It was dusk, and the small boy crouched behind the azalea bush which hummed from the bees pollenating the pink blooms covering it. Footsteps shuffled in the grass; the sound came closer, then it stopped. The boy curled tighter; pearls of sweat rolled down his cheeks.
"Bobka," the stern voice made him jump, "Come out from there before you get stung."
The boy peered from behind the leaves. He saw those familiar thick legs with hose rolled just below the hem of a flowered skirt. It was his grandmother, Sashu. She stood with her hands on her hips, solid reminding him of the skyscrapers he had seen when his parents had taken him downtown, to a parade.
"No, there are tigers," the boy’s voice quivered.
"Tigers? Where are these tigers?" Sashu questioned, spreading her arms and turning from her waist reminding him of a windmill. "There are no tigers here."
"No, Shasu, in my closet, there are three," the boy answered.
"But Bobka, what do tigers want with that closet? Do they wear small boys’ clothing?" Sashu tried to make him laugh then she extended her hand. "Come, we will go and find these tigers."
The boy grasped her hand, it was worn and soft, but always strong.
As they walked up the stairs, Bobby looked at his grandmother. Her hair was black with two streaks of gray; one on each side. It was always pulled back in a tight bun. Her steps were short and stiff, a sign of age, but Bobby thought it was due to the round brown shoes she always wore.
"Don’t you have tigers in your closet?" the boy questioned his grandmother as they made their way through the old farmhouse his grandfather had built.
"Everyone has tigers; just, they live in different places."
"Where are yours?"
"Here," she patted her chest with her free hand, "Mine are in my heart."
Bobby’s eyes grew big, "Aren’t you afraid of them?""No not of the tigers, just of facing them alone."
Her voice dropped and her face became serious.
"I’ll fight them with you."
"Oh, my big Bobka," she reached around him, engulfing him with her chubby arms, "I know I can count on you."
When they reached the room, his room, Bobby broke away from his Grandmother and ran to his bed. He clasped his pillow and closed his eyes so tightly he saw spots.
"Don’t go into the closet, Sashu." The boy pleaded. "They will eat you."
Sashu walked over to him and sat on the side of the bed and held the small boy’s hand. "You get under the covers, and I will tell you a secret, Bobya."
The boy followed his grandmother’s orders, and she continued. "I have a special song; it puts tigers to sleep for a whole week. I will sing it now, then I will open the door. Ah, ah, ah, Codt kee dva. Sorra booray obidva. Pulcelli du lah soo." Her voice was soft and comforting. "Nahroom bi wah howaksoo. Yden wahpi messhi. Droogi, Bobya, Kowissa."
His eyelids became heavy, he fought them. He shouldn’t go to sleep. What if the tigers come out? What if the song didn’t work? No, Sashu was never wrong. And his eyes closed.
Sashu finished the song, then gently released the small hand, placing it on the sheet. Pushing herself from the mattress, she jostled the bed, but it did not disturb the boy. His sleep was sound.
As she walked around the bed, she wiggled the boy’s big toe which was sticking out from the covers. "No more tigers for you," she whispered as she walked out of the room.
That was long ago when the boy was still Bobby, not Robert.
Robert came to Sashu’s home only at the insistence of his mother. Once when he was helping install a washing machine at Sashu’s, he brushed against the azalea bush full of blooms and bees and was stung.
"Oh, Bobya," Sashu hurried to his side.
"Robert," he snapped "Why don’t you cut the old thing down."
"You always hid behind that bush when you were little. Come, we will go inside. A little baking soda will help that."
"I can take care of myself; I’m not a kid."
"Yes you are a big, strong man, now." Sashu was pulling on his arm, leading him to the bathroom.
"Look, Grandmother, I don’t have much time; I’m supposed to meet some friends, later. Where do you want the washer?""Bobya, you are always in a rush. Why don’t you come, spend a weekend with me, like you used to? Your room is still there, even the tigers."
"Grandmother," his voice was somewhere between embarrassment and frustration.
Sighing, she instructed, "The washer goes in the kitchen. Follow me, I will show you where."
Pushing the dolly, Robert followed his grandmother. He noticed how short and heavy she had become over the years. And, she still wore those ridiculous rolled hose, it was embarrassing. He placed the machine next to the stove and hooked it up.
"I’ve got to go, now." He wiped his hands on his jeans and headed for the door.
"Then you come back soon. Bring your friends. I’ll fry some chicken, your favorite."
"Sure," his voice was disconnected as he left, "See you."
**********
Age had begun its cruel collection of Sashu. First it moved to Shashu’s joints; they became swollen and red, making even the simplest task of breaking an egg painful. Then it dimmed her eyes, she could only tell light from dark, the shadows replaced the faces she loved. Her independence was gone. Sashu was forced to leave the house her husband had built; the home she had known most of her life.
Sashu moving into the home of her daughter and grandson, Robert. There, she had only a small room. There was no garden; she could no longer turn the earth and assist God in creating beauty. Her daughter barred her from the kitchen she might forget and start a fire. Her mind was sharp but she could use it for nothing. Daily, she would sit on the patio until her daughter would make he come in because of the heat. Robert would pass her, barely acknowledging her presence.
"Bobya, is that you?" She would ask.
"I’m on my way to meet some friends," he would always answer.
Soon, Sashu moved with a cane then a walker. Finally, her legs could not even lift her from a chair, and Robert had to carry her into her room.
"Bobya, do not leave me in this room," her voice was shaky as she pleaded.
"Grandma, I’ll come to visit," he promised but promises are hard to keep and excuses come easily.
Sashu’s room was at the end of the hall, so she could have quiet. Her daughter would come and check on her, ask her what she wanted to eat that day, and turn her so she would not get sore. Robert would look in the doorway then lower his head and turn away. This continued for several weeks.
One day, Robert’s mom called him into the kitchen.
"Sit down," she said pointing to the chair beside the table. "Sashu is becoming increasingly hard to care for; her lungs are filling with fluid. I don’t think I can care for her properly anymore. I’m going to find her a nursing home."
Robert sat in silence.
"I’m going to tell her tonight," his mother finished.
Robert sat in the livingroom when his mother told Sashu. The room was dark, but he would not turn on any light. He heard a terrible cry, it was Sashu.
"No," the voice was distressed and animal like.
Robert sat in the room, tears flooding his cheeks.
Two days passed and Sashu remained in her bed, refusing to eat and avoiding sleep she lie crumpled, centered in the room which had become her prison Shadows filled the corners of that room while the small brass light stay lit above her head, spotlighting her diminished form. Her head had fallen below the pillows, and she was curled to the side opposite the door.
A shadow filled the doorway and moved around the bed, where Sashu could see.
"Bobya?" Sashu asked.
The figure nodded then responded, "Yes, Sashu it’s Bobya."
His eyes fixed on her face. She wore the mask of the hopeless; her eyes were sunken and dull; her lips drawn downward with the bottom jutting out in a grievous pout.
Bobya searched for words, then blurted "How are you?"
Sashu’s eyes shifted down and to the side; her head slightly shaking.
"Mamma says you won’t sleep. Let me turn out the light; you need your rest."
The dull eyes turned back to him and she reached for his arm, slapping it vigorously.
"No, I won’t," his voice was soothing and respectful. Sashu stretched her body and tried to lift up. Her lungs gurgled as she drew in a breath.
"Stay," Sashu pleaded.
Bobya knelt beside her bed and offered his hand. Sashu grabbed it and squeezed it so tightly that his knuckles ached.
"Ah, Ah, Ah," he started "Codt kee dva, sorra boray obidva," he looked up her lips had spread, curling up at the ends. Her eyes closed. "Pulcelli di lahsoo. Nay roo bi wah. Howwaksoo. Yeden wahpi messhi. Droogi Sashu kowisshka." He finished.
Sashu moved his hand to her lips and gently kissed it, and Bobya softly stroked her forehead with his free hand.
"Light," the frail figure garbled.
And he turned out the light, then returned to his post by the bed. There he stayed in the shadows that had overtaken the small room There, he stayed holding Sashu’s hand until it grew cold and stiff. Then slowly rising, he placed the icy hand across the covers.
As he walked past the end of the bed, he wiggled the big toe which pushed through the blanket.
