“Forgive an old man his memories. Some loves never die.” -Pino Lella

“Luck comes when you are ready.” -Ernest Hemingway

Luck

      My grandfather is a tall man and married a woman named after a fish. He grew up in Manhattan, made some smart investments and built a house for our family in Vermont. On the top floor lay a dark green room, every inch lined with a signed print, ball, bat or anything that could possibly represent the New York Yankees. Babe Ruth. Lou Gehrig. Joe DiMaggio. Every great Yankee to ever walk this Earth is on that wall. Before private transportation, my grandfather waited as an eager boy outside of the New York subway stations for the team to come back. And they loved him and signed photos of themselves and gave him a pat on the head. The only space open on his great Yankee wall was saved for a fish. On the mount rests a marlin. One of two he’s ever caught. 

      I think about luck sometimes. And I have been a lifelong fan of Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea. Santiago claims it is better to be lucky. That luck comes when you are ready. Growing up, people often commented on how lucky I was. Whether it was my big family, my performance on exams, or my memory. My peculiar memory. The one I got from my grandfather. The one where we can just remember. And I’ve always felt guilty for it. But then my dad said something to me that changed my perspective: luck always favors the prepared. 

      You see, I am no Einstein. No Newton. No Will Hunting. But when it comes to memory, I can just play. The inevitable double edged sword that accompanies this is—I’ve never been able to understand how people can’t. That is something I was not prepared for. Oblivion. The loss of memory. Rowing into places men were never meant to roam. In places men were never meant to see.

      I wonder if Hemingway thought the same of Santiago. If he was prepared for the fish to die and the unexpected sorrow that consumed his core. For he was sorry for the great fish that had nothing to eat and his determination to kill him never relaxed his sorrow for him. I wonder how much fisherman relied on luck. How lucky you needed to be to come across a great fish. How unlucky you considered yourself when you came across none. I wonder of their hope and faith that shone through despite this. As Hemingway puts it, have faith in the Yankees, my son. Think of the great Joe DiMaggio. Or, as my grandfather puts it, one game at a time.

      I remember the days when my grandfather would bring out the Gator. The sound of its engine—a chopped rumble that echoed across the property and perked the ears of the dozen grandchildren. Those who were fast got a seat in the back. My dad rode up front. My crocs scrunched across the gravel as I ran to the garage, my hands full of turkey feathers I’d been collecting across the yard. My little brother, Jackson, dove in soon after, bullfrogs slipping out of his clenched fists, each smacking the gravel with a thump and scampering away. Droplets of murky pond water and little footprints left a swampy trail out the side door. We’d reverse out into the open, switch to drive and take a tour around the great yellow house on the green hill. 

      Before long, all twelve of us had responded to the sound. AJ and Jake came running down from the teepee, covered in ticks. Kelsey and Carly dropped their dolls and took off after the sound, their pigtails waving after their feet. Liam and Baxter ditched their wiffle ball bats and my uncle Matt left his glove, following close behind. Nana and the four moms scurried out to the porch to watch the scene below. Drew, Reese and Wyatt flew off the swings and ran up the hill. The twins left the golf cart and clubs to follow the giggles and screams. And little Hanna clambered out of the pool, floaties still squeaking against her tiny arms. 

      The labs danced and poked their noses out toward the engine, racing the ol’ John Deere. We cheered on the dogs, the siblings, the cousins and all, as the Vermont air sailed over our heads and barking lingered at our tail. The sound of the Gator’s engine that only Scullys answered to. The sound of the engine that let in the smell of the May air and northern mountains. Soon, the moms would whistle from the top porch, our grandfather shifted into park and we’d all go in for lunch to have Nana’s famous waffles. I remember the brief echo of giggles, screams and barks, left behind by tire marks, turkey feathers and a couple of frogs.

      Why was I given the gift of remembrance? Out of all the fish in the sea—why am I lucky? The gift from my grandfather, that was given to my father, that was given to me. To recall life’s events, from the date and time to the color someone wore, the three of us were the fact checkers, the Yankee stat chasers, the ones who sat beside Nana later in life begging her to remember. I don’t think I like being called lucky. 

***

      It was my Nana who chose the house in Vermont. The colors, the landscaping, the architecture. Her and grandfather built it from scratch. She stood there in her yellow sweater with the white buttons and her pearls glimmered against the gravel driveway. The shell of a house presented itself before her and she dreamed of all it would be. She themed the kitchen around farm animals—little chickens, cows and pigs were lined with green wallpaper, big windows overlooked the mountains and a grand piano stood in the room next door. The doors to outside all had the same silver handle, and they all creaked at the touch. She let our grandfather design the Yankee room upstairs, where he’d play music from their twenties on the jukebox, take her hand and slowly dance to the sound. The top floor had five bedrooms, one for every aunt and uncle and one for guests just in case. The hallways were joined with old photos of my dad and his siblings growing up. Unfamiliar labradors and the young faces of my aging family smiled every time you walked by. Everything smelled of pine, and everything smelled like her. I remember it all, oh, every detail. The wood and the smell and the wallpaper and the doors. The rooms, the rugs and the great fish mounted on the wall.

      Sometimes I’d sit in there and stare at the fish. Wondering what it was like in its youth, when it was alive and full of spirit. If the marlin was as fast as the documentaries said, if the vibrant blue shined even brighter underwater. But in all of my childlike wonder, the brisk, colored details of the lifeless fish, its mouth agape, could do nothing but reflect the room in its solid, black eyes. I wonder if Santiago thought the same upon his catch. Fish, he said softly, I’ll stay with you until I am dead. The fish must die, mustn’t it? That’s what all the stories say. I wonder if my grandfather knew it was coming. Solid black eyes and a fish on a wall. Had to be pretty lucky if you saw the eyes flicker.

      The room came alive when the whole family arrived. When all us grandchildren used to gather around the poker table to play Monopoly, where Sinatra sang over our heads and Nana cautioned us as we moved. Where my grandfather wandered about the green patterned rug with his sons, the twins and my dad—each pointing and laughing to the memories of the famous pictures that came alive off the walls. The dogs danced around our feet, all twelve grandchildren giggled and the moms walked in cupping wine. The twins would break and the eight ball always narrowly missed the back right corner. Everyone in motion, moving about and surrounded by signed portraits collected by a little boy on a subway platform with a big dream, long ago. There, in the brief moments of the magnificent, green, Yankee room, when I wasn’t secretly pocketing a Monopoly 500 from the banker, I’d glance over at the great fish on the wall, in all its blue, purple and silvery hues. I used to wonder: maybe if I looked into the eyes long enough, it would see me. It would remember. Sometimes I still do.

***

      Nana taught me how to play Monopoly. Others used to argue it was all luck, but she and I knew better. The first railroad you land on, she would say, take it. Trade it and collect the rest until you’ve got all four. While the other grandchildren passed them up, deeming them useless, my quad of railroads collected me more $200’s than any card of chance. By the time the game came to a close, everyone had been taxed on my railroads to a point where I had hotels on Park Place, Boardwalk and half the board. Money flew into the air and cousins chucked their cards onto the table, all blaming each other, and Nana would erupt in laughter and shake my shoulders. She used to be good at things like that. 

      They met at a party—her and my grandfather. In an apartment in Manhattan. She noticed him leaning against a wall with a beer, not talking to anyone. He was tall and quiet yet cunning and smart. She was shorter and loud yet Nordic and stern. His laugh couldn’t be heard by even a mouse, whilst hers took up the entire room. They dated for some time, slow dancing to old tunes at parties and going out for fancy dinners. His cool, crooked smile lit up at the sight of her and he held on for as long as he could, but eventually my Nana left Manhattan to go back home to Michigan and the bright smiles and sun she brought to New York began to dim. 

      Over a year later, my grandfather wandered about his usual routine, walking back to his apartment along the rainy streets of New York after work. A long, black trench coat accompanied his hat and big old leather shoes were sheltered by the dark umbrella he held over his head. As he rounded a corner, he saw her—walking in the rain—down the streets of the city, with an umbrella covering her face. “Marlynn?” he shouted. She stopped in the middle of the drenched sidewalk, turned around and smiled. She had moved back. Not long after, the Scully family was born.

      I wonder if amongst every print, every autograph, every ball or bat, even the jukebox—if the marlin was my grandfather’s most treasured prize. If he would throw away all his early years, as a young kid chasing subways in a newsboy, chasing the New York men whose faces took up the back of every cigarette box, just so he could feel that slight tug on the rod again. An entire ocean, a thousand fishing lines, a third with tuna bait. The marlin chose the hook. I wonder if my Nana knew early on she would no longer remember. I wonder if for my grandfather, Nana chose the bait because perhaps she would remember again. 

      Upon death, the shaft of the harpoon was projecting at an angle from the fish’s shoulder and the sea was discoloring from the red of the blood from his heart. The fish was silvery and still and floated with the waves. How peculiar—for a fisherman to take note of the tortured heart of the great fish he sought. How peculiar, he watched it lay there wallowing now in the seas. How strange—that it took a venture, far beyond any land’s horizon, for the man to realize all he had dreamed is not quite what it had seemed. He may as well tie a thousand balloons to his little rowboat and steer for Paradise Falls.

***

      In the spring seasons I used to collect red efts in the trees behind the house. They would descend from the mountain in early March and make their way down to the ponds. Bright orange, gentle salamanders, they were. I would wait for them on the edge of the gravel driveway and help them across. Sometimes I was too late and there was an orange smudge in the silt and a little leftover in my uncle’s back tire. But the ones I did help, I wouldn’t bring them to the pond. I brought them to Nana, who sat in the Adirondack chair on the porch with a flower in her hair. I’d giddily run up to her, one hand softly closed over the other, and make her cup her hands. Gently I’d place the salamanders down one by one. She laughed as they crawled up her arms and I frantically tried to prevent them from escaping. Afterwards, I’d bring them to my little enclosure and sort out the brightest ones. Then I would take the others to the pond and let them go.

      The bright ones came home with me on the four hour drive back to New Jersey. I’d refill their water every day and collect little bugs outside for them to eat. But one by one they slowly died. Shriveled up in the corners of the tank, rid of their beautiful, bright color. Upon death, I looked at them from the other side of the glass, angry and perhaps a little sad. I blamed it on New Jersey. They miss the mountains, I thought. They miss the mountains and their friends by the pond. I wonder why my parents always let me bring them home. They knew I didn’t know how to feed them. They knew they would die. Perhaps I was more familiar with the lesson of death than I realized—how something so beautiful, when taken from its home, will let out its last breath and lay there, wallowing in the seas. 

      When the sharks got to his great fish, Santiago wished it were a dream and that he had never hooked him. I wish it were a dream I brought those beautiful red efts home. I wish I didn’t have to watch them die. I wish they were quick deaths, and not slow ones, for the girl on the other side of the glass had imagined herself into oblivion, as Santiago sailed far out into the Gulf Stream, chasing the creature in which his choice had been to stay in the deep dark water beyond all the snares and traps and treacheries. 

      Nana started to forget by the time the first three grandchildren, Baxter, Liam and I, were in college. In the beginning she’d email us Merry Christmas in April or ask me how my hockey season was (I don’t play hockey). By the time the others were off to school, she didn’t really remember any of us anymore. Not even our grandfather. She stared at him like he was a blank piece of paper. Yet even still, at five o’clock—every night—my grandfather sat down to join her for dinner. 

      For some time, while in the home, she remembered me. But very slowly, she began to forget the dozen. Jake, the seventh grandchild, realized it first. Then Wyatt, the eleventh. Baxter, the first, followed. With time came Reese and Hanna, the tenth and twelfth, then Kelsey and Carly, the eighth and ninth. Memories of AJ and Jackson, the fourth and sixth, disappeared slowly, and Liam the second followed soon after. Me, the third, the eldest granddaughter, probably left somewhere in the midst. Drew, the fifth, was the last one to see her eyes flicker in remembrance.

***

      We sold the house in Vermont around four years ago. Grandfather, the twins and my dad got to say goodbye. The rest of us were left with our memories. I was left with them all. The basement walls, where murals stood of a dozen grandchildren playing in the grass, were painted over. The boy’s bunk room may now be used for laundry. The girl’s bunk is for guests. Old stick figure drawings and playsets and toys were donated, thrown or given away. The waffle maker in the kitchen went to a family friend. A hurricane took down the teepee in the woods we all built one summer. The engine of the Gator turned to rust. The rolling hills became distant memories, where the wind carries the ashes of the labradors that once ran. 

      The frogs in the lower pond no longer tremble with fear of my brother lurking with a net. The grand piano will never again know my Silent Night. The fireplace crackles in remembrance of the five sets of pink mittens and the seven sets of blue. The swing set was taken by wasps, the bird house no longer mimics the call of the mountain blue. The little doll house on top of the hill was taken apart and sold.

      The great Yankee wall was dismantled, the jukebox auctioned and sold. Babe’s bat hangs in my dad’s office in Jersey, Joe DiMaggio hangs with one twin in Montana. The rest are scattered and collected, in boxes in closets and attics with a thick layer of dust. Mickey Mantle smiles from the walls of the new home in Florida, a painting of Mariano Rivera poses by the front door and Reggie Jackson stands proud at the back.

      The magnificent, green, Yankee room is now a hardwood floor, a raggedy couch and a couple of windows. Within it, I imagine the old man stood to say his last goodbye. His gift of remembrance projected flashes of grandchildren climbing on his shoulders while other kids advanced to Park Place. He sees the moms dancing around the jukebox to Pat Benatar and Sting, the labs chasing each other around the room and under the pool table, where the twins had won yet another game. He remembers the pride he carried hanging each portrait, signed and all, accompanying the descendants that ran amongst the walls. He looks ahead to the end of the room and remembers his marlin. Beautiful in all her color, alive and watching through the blue eyes that sparkled at the sight of family. 

      My grandfather’s entire life was that room. But when you walk in—through the sliding, polished, wooden door—no one looks at the portraits signed by Babe and Joe. They don’t look at the jukebox or the baseballs or the bats that have won New York a World Series. They look at the marlin mounted on the wall. The one every light is angled toward. The one whose presence and being gave life to the memories that dance around in spirit. And with them, my grandfather looks too.

      He imagines her sitting on the light couch that rested under the mounted fish. Still in her pearls, with her hair all done up, wearing her favorite yellow sweater. Her eyes—complimented by the dozens of little wrinkles wound up from her beaming smile. He hears her laugh—oh, her laugh—the one that erupted and tickled the funny bones of all within radius. She laughed so hard the portraits turned to see who it belonged to. And they all smiled. 

      Standing there, in an empty room, staring at an empty corner, he saw his beaming wife looking back. And he walked over and took her hand. Slowly they danced in the desolate room, in a world where the portraits still watched and the grandchildren still played.

      Oh, forgive me, beautiful, he sobbed. For my luck has come and gone and I am not ready. Oh, help me, darling, for I fear I will never be prepared. 

      And now, our dear Marlynn, old and frail, was moved carefully off her frame. She now sits in a room in a home with nothing to remind her of New York or Vermont. Tic tac toe replaces the complexity of building hotels on Marvin Gardens and taxing those on Pennsylvania railroad. She doesn’t remember the view from the porch, nor the smell of pine and the Vermont air. The house, the ponds, the mountains, the dogs. Our family. She doesn’t remember it all. She never will again. The marlin I pity. It is the old man that moves me. The sea always has. 

      Hemingway you smart, smart man. You knew before me, didn’t you? You knew of the great fish and all her beauty and everything a man would do to catch her. You knew the lengths he would go to and you knew he would come back alone. Alone with the shell of a once beautiful Marlynn, who lived in the deep dark water until she was caught by you. A beautiful Marlynn who loved all twelve of her grandfish and taught them how to play Monopoly. A beautiful Marlynn whose eldest granddaughter wishes to bestow her gift of remembrance upon her solid, black eyes. The eyes she used to think would remember if she looked long enough. Nowadays I’m starting not to.

      To this day, Marlynn Scully sits in a chair in a home, without a memory of her life crossing her mind. Sitting in a chair in a room with wall space, without the Yankees, without the fish, where my grandfather joins her for dinner every night at five o’clock, praying there is a moment of familiarity. I think about luck. I think about how unlucky my Nana is. I think about how unlucky my grandfather is to watch his wife fall out of love with him. I wonder if he was prepared. I wonder if his determination to get her back will ever relax his sorrow for her. I wonder if my Nana went out too far. If her memories and her soul are vibrant in the fish that chose to stay in the deep dark water beyond all snares and traps and treacheries. I wonder if my grandfather is in a little wooden boat and a straw hat waiting to catch her. I wonder if he is thinking of the New York Yankees and the great Joe DiMaggio. I wonder if the sharks are her disease and that he will lose her all over again. 

      But I know that my Marlynn is somewhere out there in the deep blue. And I know that my grandfather will spend the rest of his days trying to catch her just to get a final glimpse. How unlucky.

Works Cited

Hemingway, Ernest. The Old Man and The Sea. 1952.