Once all the parents were out of the room, a miracle happened. The lawyer directed our attention to a TV in a cabinet, pressed a button on a remote control, and suddenly Grandpa was alive again. He looked out at us from a television screen, saying that he loved us and telling us that life was a journey. When he talked about our grandmother, Vera, tears came to his eyes. She was an amazing lady (of course) who had died long before any of us were born. He had raised his four accomplished daughters on his own. As he talked, he was funny and crusty and brilliant (of course) and I missed him like crazy. I also wanted to yell at him, tell him he was wrong about me. His ever-present black beret was on his head, making him look more worldly than any man his age had a right to be. It said that he knew Europe like the back of his hand, had been everywhere else too, done everything, and looked down upon the planet from above—the Picasso of adventure.
Then he said something weird. He mentioned his “wonderful, incredible”grandsons. But that wasn't what was so strange. It was what he said after that. He called us his “seven blessings.”
I looked around at the five other guys. DJ raised his hands at me to indicate that he didn’t know what Grandpa was on about; Steve made a little circle in the air with his hand, right near his head, as if to say the great David McLean had lost it. The others just sat there with puzzled expressions.
I started thinking: seven grandsons, seven undertakings. Almost the moment I thought that, Grandpa confirmed that the undertakings were for us. My eyes snapped up to meet his. Every one of my cousins leaned forward in their comfy leather chairs.
“In the possession of my lawyer are some envelopes…” Grandpa continued.
I didn’t hear much else. My mind was racing.
When his image vanished, we sat there in silence.
Then the lawyer dropped a final bomb on us. He told us that Grandpa had had a brief relationship with a woman long after his wife died, and recently discovered that he had another daughter, who had a son. There were indeed seven grandsons.
As we tried to take that in, we were handed our undertakings, seven assignments. Some of the envelopes were bigger and thicker than others, but each had nothing but our names on the front. It was as if we were CIA operatives. I glanced around at the other guys again. Most of them seemed pretty calm, more curious than concerned.
But not me.
I knew what was really happening. David McLean was testing us from beyond the grave, each and every one of his boys, his mighty grandsons. This had the smell of a competition. And if we were going to be tested, I had to do well. Very well. Better than well.
I had to win.