “Okay.”
    “Good-bye, Gwen.”
    “Good-bye.”
    It takes me ten minutes to bottle up a fresh batch of fears about Grampa, and ten minutes more to get back into the concerto. I play for another hour, but my heart’s not in it now. I can’t shake the feeling that things are skidding, sliding out of control. And I hate feeling so powerless.
    At two o’clock I leave school and head for the cross-town bus that will drop me at Seventy-second and Broadway for the subway ride up to my lesson. Because that’s something I can control. I can be on time. My lesson begins at three-fifteen on Fridays, and if I’m even a minute late, Pyotr Melyanovich locks his door. It only happened once. “Do you think you can rush out onto the stage after the concert has begun?” he shouted at me through the wall. I haven’t been late since.
    It’s a sunny afternoon, and the bus sails across Central Park, and the subway gets me close to my neighborhood a little after two-thirty. I’ve got all kinds of time, so instead of riding directly up to 116th Street, I get off at 103rd. Because I’m going to stop in at home so I can dump my schoolbooks and grab a snack. And I’m also going to stretch my legs in the process and try to breathe in some real air, or as real as air ever gets around here.
    This city is great for walking, especially when the weather’s right. And considering it’s February, there’s nothing to complain about. It’s one of those false spring days, the kind that brings New Yorkers out of their caves for an afternoon stroll. All the produce shops on Broadway have flowers spilling out onto the sidewalk, buckets and buckets of them, and I can’t resist buying a huge bundle of daffodils.