A CUP OF BLACK COFFEE
by O. Pierre Lee

I saw the German tank roll over the sand dune toward me. I closed my eyes and shouted for Papa to help me. The voice came only faintly, from far away. "Sonny," it said. "Sonny, come here quick." I shook myself but didn’t open my eyes. Was I having another dream about Papa, who was fighting the Germans in Africa? Was Mama calling me or was I dreaming that, too?

It was cold. I wrapped up even tighter in the two patchwork quilts that Granny let me use, plus those two wool blankets that said "U. S. Army" on them. There was no heat in my room. Mr. Nelms, who did our plumbing, hadn’t put a steam radiator up there yet. My room was at the back of the house on the second floor. It was Mama calling me. She called me again, and I woke. But I still lay there not answering—wanting to stay covered up all morning or at least until it was warmer,

"Sonny, you come downstairs right now. Grandpa’s had another heart attack." I jumped out of bed and pulled my clothes on as fast as I could. Running down the back stairs, two at a time, I almost fell.

Grandpa sat in the maple rocker Granny’s cousin, Nelson Wright, had made for him. He always sat in it when he came from the farms. It stood in his and Granny’s bedroom by the back window that overlooked the chicken yard. Looking through the window, I saw Granny’s Plymouth Rock rooster strutting around among the hens.

Grandpa breathed hard and didn’t seem to know what was going on. I looked at him a moment. All my muscles tightening into knots as I watched this man I loved struggle for breath. Dr. Owsley was there ahead of me. He stood next to Grandpa and looked down at him with sorrowful eyes. Although I had never before been around when anybody died, I knew Grandpa was dying.

"Isn’t there anything you can do to save him?" I asked Dr. Owsley.

"No, Son. He can’t last more than a minute or two." He didn’t last quite a minute. Grandpa was dead. Grandpa, the person I trusted and hung out with, was dead.

I didn’t cry. I went through that day as if I were in one of those early morning fogs that you keep wanting to rise so everything can get sunny, but it doesn’t rise. It hangs on and on. I didn’t want to be around anybody, but I didn’t want to be by myself either. My whole body ached like it would if I was coming down with a bad cold or the flu.

Granny said Grandpa had gone home to be with Jesus and she repeated religious sayings she had heard Dr. McLeod, the Methodist preacher, say. Granny was crying like I had never seen her cry before. I knew what she was doing. She was trying to convince herself that more remained of Grandpa than the collection of meat and bones we saw lying crumpled in the maple rocking chair.