The next day mom dropped me off at grandpa house. I was a small house. A rectangular slab built in the '40s or '50s, one story with a bedroom, bath, tiny kitchen, and a living room. It was clean inside and out, as far as that goes. I was clearly built for a single person but barely room for that in my estimation.
Manual Ortiz was getting old. Fine silver hair, wrinkles everywhere, an eye patch over his right eye, and a calm but joyful demeanor. It was like he was in on some cosmic joke and enjoying every minute laughing at the sincerity of it. He was sick. Until a year or two ago he was strong, black-haired, and nearly unchanging.
He was also could be very ornery at times. Which was why almost none of his kids ever talked to him. Mom is the only exception that I knew of.
That orneriness had faded as he got sicker and sicker. The doctors didn't have a clue what was wrong with him. They had him on a dozen and half different medicines. I made little difference. He was getting old he would say. "Nothing to be done about it." How old? I didn't know. He always made up a number and it was different every time.
Grandpa hobbled his way over to me.
"So, nearly lost your eye, huh?" he looked me over. "Didn't you win the fight?"
I looked down and away.
"No, huh?" He knew I was unlikely to fight or fight back. He stared at me for a while.
"Alright, since you have nothing to say. I have two things to help you." I looked at his face questioningly. What could he have to help me?
"Don't look at me like that. I wasn't always this old." Some orneriness leaked back in.
"One thing that will help with your eye. Since I have been there myself." He had lost his eye so maybe he could help.
"First, I'm going to tell a story. The true story of how I lost this eye." Pointing at his covered right eye. He had never told me that story before. This was his second thing.
