The Lost Tiki Palaces of Detroit

Hearts and Bones

75 All knowledge, the totality of all questions and answers, is contained in the dog. Franz Kafka five months of marriage and still when Walker strolled unannounced into the room where Megan read, all this happened in a moment: She would look up at him, alarmed at first, then bewildered, as if to say, “What the fuck are you doing here?” Then abruptly, it seemed to Walker, she would remember and try quickly to smile. Her worst, most obviously fake smile—a grimace, a death mask, you name it. That smile was what made Walker one day suddenly suggest a drive. A long drive to Mandrake, Michigan. They could visit his grandparents there for a few hours, but mostly they would drive and talk and spend time together , get used to each other in this new way. “Just for the day,” said Walker. “It’ll be fun. We’ll see each other, we’ll see my grandparents. It’ll be nice.” Megan was not thrilled. Walker was full of these kinds of ideas. She had never met his grandparents (a slight fall had kept them from the wedding), and was frankly not all that anxious to meet them. Her dealings with grandparents had been spotty at best. Her favorite grandfather, who drank rye hearts and bones 76 The Lost Tiki Palaces of Detroit whiskey neat, smelled of Tiparillos, and taught her how to shoot craps, died when she was twelve years old. Her one remaining grandmother (Czech, on her mother’s side), tried constantly to force all of her ancient opinions on Megan, along with extraordinarily dry Eastern European pastries that instantly absorbed all the saliva in Megan’s mouth, thus rendering her silent. This, she assumed, was her grandmother’s reason for serving them. If she was lucky, Megan only had to see this grandmother two or three times a year. “Couldn’t we just go for an aimless drive somewhere?” said Megan. “We could check out that big wheel of cheese over in Ohio. It’s supposed to be the world’s largest.” “Come on. I haven’t seen my grandparents in ages. I know they’d like to meet you.” Megan agreed to go. It was more to appease Walker than anything else. They left early the following Saturday. It was about a four-hour drive from Ferndale (an old town just along the rim of Detroit) to Mandrake. Megan read most of the way, a Dawn Powell novel, The Happy Island. After a few tries, Walker gave up on the idea of sharing meaningful conversation and amused himself by listening to the polka and country music stations that faded in and out on the AM radio. Not long after they passed a bleached city limits sign barnacled with Rotary , VFW, and Optimists emblems, Walker pulled the car into the driveway of a brilliantly groomed green and white bungalow. A small cedar sign on the lamppost read in carved script: The Stanhopes. Walker opened the door of the car and waited for Megan to do the same. “Come on, let’s go,” he said. “Do I have to?” asked Megan, looking up from her book. “You can’t stay in the car.” “Sure I can. I have water. And snacks.” Megan held up a bag of Combos 77 Hearts and Bones to prove it. Then she looked across the lawn and saw a small elderly couple watching and waving to her from behind a picture window. Resigning herself , she exhaled loudly, dropped the bag, and opened the car door. By the time she and Walker approached the front porch, the couple was at the door, waiting for them. The man and woman were both well into their seventies, both as immaculate as the corners of the front lawn. Mrs. Stanhope was wiping her hands with a flowered dishcloth when she greeted them. Megan thought she looked like a TV grandmother except for the long pink cigarette that dangled from the edge of her mouth. Mr. Stanhope stood slightly behind her, his hand on the left side of his wife’s waist, fingers resting along the top of the curve of her buttock. Their frail sloped torsos were touching, squeezed together was how it looked to Megan. Walker greeted them excitedly. He rushed forward and hugged his grandparents both at the same time. Then he stepped back and introduced Megan. “Hi,” she said, holding her hand...