P O Box 454

By Terry Finley

At two o'clock in the morning everyday Grant Horton visited the post office. He grunted and complained as he went in, and he sung and rejoiced as he went out. Only a few folks knew about this strange habit. I was one of the few because I was his grandson. Papa, as we called him, had retired from the local police department. He was shot in the chest the year he retired.

Papa served this city thirty years without any physical injury, but on his last car chase a bank robber shot him after Papa forced the car off the highway almost at the northern city limit sign. Papa was able to return fire. He shot the robber in the head, and the man died in the hospital two hours later. Papa spent six months in the hospital during which time he suffered three near death operations.

My family moved back to my Dad's home to take care of Papa. Clay Horton, my Dad, was a policeman also. He was killed in action before I finished high school. Papa never got over Dad's death. But, wait, I'm getting ahead of my self in telling this story. Let's get back to Papa.

I remember Papa taking me fishing the very first time. I was only six years old. I didn't know how to fish or how to bait the hook or anything about fishing. Papa taught me all I now know.

"That worm won't bite you," Papa assured me.

"It's gooey," I replied.

"Do you want to catch a fish?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then stick that hook into that worm, and let's get to fishing."

I did as Papa told me. I now know that I did not do it right. The worm just flopped on the end of my hook. However, as soon as I tossed the line in the water, the cork went for the bottom, and the pole fell into the water. Papa grabbed it and handed it back to me.

"Now you bring that there fish out of the water and land it here at our feet."

I tried and I tried. I dropped the pole again. It sank in the water. Papa missed as he tried to grab it again. I knew I had done wrong. I started crying. Papa knelt down beside me and put me on his leg. I continued to cry. Papa wiped the tears from my face.

"It's alright; you'll catch the next one."

"You think so?"

"I know so."

Years later when I needed reassuring and loving, I just recalled Papa's words: it's alright; you'll catch the next one. You know what? I did catch the next one, and Papa was there to congratulate me and tell me he told me so. Papa was a good man. He was a wonderful grandfather. I really miss him.

I remember when I was in the cub scouts and had to make a model race car. Papa was there to guide me. He was the most patient man on earth.

"Do you think this car can win the race Saturday?"

"No, I don't think so; I know so."

"Papa, how do you know?"

"Because I'm an old man and just know those kind of things. When you get older, you'll know those kind of things, too."

We worked that entire week on that model race car. Papa gave me all his time. I picked out the color I wanted to paint my car. I picked out the wood. I polished the wheels, and I put it all together. When Saturday finally came, we were ready. Papa and I arrived at the fairgrounds about an hour early. We wanted to make sure things were ready for that race.

"Just take your car to the top of the hill and let it go. Then watch it race down the hill. I will be waiting at the bottom to catch it and take you to get your prize."

I did as Papa told me. When I let it go, the wheels stuck and stopped the car two feet out of the starting gate. I didn't win first place. I didn't win second place. I didn't even win third place. I didn't even finish the race. I knew I had done wrong. I started crying, and Papa knelt down beside me. He put me on his leg. I continued to cry. Papa wiped those tears from my face.

"It's alright; you'll win the next time."

"You really thing so."

"I know so."

Years later after Papa died and I needed reassuring and loving, I just recalled Papa's line: "It's alright; you'll win next time." You know what? I did win the next time. I entered the school spelling bee and won. Papa was there to congratulate me and tell me he told me so. Papa was a good man. He was the best grandfather a kid ever had. I really miss him.

I remember when Papa was shot and almost died. I went to the hospital every day, but I was too young to visit the intensive care ward. Finally, Papa demanded that they let me go see him. Papa looked older than ever before. He was more concerned about me than about himself.

"How are you?" he asked.

"I'm fine, Papa. I'm really sorry I haven't been to see you, but they wouldn't let me in."

"I know; that's why I threw a fit and demanded they let you in." He chuckled a little.

"Papa, I wish you weren't here. I miss seeing you."

I'll never forget what happened next. Papa started to cry.

"What's the matter, Papa?"

"I'm going to die."

I wiped the tears from Papa's face. "I don't think so."

"You don't think so?"

"No, Papa, I know you're not going to die."

I sat down on the edge of the bed. I hugged Papa and kissed him. He held my hand and told me he loved me and that he was proud of me. Papa was a good man. He was one of a kind and the best grandfather in the whole wide world. I really miss him.

I remember years later when my Dad was killed. One night he was chasing a man who had raped this little girl. He followed the man into an empty office building. There were no lights, and my Dad had dropped his flashlight in the chase. The man was waiting for my Dad behind one of the doors. When Dad entered the room, the man hit him over the head with a steel beam. My Dad died before the ambulance arrived.

My mother did not accept his death well at all. However, it was Papa who took it worse. He went into deep depression. I tried to console both my mother and Papa. Mother got a little better with time. Papa just got worse and worse. I visited him often at his house. I saw him many times crying and breathing with effort due to the bullet wound.

"Papa, how are you today?"

"I read in the paper where they let the man who killed you Dad out of prison."

"I know," I said. "How could they do that?"

"Some damn lawyer found some way to sway the jury to find him innocent."

I had only heard Papa curse one other time. "What will happen now?"

"Nothing," Papa said. "Unless we do something."

"Papa, what do you mean?"

"I am a professional policeman, but now the time is here to take the law into our own hands."

"Do you really mean that?"

"If I were able, I would kill that murderer myself."

"Papa, would you."

"Yes, I would."

Papa didn't tell me I ought to kill my Dad's killer. He did put the idea in my head. If Papa would do it, I thought, then I need to do it. Papa was a good man. He was the best grandfather in the world. I really miss him. The next day I took Dad's police revolver and set out to kill his killer.

I found the man home with his wife and small daughter. I knocked on the door. When the man opened the door, I kicked the door open and forced my way in.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

"I'm going to kill you, you bastard." I pointed the revolver at him.

His wife started screaming. That made me really nervous. I yelled for her to shut up. She just screamed louder. I shot the man in the head point blank. I got blood all over me. His wife was carrying the little girl. She ran at me. Her action scared me, and I shot her in the heart. The bullet went through the baby's head first. There I stood with three dead bodies. I was seventeen years old.

They tried me as an adult for murder. I got three life time sentences without parole. My friends and even my family were shocked and ashamed of what I did. All forsook me. All except for Papa. I was sent away to the state prison. Papa was not able to come visit me.

Two years later Papa died. Of course, I was not able to attend the funeral. In my dreams and in my thoughts, I can still hear Papa say two things. "It's alright; you'll catch the next one. It's alright; you'll win the next time."

While Papa was still alive, he and I wrote daily. Everybody tried to get him to leave me alone and let me suffer for what I had done. Papa didn't do that.

At two o'clock in the morning everyday Grant Horton visited the post office. He grunted and complained as he went in, and he sung and rejoiced as he went out. Only a few folks knew about this strange habit. I was one of the few because I was his grandson.

Papa was a good man. He was the best grandfather in the whole world. I really miss him. I wish he were here to wipe my tears away.