Livora Gracely

His gaze found a place beyond the frame.

Looking Up

On their walks, Grandpa had a habit of looking up at one particular window.

It was not the tallest window on the street, nor the prettiest. Its paint was peeling at one corner, and a flowerpot on the sill held something that might once have been a geranium.

Still, every Tuesday, Grandpa slowed down beneath it.

His granddaughter Clara had noticed. She had also noticed that he never explained himself.

“Are you looking at the clouds?” she asked one morning.

“Not today.”

“The roof?”

“No.”

She tilted her head back. “A very interesting chimney?”

Grandpa considered it. “It is a perfectly respectable chimney.”

Clara looked at him. He looked at the window.

This, she decided, was going to take a while.

The Usual Window

The wind had found the loose end of Grandpa’s scarf and was trying to carry it away. Clara caught it before it slipped from his shoulder and tucked it back under his coat.

Above them, sunlight flashed briefly in the glass. A bus sighed to a stop around the corner, and somewhere behind the window a kettle began to whistle.

Grandpa lifted his hand.

A woman appeared and opened the window a little. She wore a blue cardigan and held a dish towel over one shoulder.

She waved. Grandpa waved back.

Then she disappeared again, and the kettle stopped whistling.

“That’s Mrs. Bell,” Grandpa said as they continued down the street. “She used to walk her dog past our house.”

“The small brown one?”

“The small brown one who believed every tree belonged to him.”

Clara remembered the dog. She also remembered Mrs. Bell standing at their gate, waiting patiently while he inspected a flowerbed with great professional care.

They had never mentioned the window before. Perhaps Grandpa had never thought it needed mentioning.

A Different Hand

The following Tuesday, the window stayed shut.

Grandpa stopped anyway. Clara stood beside him, holding a paper bag of warm rolls against her coat. The smell of bread rose between them.

A curtain moved.

A small hand appeared behind the glass. It waved once, then vanished.

Grandpa raised his hand. They waited.

The little hand returned, this time with all five fingers spread so wide that Clara could see the effort. Grandpa spread his fingers just as wide. The hand wiggled. Grandpa wiggled his.

Clara nearly dropped the rolls.

A face popped up above the sill. The child studied Grandpa for a moment, then pressed a nose against the glass. Grandpa crossed his eyes.

The face disappeared.

“Oh dear,” Clara said.

“Too much?”

Before she could answer, Mrs. Bell opened the window. The child was beside her now, laughing and trying to see over the sill.

“This is my granddaughter,” Mrs. Bell called down. “She’s staying with me for a few days.”

Grandpa removed his glasses and gave them a quick polish, although they were perfectly clean. When he put them back on, the child waved again.

This time Clara waved too.

Next Time

As they walked on, Clara asked, “What’s her name?”

Grandpa stopped.

“I forgot to ask.”

“You were busy crossing your eyes.”

“A demanding responsibility.”

At the bakery, Clara bought an extra roll. Grandpa said it was probably for the best, since she had squeezed the bag so hard that one of the others had become a rather unusual shape.

The next Tuesday, they reached the window with a small paper parcel. Mrs. Bell opened it almost at once, and the child appeared beside her.

“Good morning!” Grandpa called. “I was wondering what your name is.”

“Poppy,” she said.

“Hello, Poppy. I’m Arthur, and this is Clara.”

Poppy gave them a solemn nod. Then she lifted both hands and wiggled every finger.

Grandpa passed the parcel up to Mrs. Bell, who leaned out to take it. Poppy watched the exchange closely, then held up her hands again.

“Your turn,” she told him.

Grandpa obliged. Clara joined in, the three of them waving until Mrs. Bell laughed and warned Poppy not to lean too far out.

On the walk home, Clara glanced up at the window. It was shut now, the curtain still moving gently behind the glass.

She had passed that window for years without noticing the little flowerpot. Today, she saw that someone had tucked a bright yellow ribbon around it.

“Was that there before?” she asked.

Grandpa looked back. “I don’t know.”

Clara smiled. Next Tuesday, she thought, they could ask.