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Old World

It was better after Lottica and Nick talked that evening. Not that everything was perfect between them, or that their immediate future was clearer. She and Nick were just more in tune. They talked. Cautiously. About school, about their old neighborhood and friends, about their parents. Most of all, they now talked as true conspirators about their grandparents.

Which seemed ungrateful. Wrong. Especially since their grandparents had taken them in after the explosion. But there was something different, something begrudging, about their grandparents.

Though they never said a harsh word to Lottica or Nick, it was in their eyes. Dark eyes. The deep eyes of their father. The eyes of the Old World from which they’d come and which they obviously resented leaving. To them, their homeland of Lebreima was a bastion of civility and tradition that a young upstart nation like America could never match.

It seemed their grandparents were so very old in every way. Not decrepit old, not forgetful old. Timeless old. They were like ancient trees, outwardly weathered and rough, but at their core was an enduring strength. Quiet strength. Watchful strength. Unnerving strength.

Their grandparents said very little, but they saw all. To Lottica and Nick, their remoteness seemed to convey a sense of disapproval of everything they did or said. In return, the siblings became guarded and watchful around their grandparents.

For the most part, that was almost natural because their interactions with their grandparents had always been extremely formal and reserved. Three years ago when they’d emigrated to America to be closer to their son, the old couple had kept a somber distance, a chilling aloofness.

Nick and Lottica only knew them as Grandfather Breima and Grandmother Breima. They suggested no warm nicknames. Grandfather Breima and Grandmother Breima. Period. There was no joking around when they visited. Only terse greetings and rigid formalities. Even Nick and Lottica's parents had been guarded around them.

Especially their mother.

Linda Breima was not a passive woman, but she let her husband take the lead in all dealings with his parents. Lottica could not forget an incident shortly just after they’d relocated. They were visiting their grandparents' new house for the first time. As they entered the house, her mother effusively remarked, “Your house is so lovely. Dale, the kids and I are thrilled you are so close to us now.”

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Grandmother Breima, her chin tilted high, had turned cold eyes on her mother and said in her heavily cadenced English, "I tell you first time we meet, my son is Deilune. Not Dale."

In that frozen moment, their mother had met the cold stare of Grandmother Breima and matched it with her own arctic blast of a reply, "Dale is what is written on our marriage certificate."

Lottica suspected the frostiness between her mom and grandmother had icy roots deep in some unspoken conflict which chilled any attempt to thaw their relationship.

The children began to understand the roots of these tensions within days after they’d moved in with their grandparents after the fire. It started with the house itself. Everything in this house made them tread lightly. It felt less a place to live and more a place to haunt.

The house was built for ghosts with dark, narrow hallways and a creaking staircase. Thick brocaded drapes in many rooms stifled sunlight and fortified shadows. The air hung thick around the hulking furniture and heavy lamps cast more gloom than light. It seemed to want to lead them into some distant past.

Their entire existence in the house was rigid and by the book—an Old World tome. Meals were always at prescribed times with proper attire. Their grandparents insisted they eat together even though the meat of their conversations was an overdone please and thank you lightly seasoned with an occasional yes sir and no ma’am.

Nick and Lottica felt about as welcome as Hansel and Gretel.

A dinner a few weeks after they had come to live with their grandparents summed up their predicament all too well. Nick and Lottica were seated across from each other at the dark mahogany dinner table, candles lit, as always, for dinner. The kids hadn’t ever been asked to help prepare or clean up with meals. So, they sat, ramrod straight in uncomfortable ladderback chairs, as their grandparents brought in the food from the kitchen.

Their grandparents were both rail thin, but they had to squeeze past the kids to move around in the dining room that was overfurnished with a sideboard and china cabinet that displayed weighty pewter mugs and thick serving platters. It was positively medieval.

When their grandparents went into the kitchen to bring out the main dish, Nick leaned over and whispered, "I'm sure we could be just as cozy in Dad and Mom's mausoleum. At least we wouldn't have to sit in such torturous chairs."

Lottica giggled. When their grandparents reappeared through the kitchen door, her grandmother's dark stare stopped her cold.

“Is funny?” she asked.

“No,” Lottica answered, swallowing her mirth.

“No?” Her grandmother’s stare intensified.

“No, Grandmother Breima,” Lottica quickly added. The rest of the dinner had passed in silence, except for the cutlery clinking like chains in a dungeon.