I can hear the gravel crunch as the car pulls into the driveway.  It is
Father bringing Papa back from the train station at last.  I haven't seen him
for almost a year.  I run to tell Mother.

	We go outside.  Father has already parked the car, and he and Papa are
coming up the walk.  Papa must use a cane when he walks; he looks old and
frail.
 Behind him, Father is following with a heavy suitcase in each hand.  When Papa
sees me, he stops and holds out his arms.  I run to him and throw my arms
around him.  His coat smells faintly of dust and aftershave.

	"Papa!"

	"Nicholas, how you have grown since last I saw you!  You are almost the
man your father is."  I look up at Father, who towers over both of us.

	"I'm glad to see you again, Papa."

	"You are such a good boy, Nicholas.  Let us see what Papa has for you
today."
 He dips into his pocket with a withered hand and withdraws a bill.  It is a
twenty-dollar bill, obviously new, although it is slightly wrinkled from being
in his pocket.

	"Papa, no!" says Father.  "You shouldn't always give him things.  He'll
come to expect it of you."

	"No, I don't, Father," I say.  I know Papa always gives me something,
but I don't expect him to.

	"Am I not his grandfather?  Can I not give him a gift if I wish?
Perhaps I should have been stricter when my father came to visit us when you
were his age."

	Father exhales slowly through his nose the same way he always does when
he is forced to give in.  "What do you say to Papa, Nicky?"

	"Thank you, Papa."

	Mother has come down the walk as well.  "Papa," she says, embracing
him.  I show her the present he has given me.

	She gives him the same glance that Father had.  "Papa, you should not
have.
 Nicky, did you say 'Thank you'?"

	Papa answers for me.  "He did, Evelyn.  I know he is grateful.  He is a
good boy."

	"He is a good boy, but he must learn his manners," says Father.  Papa
dismisses Father's words with an absent wave.

	"I have supper ready, Papa," says Mother.  "You must be very hungry
after your trip."  We go up the walk to the house and inside.


	Dinner is good; we have kielbasa, steamed cabbage, and fresh bread from
the bakery.  Father and Papa also drink wine, but I have to have milk.  Papa
notices this, too.  "You still do not let him have wine, Josef?  He is old
enough."

	"We do not want him to drink wine, Papa," answers Father.

	"Come, come, there is no harm in it.  You have had wine since you were
a child, and it has done you no evil."

	"I do not drink much anymore, Papa.  I stopped before Nicky was born."

	"Well, I have not, and I am still a fit man."  He stands, extending his
glass toward me.  The wine is dark, and smells faintly sour.  "Go ahead," urges
Papa.  "Have some."

	I look at Father.  He is not looking back at me; instead, he is glaring
at Papa.  "You heard him, Nicholas.  Do as your grandfather tells you to," he
says.

	He calls me "Nicholas".  I know what this means and I shake my head.
"I'm sorry, Papa, I'd better not."

	He shakes the glass toward me, causing the liquid inside to swirl
around.
 "Your father has strange notions in his head.  The wine is good.  Try it."

	"Papa, the boy says he does not want any."

	Papa ignores Father and proffers the glass once more.  I take it from
him; the sour smell is much stronger now.  I study the liquid, dark like the
color of blood, but clear like a soda.  I raise it to my lips, and take a sip.

	My first sensation is that it is like biting into a grape that had not
been on the vine long enough.  I want to spit it out, but I am already
swallowing, and I feel the back of my throat burn, like I had drunk something
that was too hot.  I am dimly aware that the glass is no longer in my hand;
Mother is by my side, clapping me on the back.  "Are you alright, Nicky?"  I
nod.  She hovers over me a little while more, then goes to the kitchen to fetch
a damp sponge and some paper towels.

	Papa coughs.  "Well, perhaps Nicholas is not ready for wine yet."

	Father has begun to eat again.  He stuffs a large piece of kielbasa in
his mouth and then empties the remainder of his wine glass.

	

	We all sit at the table, too full to even move.  "I am proud that my
Josef has such a fine cook for a wife," says Papa.  He leans back in his chair
and sighs.  "Elfriede used to make us such meals as this," he says, his voice
soft and sad.  Mother says nothing, a faint blush rising in her cheeks.

	"Yes," says Father quietly.  He is sitting with his hands clasped in
his lap, staring at his empty plate.  "Mama was a fine cook."

	"She was the finest!" says Papa.  "God bless her."

	"Amen," I say, because you should say "Amen" when someone blesses a
dead person.

	Papa smiles at me.  "Nicholas is such a fine lad.  Ah, Josef, you do
not know how good it is to see you all again," says Papa.  "Sometimes I wish
you had not moved away -- "

	"Papa, we must speak," says Father.  He is leaning forward, now.  His
hands are still clasped together, resting on the table.  His knuckles are
white.

	"If we must speak, then speak.  I am listening."

	Mother rises from the table, and starts picking up forks and plates and
glasses.  "Nicky, help me clear the table."

	Papa raises a hand.  "No, Evelyn.  We are all family here.  We have no
secrets to hide from each other."

	I glance from Papa to Father.  Father gives me a slight nod of the
head, to get up and go with Mother to the kitchen.  I start to rise.  "Stay
there, Nicholas," orders Papa.  "If your father has something to say, we shall
all hear it."  Papa turns back to Father.  "Well, Josef?  Have you something to
say?"

	Father is pinching his lip with his left hand.  He clenches his hand
into a fist and exhales audibly through his nose.  "Papa, I have spoken to
Stefan.
 Now that Mama is gone, he no longer wishes to be away.  He misses you and
wants to see you again."

	Uncle Stefan is as good to me as Papa is.  He is in the Army, and
whenever he comes to visit he brings me souvenirs from wherever his latest
assignment has taken him.  I have an authentic serape made by Indians from
South America, a bronze coin from China with a square hole in its center, a
stack of postcards from all over Europe and Asia and even Australia.  I have
not seen Uncle Stefan for some time, and I miss him, too.

	Papa leans forward and pushes his chair back from the table.  He stands
and is going to start to walk away when Father stands, too.  "No, Papa.  You
said we were going to talk, and we will talk.  It has been more than
ten years -- "

	"I have nothing to say, Josef.  You may talk all you like, but I have
nothing to say about Stefan.  Nor do I wish to hear."

	"What's wrong -- " I start to say, but Mother shushes me.

	"Papa, he wants to --"

	Papa takes a step away from the table.  He has his back turned to
Father.  "I care not what he wants.  I have not cared since he decided to leave
my home."

	"Papa, he -- you never understood why he left, did you?"

	"It does not matter.  We are not going to discuss this any further."

	Father stands silent for a second.  "Is turning your back on him now
really any different from what you think he did to you twelve years ago?"

	Papa turns around quickly.  "You -- dare -- ?"  He brings his cane up
and strikes the ground with its tip so loudly that it sounds like a
thunderclap.
 I give a little gasp.  I've never seen Papa angry before.  "Stefan was always
ungrateful!  He could not appreciate all that we sacrificed for him -- for the
entire family!"

	"He was grateful, Papa, he still is!  But Stefan was always
independent!  He didn't want to take the business, not because he was ashamed
of what you did, but because he wanted to follow in your footsteps, to make his
own fortune!"

	"So I labored and slaved all those years just for him to spurn the
fruits of my efforts?"

	"Papa, he left for the same reason that you decided to leave the old
country."

	"I left Poland because there was nothing for me in the homeland,
because there was something better in here in America!"

	"Don't you see, Papa?  That's what Stefan wanted, too -- he thought
there was something better out there, something that he couldn't find if he'd
stayed and taken over the business."

	Papa is shaking his head.  "No, no, no.  Guest or no, I will hear no
more of this.  I am still your father."  Papa turns and walks quickly from the
room, his cane echoing loudly against the wooden floor.

	"Do not walk away, Papa!  Papa!"  He hurries out the way Papa has left.
I can hear their voices from outside the room, but I cannot understand exactly
what they are saying.  Mother and I are alone in the dining room, now.

	"Is Uncle Stefan in trouble, Mother?" I ask, even though I think I know
the answer.

	"Shush, Nicky.  This is not the time to ask.  Help me clear the
dishes."