He thought for a moment, trying to remember what his mother had told him about his grandfather while growing up. A memory surfaced of a time when they were in a small pharmacy, his mother grinning while shoving makeup and bottles of medicine into the pockets of her baggy dress – the one she wore for those special trips. “See the owner?” she asked, pointing at a dark-haired man with a mustache. “He looks just like your grandfather.” When Jack remarked on his short stature, she narrowed her eyes replying, “Don’t be fooled. Monsters come in all sizes.”

And now she wants me to meet him? “But you told me he didn’t care about family,” Jack said.

“No. I told you he didn’t care about me.” She snapped. “I’m sure once he sees you, he’ll be happy to help.

Jack sighed. There was no point in arguing. Who knows maybe the old man would give them some money. His mother’s words barely registered as she proclaimed, “We’re leaving tomorrow.”

The next day, his mother’s frizzy blonde hair was styled and straightened. She wore a blue sundress for the occasion, with a faded red stain on the front. Her face was made up – something she rarely bothered with unless it was a Saturday night date. She had instructed Jack to pack his duffle bag. Then seeing there was still room told him to keep going. “Make it look good, like we got kicked out, he’s sharp.”

Hadn’t they?

When they were packed, she drove them in her worn-out old Ford Fiesta, Talking Heads on the radio, eyes forward, jaw clenched, for over an hour through Teaneck then across the span of the George Washington Bridge. Their car sat in the coagulated arteries of traffic until they finally reached their destination on Long Island.

His grandfather’s house, an immense Tudor in Garden City with a sprawling lawn, radiated a decaying grandeur. It was a study in peeling paint and chipped bricks. The maid, a petite, wrinkled black woman, ushered them inside, ordering Jack to wait in the entryway.

It was June, a warm breeze blew in from an open window nearby bringing with it the crisp smell of freshly cut grass and the honeyed scent of blossoms. The voices from the other room grew louder. Jack overheard the sounds of his mother and grandfather quarreling through the living room door. It was muffled, but from the little he could make out they were fighting over him, then over money, and finally over life. After a while he covered his ears.

A weathered old bulldog lay on the marble floor next to him. He had a thick collar with a gleaming name tag that read Hulk. The dog was trying to cool down, his tongue puffing in and out of his mouth like a pink party favor. Occasionally, the dog would pass gas and yawn.

Jack’s leg shook anxiously. The canine rose, waddling over to him, looking up with wet, baggy eyes before giving Jack’s hand a gentle lick. Laughing, Jack wiped the drool onto his shorts.

Finally, there was a break in the yelling. A moment later his mother appeared, waving him into the living room.

The old man occupied a grand, green velvet-cushioned chair. He was hunched over, with a small but prominent belly that swelled over his pants – a sun that rose when he rose and set when he sat.

His mother had instructed him to be respectful because his grandfather was a king and that’s what everyone called him.

“What type of king?” he had asked on the drive. She only laughed, telling him, “The kind that built a business out of his nose.” This puzzled Jack, but she would say no more.

Jack couldn’t help but notice that his grandfather bore no resemblance to the pharmacist he remembered; in fact, he seemed more like a gnome than a monster. He sported a shiny salt and pepper fringe, oiled back, and sharp eyes surrounded by parched skin the texture of cracked cement. Beneath, glided a long, regal nose, capped by a billiard ball tip. To Jack, the sniffer appeared nothing more than ordinary, far from an instrument capable of purchasing a mansion.

King looked over at the boy and harrumphed. “He’s tall. I don’t remember being that tall at his age.”

“His father was tall. Jack takes after him,” she remarked.

Jack slouched, running a finger through his dark hair. The old man nodded, before reminding her that he had never met the boy’s father.

A snort escaped Jack; I’ve never met my father either. He watched the maid enter. She glared at his mother before announcing that lunch was ready. That’s the cue. He tried to look sympathetic, just a prop, like the stuffed bag at his feet. In a few moments he expected his mother to finalize whatever sum she would ask from the old man.

His grandfather cast a quick glance at his mother, who, in turn, looked nervous. She approached Jack, tenderly resting a hand on his cheek. “I’ll be back when it’s time to start school. I have to take care of some things back home. Now you be good,” she said.

This couldn’t be the plan. He began to protest. His mother silenced him with a kiss on the cheek, then swiftly whisked past him with her own bag, the wheels squeaking. A few seconds later she vanished through the front door like a gust of wind.

Jack remained frozen, seething with anger, but a sense of worry enveloped him. He understood his mother all too well. In his absence, she was capable of nearly anything – except looking after herself.

The maid approached him, introducing herself as Georgina. With a wave of her hand, she told him to come with her for a tour of King’s kingdom. Jack started to snap at her, but she silenced him with a glance of her eyes – stones weathered by just such behavior.

Jack followed her in silence, observing the spaces filled with books, oil paintings, and an assortment of knickknacks from bygone eras. They reminded him of the antiques store where his mother once worked a long time ago. He shook his head at the faded grandeur. He didn’t belong here anymore than a mule belonged at a racetrack.

The elderly lady spoke when they entered the kitchen. “Now this my place, so you watch about tracking any dirt in.” Jack glanced at his feet. They stood on a checkerboard floor that was so shiny it glowed. The air was filled with the scent of pine. There was a door off the kitchen. Jack turned the knob and found it locked. Georgina put a hand on his shoulder. “You never go down there.” He raised his eyebrows. “That’s King’s place. Only he goes down there. It’s where the magic happens.”

Jack didn’t reply. Whatever magic that was down there could stay buried as far as he was concerned. It wasn’t going to bring back his mother.

After ascending a long staircase, they arrived at a doorway at the end of a corridor. Georgina produced a set of keys, and after a brief bit of fussing, opened the door. Inside was a small bedroom, its pastel-painted walls only broken up by an array of oversized rock posters. The Beatles hovering above a desk, the Monkees plastered near the bed. A cardboard peace sign was stuck in the corner of a mirror, while a black-and-white photograph of a young Robert Redford graced a nightstand.

Jack put his duffle bag down on the floor, looking around. He had never seen anything so girly in his life and pictured a kid with pigtails and a miniskirt, repeating the phrase “groovy” like a vinyl record skipping. “Whose room was this?” he asked, while trying to read a framed Garden City high school diploma that hung askew on a wall, a large crack on the glass cover making it difficult.

Georgina eyed him suspiciously, the way you would a stray dog heading toward your garbage can. “It was your mother’s,” she said. Jack’s eyes grew wide. She had been many things to him over his life, but never a child.

The old lady pointed behind him, “That’s your bed, but you won’t be sleeping late. King gets up early, and he’s not one to walk on his toes for anyone.” Jack nodded. She plucked at her flowered housedress with two knobby fingers to un-stick it from the heat. “We eat dinner promptly at 6:00 pm and I don’t make special meals. You get what you get,” Georgina said, then ran down a list of house rules. When she finished, her voice was raspier, but Jack hardly paid attention. It was very clear: he was a prisoner.

The first thing Jack learned about his grandfather was his fondness for playing checkers. After lunch, they sat on the patio, surrounded by unkempt shrubbery. There King proceeded to educate him that the board contained 64 squares, and each player managed 12 pieces. “They don’t seem interesting, but it’s like your brain,” he told him. “It’s what you do with them that matters.”

“I don’t care. I don’t want to play,” Jack shot back.

“Suit yourself, just remember, here we are, and all we have is time.” He took out a newspaper, reading out loud in a drone the weather report, followed by the economic news.

This lasted a while. Eventually Jack began to feel guilty. It wasn’t the old man’s fault he was here, and learning checkers was something to do. “Where do the pieces go?”

Jack was slow to learn. Every time he erred, King clucked his tongue, eyes dancing, then he would say, “Try again.” And Jack persisted, day after day, kinging the king; still, despite his unwavering efforts, he never won a game. Jack didn’t care, he was just waiting, anyway. He knew his mother would call or show up soon to retrieve him. Whatever she was doing, it probably involved a man. While it would not last, this worried him. Her luck with men was the equivalent of a fly crawling in a jar of poison. She’d drink enough for the men to look appealing – until together they’d blaze through the town, shining like twin setting suns – drifting across the sky as their light faded. Finally, after a teeter-tottering return home, he’d nurse her back to health, with her swearing it was the last time before doing it all over again.

While Jack and his grandfather played, Georgina poured hot tea for King, the steam rising over the board. Jack watched in amazement as the old man sipped the scalding drink under a sun that transformed the patio into a large griddle. The two seldom talked while they played, but now and then, his grandfather would sniff the air with his curved spoon of a nose mumbling, “Syringa vulgaris, Prunis serrulata, Lavendula.”

Jack remained perplexed by his grandfather’s muttered words. One day, he mustered the courage to inquire about it, directing his question to Georgina. She, too, resided in the house.

“Sometimes he speaks in his own language. But it’s his own and not anyone else’s business,” she replied curtly.

At night the walls would rattle with the explosive sounds of snores. Jack was convinced a train was arriving at a station somewhere. After a week of suffering, he crept down the hall opening the old man’s bedroom door. Inside the room he was surprised to find a trio of figures curled up snugly in blankets. Georgina and King, intertwined with Hulk, all three a chorus of snorts and sputters. Backing up slowly, he tripped over a shoe by the nightstand. King opened his eyes, pupils glaring through the dimness at the intruder. Jack froze, then silently retreated to his room.

The following day, Jack got dressed. After breakfast, he milled about, trying to stay out of Georgina’s way while she carried out her rounds of precision polishing, violent rug beating, and militant vacuuming. Meanwhile King spent his time on an exercise bike in his boxers and undershirt, berating the television every time it showed a recap of the Mets. Over that first week he realized everyone in the house adhered to a distinct routine. Even Hulk, who after trailing him for a few days, not knowing what to make of the new addition, settled back to the chair in the entryway. He would shake the drool from his jaws, before primly adjusting himself for the role of castle guard. Jack observed it all, waiting, his dread growing for the inevitable call from his mother.

After King finished his exercise and showering that morning, he turned an appraising eye to the young man. Observing Jack’s tattered shorts and hole-filled T-shirt, he took him to the village.

They drove in King’s aging Mercedes. It was copper-colored, adorned with a colossal, shiny grill crowned by a metal, three-pointed star hood ornament. At first, Jack was concerned about the old man’s abilities, hunched over the wheel squinting through the windshield, but the trip only took a few minutes. His grandfather seemed to navigate more from memory than sight.

Upon parking, they strolled into a clothing shop. There King outfitted the boy with a rainbow of pastel polo shirts, jean shorts, pants, and a fresh pair of sneakers to replace his old Converses. After finishing, dressed in the new clothes, he passed a mirror on the way out of the store. It reflected a version of himself so sanitized that he did a double take. “Could have been, should have been, would have been,” he mumbled.

After depositing the bags in the car, King brought him to a small butcher shop with an Italian flag fluttering proudly from a pole out front. King sniffed as he opened the store door. “Smell that?” he asked Jack, “That’s the buttery aroma of Lombardy, Italy.”

The young man, towering over him, wrinkled his nose. “It smells like feet,” Jack mumbled, prompting a chuckle from King. The shopkeeper, a dark-haired man with large eyebrows and the shadow of grey and black stubble on his face, smiled. He sat below a curtain of purple hams and white cheeses, each bigger than his head, nesting in string hammocks hanging from the ceiling. He called out to King who was staring at the delicacies. “You brought help, huh?”

King looked up at Jack, amused. “My grandson, he’s staying for the summer.”

The shopkeeper nodded, his eyes softened, giving Jack a look of sympathy. Then, with a flourish, waved at the goods in his refrigerator. “What can I get you today?” King’s face brightened like a child’s, gleefully jabbing a finger at his selections. When he had received his packages, King ordered two sandwiches.

They took them outside to a small table in front of the shop. People strolled by, smiling at them. Jack unwrapped the butcher paper, staring at the sandwich dubiously. Lettuce, tomatoes, and onions spilled out of the golden, crisp long roll. His childhood had been a mound of fast-food burgers, hot dogs, pizza, and an occasional home-cooked meal on his mom’s day off. The aged ham and milky white cheese were a stark contrast. Jack took a tentative bite, surprised by the wave of flavors, then began eating.

King had been observing him. “You came into my bedroom last night?”

A tomato slipped from the bread, landing with a splat on the wax paper. Jack blushed, speechless. “I just thought Georgina worked for you,” he blurted out.

King gave a weary sigh. “I guess it looks that way, but old habits die hard for both of us. One day, you may want something that the world tells you is wrong, and you don’t care. That’s how it was for Georgina and me. After your grandmother died, nobody wanted us together, especially your mother. So, we weren’t for a long time. Still your mother, she wouldn’t give up. I finally had to say if she couldn’t respect it, she needed to leave.”

Jack nodded slowly, digesting more than just the food. “I get it.”

King laughed. “Do you? You’re a little young to get it.”

“What do you know about me?” Jack snapped. “I’ve wanted things I couldn’t have.”

King took a bite of his sandwich. “Like what?” He asked in between chewing.

“I wanted every liquor store my mom visited to be closed, but they weren’t. I wanted her to stop drinking, but she couldn’t.”

The old man’s jaw halted, and his face flushed. He cleared his throat. “I wanted that too, but sometimes we get what we get.”

As the weeks passed, Jack thought less about his mother. Only sometimes at night would he worry, but in the morning those shadowy thoughts would recede in the daylight. It was as if he had been drowning, and all that time struggling to stay afloat had removed any joy he once had from swimming. All this became even more apparent when kids in the neighborhood, noticing Jack’s height, invited him to play basketball in the schoolyard. It wasn’t long before he became a fixture with them, only showing up back at the house for dinner.

Georgina was true to her word about the cooking. He got what he got. She cooked all King’s favorites: chicken, steaks, pasta. Jack remained quiet until Thursday arrived, when she would fry liver and onions. On those nights, Jack would grow sick at the sulfur-laced odor wafting out of the kitchen. When the plates were served, King would take a ketchup bottle, banging on it until the thick red sauce belched from the container, covering the greasy brownish-grey organ meat.

“I can’t eat this,” Jack told them. “It smells awful.”

Georgina frowned. “You watch your manners.”

But King raised a hand. “You’re smelling the alcohols and tripeptides. Those tripeptides comprise amino acids in the meat.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, for one thing, I’m a chemist, and for another, I’ve got Hyperosmia. Born with the condition and did very well because of it,” King told Jack.

“What does that mean?” Jack asked, poking at the pink skin on his arm, making it turn yellow, and then red. His flesh was still tender from the sunburn he received at Jones Beach that day.

“After dinner I’ll show you.”

“You can’t show this boy anything. He’s like his momma,” Georgina muttered. You ever have a job?

Jack’s body grew rigid. “I collected cans where I could. Pulled them out of the garbage to help pay for things when my mom was too sick to go to work.”

Georgina’s eyes widened. She traded glances with King, his brow furrowed. After dinner, King took him to the forbidden door Georgina told him never to use. He hadn’t questioned her words, never even trying to enter. Now, watching his grandfather remove a key ring, Jack felt a tingle of curiosity.

The old man fussed for a few seconds. Until finally, with a determined effort, he turned the knob, escorting Jack down a flight of steps to a small, finished basement. Dim sunlight filtered through two windows near the top of one wall, casting a soft glow that intermingled with the artificial illumination of the fluorescent lights.

King gestured at a door to his left. “That’s where we store all our crap.” But Jack only half heard. He was staring at the enormous workbench and the several glass cabinets containing test tubes and vials. It reminded Jack of a chemistry class he had taken in school.

King offered Jack a stool beside the workbench, positioning himself opposite the young man. His weathered hand motioned at an entire display case of gleaming golden statues, each shaped like a pear. Every award bore a plaque with the name John Edelstein engraved in script by the Art and Olfaction institute. Stamped at the base of each trophy was a year, spanning from 1946 to 1978.

“See those?” King’s voice boomed with pride as he directed Jack’s attention to the remarkable collection. “I won those because of my Hyperosmia,” he explained. “The condition manifested as a genetic mutation on my KAL1 gene. It revs my nervous system. I can smell at a level that only Hulk might appreciate.” Jack leaned forward in his seat; eyes wide. “That’s how I earned my living as a perfumer. I became a ‘nose’ working for all the major houses. I got paid a fortune. I’d have to identify the combinations of aromatics that could turn a perfume into the next big hit. But it screwed me up as a kid. When I was your age, I had difficulty with expressing my feelings. That is, until I discovered the art of creating emotions through scents. After that, I put all the things I felt into my fragrances.” He wrung his hands, staring at the table. “I wish I could take everything that’s been bad in your life then remove it with one of these.” He gestured at the test tubes. “But I can’t. Why do you think your mother left you here?”

“Because you paid her.”

King sighed. “She’s going to get some help. She’s going to check into a place and get sober.” He frowned when Jack laughed. “I swear, that’s the reason I took you in, and the only reason she would let me meet you, much less care for you. I didn’t want to say anything about it because she’s lied so many times before to me.” His throat caught. “But I’m too old to be lied to now. Or maybe I’m just too foolish to know the difference. But I want to believe in her, don’t you?”

Jack thought for a moment. He remembered what it was like to clean up after her, to hold her head over the sink while she threw up, to tuck her in, to love her, until he couldn’t love her anymore. Believe in her? The old man didn’t understand what he was asking of him, Jack thought. He knew her. She was drenched to the core now – in cheap wine or that no-name vodka she liked. He cared for her the way you would care for a fire that you needed for survival – but to believe she could change, Jack wasn’t sure he had the imagination. “Show me.”

The old man looked confused. “Show you what?”

“What you do. Show me what hope smells like.”

King scratched his head for a moment before striding over to one of the cabinets. He took out a test tube, uncorked it, waving the vial around like a magic wand. “Close your eyes and sniff.”

Jack complied, and the fragrance – a blend of fruity, tropical sweetness entwined with a floral bouquet – transported him back to a field trip he took to the botanical gardens. The smell conjured images of a vibrant tapestry of blooming flowers, trees laden with succulent red apples, and peaches so ripe he could almost taste them. After a moment the essence vanished.

When he opened his eyes, the old man held a different vial. King uncorked it gesturing for him to shut his eyes again. Jack inhaled; this time the fragrance reminded him of a trip to New York with his mother. The sweet scent of honey-coated-nuts and the yeasty aroma of freshly baked pretzels combined with the exotic spices of neighborhood restaurants. In that fleeting moment, he could almost sense the frenetic energy pulsating through the city, drawn from the currents of people bustling about. Then it too vanished.

The old man paraded tube after tube in front of him until his faculties couldn’t bear it anymore. Finally, King said, “I can take you to a thousand places, and in each, you will find some piece of yourself. That is the magic of what I do. The fragrance is a mirror that only reflects what is already inside you.”

“But they’re not what I asked for.”

King nodded. “No, you wanted hope.” He cradled an azure-tinted perfume bottle. At its top, was a small rubber bulb, which his grandfather gently squeezed. A breathy mist filled the air.

At first, Jack detected no scent. Then, a rush of memories flooded his mind, transporting him back to his childhood. He remembered the tender moments when his mother held him close, dressing him, sharing meals of leftovers and ice cream. They’d laugh together on their worn pullout couch as they watched sitcoms on television – partners in crime. Later at night, he contentedly fell asleep on her shoulder while she read to him. Her hair smelling of coffee from the cafe where she waitressed, and her warmth engulfed him. He recalled her as she was before it all went bad. He fought it, but tears ran down his cheeks, hot and wet.

“It smells just like her. How did you do that?” Jack asked, reaching for the bottle.

The old man blushed. A name was delicately engraved in script on the glass.

“Laura? You named it for my mother.”

King nodded solemnly. “Yes, that’s my handwriting. The company asked for the personal touch. It was my first gigantic success, but eventually, like everything, people longed for something new, until it faded into obscurity. For all I know, this is the last bottle.”

Jack’s mouth dropped open. “But I thought the two of you…”

“I always wanted to remember what I loved about her after she left, so I put it in a fragrance. That way, I could never lose her,” King whispered.

“She wore it all the time when I was little.”

His eyes grew wide. “She did?”

“I never knew you created it. She didn’t really tell me anything about you,” Jack admitted, shaking his head.

King sighed. “She loved me, once.”

It was near the end of the summer when Georgina brought a man out back to the patio where Jack and King were engrossed in a game of checkers. He dwarfed the tiny old woman. “He’s got some news for Jack,” she told King. Hulk, curled around Jack’s feet, lifted his great head. He sniffed the air, his bloodshot eyes staring at the stranger with curiosity.

“What do you want with my grandson?”

The man fiddled with a shirt button. “Maybe I should talk to you first -” He started to say.

King held up a hand. “Just say it.”

“Wait,” Georgina said, then whispered into the old man’s ear. King looked over at Jack, who still had his finger on one of the checker pieces.

“What?” Jack said.

His grandfather’s eyes darkened for a second. “It’s your mother.”

“What about her? he asked. “Is she in jail?”

When Jack was ten, the police placed her in the drunk tank. He endured a terrified night waiting for her to come home. However, the worst part was worrying she had finally run away from him, the way she had everyone else.

The stranger cleared his throat. “Jack?” Jack turned toward him. His face bore a lean, horse-like appearance, capped by black hair sprinkled with grey. His deep-set eyes were trained on Jack. “I’m sorry to bring this news to you. Your mother passed away two weeks ago.” They all stared at the newcomer in silence until King let out a sob.

A panic seized Jack. “How? How? She wasn’t sick,” he stammered. He started to shake. Jack felt a hand softly rest on his shoulder. It was Georgina.

The man’s brows furrowed. “She was sick. You just can’t always see it,” he said. King let out another deep sob, and Hulk joined him, howling at the world.

After King calmed down, Georgina told him that he needed to take his medicine. Rising, Jack’s grandfather walked bowed, like a piece of wood warped by the elements. The lumbering Hulk followed in his master’s wake. When they were gone, the stranger sat down in King’s seat at the checkerboard table.

“Who are you?” Jack asked.

The man sighed. “My name is John Powell. Until a few weeks ago, I didn’t know you existed. She left a note with my name and information on it, and the authorities contacted me.”

The realization hit Jack. “You’re him?”

John nodded. “I’m your father.”

“And you never knew?” Jack asked, shaking his head in disbelief. Another member of the family Jack had never met.

“Jack, your mother and I were only together for a short time. I wasn’t even sure that you were really mine, but looking at you, it’s hard to deny.”

Jack asked him the question he had wondered all his life. “Where have you been?”

John’s brow furrowed as he told Jack about meeting his mother at a bar before going to Vietnam. “Back then, people called me Jack too,” he explained, rubbing a hand through his hair. “I guess your mom liked the name. Anyway, we spent two weeks together before losing touch.”

Jack smiled, his mother didn’t forget people, not his grandfather and not his father. She had named him for this man. Maybe it took the entire summer for her to figure out where he lived, but she found John Powell again. “Did she even go to a rehab center?”

“I don’t know anything about that. The landlord discovered her in the apartment. Another tenant smelled gas.”

Jack tensed. “And the letter told you I was your son?” John nodded. “And where’s my letter?”

His father’s face paled. “The police didn’t say she left you one,” he stammered. “But mine contained a postscript. She said to tell you she loves you.”

“A P.S.?” Jack whispered – an afterthought. At that moment, Jack wondered when his mother had decided on this plan, considering all her other grand plans. It could have been after Carl, their shit-bird landlord, visited us for the overdue rent; or when she sent Jack to the corner drugstore for cigarettes and groceries. Maybe that was the end, an end he didn’t want to see coming. It made sense now, her burning cheeks filled with shame, her hair a mess, and Carl’s self-satisfied grin. Maybe that was all she had left to offer. A person could get tired of failing. A person could get lost looking for a way out.

“I don’t know what to say. I hardly knew her. You should have the letter…” John reached into his pocket.

“No, you hardly knew her, but I want to forget her,” Jack spat.

John hesitated, then said, “Sure, right at this moment, but she was your mother, and down the road you might feel like reflecting on how much she meant to you.”

Everyone seemed to know what his mother should be to him: his grandfather, now his father, if that’s what you could even call strangers. None of them had spent time with her these last few years when she was only at her best after her worst. “Thanks for the advice, but you’re not my father, and some letter doesn’t make you one.”

John raised his hands palms out. “Sure. Look, I’m just as confused by all this as you are. I’m an engineer, not a shrink.”

Jack took the man in. Beads of sweat dotted his face, and his eyes were wide. He didn’t deserve this, neither of us did. With a sigh, he said, “An engineer, huh?”

“Yes, mechanical.” His father began to explain what that meant. Jack barely heard. He was staring numbly at the checkerboard. He and his grandfather were at the end of the game. Jack realized he was outnumbered two to one in pieces and about to lose again.

“Any idea what you want to do when you’re older?” he heard the man ask. Jack started to reply when he saw it – the way out – and made a double jump, ending the game. He had finally won – the first time all summer. He thought about the man’s question. What did he want? His grandfather’s face flashed into his head.

“I want to be a king.”

“A king?” his father repeated. “Why?”

“A king is free.”

1994

It was the tail end of June when Jack, accompanied by a pretty, dark-skinned young woman returned from college to his grandfather’s house. They were greeted by Georgina. From behind her King’s face peeked. “Is it my grandson? Well, well,” King said upon seeing the girl. Jack introduced Abbie to them then moved to take her suitcase. The girl shook her head. “You can carry me away, but I can carry my own suitcase.”

There was a moment of silence broken by Georgina who said. “She’ll do nicely.”

Jack nodded. He had never brought a girl home before, even during all his years at college. But in his mind Abbie was the one.

“Do for what?” Abbie asked coyly. Jack blushed.

For dinner, Georgina made a pot roast instead of liver. “But it’s Thursday,” King grumbled under his breath. After they had eaten, Georgina brought out a chocolate cake while at Jack’s feet, a drooling puppy played. It was a bulldog, the successor to Hulk, who had died before Jack left for school. He found the dog one chilly morning out back, and mistaking his stillness for sleep called to him, but the old dog would never come again. That night, Jack wanted to shed tears for his gassy, loyal companion. No matter how deep he dug inside himself, there was only dust.

After dinner, Georgina helped Abby settle into her own room, despite Jack’s objections. “When she’s got a diamond ring, you can share a bed,” Georgina whispered in his ear. “Now you leave us women to get to know each other.” She said, sending him off to play checkers with King.

The old man was waiting outside for him. A candle sat on the patio table; a few insects lazily circled its glow. In front of him was a checkerboard with the pieces already laid out. “Sit. Let’s play like we did before,” his grandfather said with a grin, gesturing at the chair across from him. Jack nodded, proceeding to lose every game.

“You got rusty at that fancy school,” the old man chided, while his grandson grinned.

After his daughter’s passing, King wasn’t nearly as sharp as he used to be. Jack took to letting him win their checker games. At one time, King overshadowed all, but now Jack saw him clearly. The last flecks of black in King’s hair were gone. The old man’s hand shook as he moved his game piece, his rocky knuckles hosting a jumble of purple worm-like veins. “Do you still talk to your father?” he asked.

“Yes.” John had his own family, yet still called once a month to check in on him. “Abbie’s going to meet him this weekend.” King nodded. He looked sleepy. “I wanted you and Georgina to meet her first before I propose. I also need to take my things.” His grandfather’s eyes opened wider. “Abbie and I are moving in together.”

“That’s good. Love is important. Your mother would be happy.”

“I don’t care what she would have thought. We agreed not to mention her.” He snapped. King stared at him, eyes softening. Jack took a deep breath, then another. The scent of flowers from the garden filled his nostrils. “Tomorrow I’ll need the key to the basement.”

King frowned, shaking his head. “Forgive her.”

“Why?”

“So, you can forgive yourself.”

“I don’t think about her at all.”

King snorted. “I think about your grandmother all the time.””That’s different. She didn’t choose to leave you. If I hadn’t been here, maybe she would still be alive.”

They sat in silence, both pretending to contemplate the board. Finally, the old man spoke. “If you hadn’t been here, you might not have been alive. She knew that.” Jack looked away. King took out a handkerchief and blew. Unsatisfied with the results, he blew again. He sighed; his fine instrument broken. Then finally, King said, “We don’t lock the basement anymore… I’m done making magic.”

Jack put his hand on his grandfather’s. The old man waved it off. His days of being a king were over.

In the morning, Jack found the basement was the same as he remembered it: all the vials and equipment were still in place, except there was a coating of dust. Abbie followed him down the steps in one of his old button-down shirts, sleeves rolled back, and a pair of ripped jeans. “Wow.” Her eyes darted around at the make-shift laboratory. “Was your grandfather a mad scientist?” she asked, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Something like that. Hang out here I’ve got to get some old suitcases out of storage. King said we can use them to pack.” He opened the door to the storage area and was met by a cool dampness rising from the concrete floor. Inside were exposed beams, cobwebs, and several shelves lining the walls. On them sat boxes, filled with old books and tools. He was surprised to find a few framed photos. He took one wiping the dust from the glass. The picture captured his mother on the day of her high school graduation. She looked beautiful, life shining out of her, smiling in a crimson robe. That moment promised so much more than it would ever deliver, he thought. A wave of longing went through him. Jack saw beneath it was another photo, this time of his mother and King. She was a child of no more than four, her arms around his neck. His hair was short and dark, his figure trim in a shirt and tie, and his bright smile filled with pride. Jack replaced both pictures, realizing he wasn’t the only one in his family burying memories.

He grabbed a dusty suitcase when the sound of breaking glass came from the other room. Jack raced through the door. His eyes took in Abbie kneeling in front of a small puddle at the foot of the workbench, where one of the perfume bottles lay shattered.

“Sorry, I’m so clumsy.” She said.

Jack recognized the bottle as the one named after his mother Laura: King’s grand triumph. He thought about those pictures of his mother and what they meant: all the possibilities she had, all the paths she could have chosen, all the love she gave and relinquished – like unplanted seeds that never became trees or flowers. It was all there in the fragrance. And he remembered a time when she smelled like hope.

Sharp pangs of grief spread throughout his chest. He fell to his knees, frantically working to salvage a fragment of the shattered bottle that still contained a few droplets of her. His fingers fumbled over the jagged glass, receiving one cut after another, staining them with blood.

Abbie stared at him in shock. “What are you doing?”

Jack wasn’t listening. A part of him was still trying to save his mother.