Hero

Grant Aldridge’s fifth great-grandfather, Thaddeus, was discharged from George Washington’s Continental Army after he was deemed unfit to serve. Although he was of qualifying age and a staunch supporter of the independence movement, he was unusually weak for a man in his prime, prone to spells of fatigue, and often overcome by waves of a dark demeanor that kept others at a distance. He lacked focus, motivation, and energy—each essential to a soldier as his musket. He left his service humiliated—a failure who bore his dismissal like a combat wound he might otherwise have received.  

Since that event and until the present day, an alternate history has been told at the Aldridge estate in Rhode Island. The family maintained a carefully constructed reputation, protected like an heirloom so its value would increase with each generation. Locally, the Aldridge name was synonymous with excellence and patriotism; naturally, there was no room in its lore for a disgraced soldier from the nation’s first war. On the sprawling estate, even the house was staged to support the family name. Aldridge men were known (self-promoted) as war heroes, and their service awards, some dating back to the Madison administration, were encased and prominently displayed throughout the mansion alongside the state and country’s most prestigious awards, whether earned or bought. On every wall, portraits immortalized the notable forebears who never faced failure in business, politics, or combat. Thus, the events of the past were tailored to serve the present and future, just as present-day blemishes were concealed at any cost. Thaddeus’s life was the easiest to reframe, not just because there were few surviving documents pertaining to his service, but because no one really cared about the myths and legends of a time so far removed from their own. At Aldridge-hosted society gatherings, business receptions, and dinner parties, bored attendees regarded the oft-told Revolutionary War stories as nothing more than the cost of admission; payment was made in full with feigned interest. 

The revised tale portrayed Thaddeus as a victim of relentless, brutal character attacks from a fellow soldier whose affections were spurned by a soon-to-be Mrs. Aldridge. When the two men returned from the battlefield, an unscathed Thaddeus was celebrated for his bravery, while his comrade was one limb lighter—an unfortunate condition that would forever hinder his attempts to earn the love of any woman. Feeling betrayed, the resentful one-armed man spent the remainder of his days drinking and trying to ruin his former friend with slanderous lies. 

Nearly two and a half centuries later, matriarch Caroline Aldridge made it her mission to protect and defend the family’s reputation, primarily because she feared losing her long-held position in the local chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution. She never once considered that the original story was kept alive solely by the family’s insistence on continually rebutting it. Nonetheless, while both stories were known, the socially acceptable response was to dismiss the truth with scoffs and laughter. A Revolutionary War soldier furloughed for inactivity? Nonsense. Without a severe wound or disease? Not likely. An Aldridge man? Never. 

Within the family, the approved side of the story became an important lesson for young Aldridges, convincing them that their name meant having the strength to overcome any adversary or romantic rival. Aldridges are never weak in mind, body, or spirit. An Aldridge always prevails.  

Caroline’s son, Grant, didn’t buy it. He had always felt sorry for Thaddeus, whose truth was so easily dismissed. However, his empathy for his ancestor stemmed from the deep connection they shared. For years, the 23-year-old Grant experienced episodes of fatigue that left him withdrawn and struggling to focus on even the simplest tasks. His listless life was lived under an invisible black cloud, often draining him of his reasons for existing. Like his fifth great-grandfather, inside his mind was a darkness that couldn’t be illuminated. Thaddeus had been discharged from George Washington’s army, but Grant was effectively discharged from the Aldridge family and often wondered what story would one day be invented to explain him.

Clara Aldridge’s 90th birthday gave Caroline a convenient reason to host a dinner party. Not a grand celebration of her longevity as the family elder and grandmother to three deserved; after all, no Aldridge on record had lived longer than she. However, Caroline very carefully budgeted her entertaining, and her mother-in-law’s birthday did not justify the costs of a large gathering, not with the extra staff that would be needed along with a cleaning crew, catering, servers, large quantities of alcohol, and at the very least, a pianist. The Aldridges were more than well-off, but Caroline wasn’t about to spend their money on an event where she herself would not be the center of attention. Clara preferred small gatherings anyway, she insisted. It wasn’t true, but it wasn’t the first time others explained the old woman’s preferences. A supposed disinterest in her inherited property and finances led her son, Simon, to prematurely assume guardianship of everything that was once hers. In return, Clara shuffled around the house and grounds each day without uttering a single syllable to the family, a practice she resolved to maintain until her death. She was as sharp as anyone in the family and never shied away from making her presence known, but her position at the head of the table was no more important than the violets she liked to set into her sculpted silver hair. The matriarch emerita was to be seen and not heard.

Grant and his brother Daniel would be home for the event, having just finished their junior year at Brown (which admitted Daniel for perfect test scores and Grant for a phone call from his father). Although their school was not far away, return visits were reserved for holiday breaks and the summer recess, which were heavily pre-booked with family events and obligatory church appearances. 

Among the few commonalities between the boys was their birth date. Grant was the first to arrive, but would spend the rest of his life a step behind his twin. He struggled with his studies, had no natural charm or interest in social occasions, lacked athletic ability, and was not conventionally attractive. However, he was compassionate, deeply emotional, cared for others, and found beauty in everything. Daniel, on the other hand, was everything his brother was not—bright, driven, physically perfect, and impossibly handsome. Daniel had what the world wanted, while Grant wanted nothing from the world. 

The brothers had none of the strong connections that twins were thought to possess—no mirrored mannerisms, emotional telepathy, or twin speak. They were never friends. But Grant wasn’t bothered by their disconnect. The family’s golden child could never be expected to share anything with anyone. He believed his brother to be more important than he was. It’s what he was always told. The wide variance in the family’s regard for each brother was never concealed. Daniel was raised in a progressively preferential manner, aided by the arrogance of a lifetime of being reminded of what Aldridge men are and are not, and the results were as intended. If dining room banter was to be believed, the weather changed after Grant was born; rainclouds dissipated, and the sun shone brightly for his brother’s debut. Daniel was destined for greatness. Grant just was. 

There was no sign of a birthday.  It looked like any other dinner party, of which there were no less than thirty per year, some larger than others. The long, white-clothed table was laid to perfection, with silver platters and utensils polished to mirror-quality reflection and hand-painted porcelain dishes set so certain flowers in their chintz borders were positioned at identical degrees. Crisp, starched napkins were meticulously folded to await their duties. And without a directive, the family dressed for dinner, an everyday practice. Like the place settings before them, jackets, ties, dresses, jewelry, and hairstyles all had to be just so. 

It was the smallest dinner party Carolie had ever hosted. The rotund Reverend Tyler’s attendance was a given; his frequent presence at the homes of his affluent congregants was a deliberate strategy to keep his grocery bill to a minimum. Daniel had invited his fiancée, Laura, a young woman deemed acceptable for her family’s wealth and social standing. Cousin Melanie, from the moment she walked through the door, was as bored and inattentive as could be expected from any 17-year-old. And red-faced Uncle Martin was reliably in attendance; however, Aunt Abigail sent an apology—something about a sniffle that didn’t belong at a dinner party—no mention of her mother’s birthday. 

The attendees arrived at the table promptly at six o’clock, some coming directly from a two-drink cocktail hour in the parlor. Grant had been alone on his bed, flipping through a thick art history textbook, and although he was always on time, punctuality was a struggle; he not only lacked energy but also had no interest in the lengthy and invariably dull conversations. Still, he wanted to be there to celebrate Clara. He didn’t know his grandmother very well, mainly due to her years of silence, but she always had a kind smile for him, and her presence was calming. It was as if words weren’t needed for the two to connect. As far as Grant was concerned, she should have another fifteen years before thinking about going anywhere, if for no other reason than to annoy the rest of the family, slowly and mutely haunting the house with her hunched, wrinkled frame.  

The men stood until the ladies took their seats. Reverend Tyler, who was used to singing for his supper, had added a new blessing to his repertoire and looked to Simon, his occasional golf partner and master of the house, for his cue. Before he uttered his first word, Clara suddenly realized the setting to her right was vacant, thanks to the absent, sniffly Abigail. Pushing down on the arms of her chair, she stood and looked at those around the table, especially the men who were slow to rise for her. Confusion was on every face but Grant’s, who flashed her a smile. With regal poise, Clara turned and left the table without the aid of her cane and disappeared into the kitchen, emerging a moment later hand-in-hand with Maybelle Wells, who had cooked and cleaned for every Aldridge for more than fifty years, a position inherited from her mother. Slowly, the two women—one who refused to retire and the other who refused to die—made their way to the table, Maybelle’s hand on her chest as if hoping to calm her racing heart. Until that moment, only her food had ever been invited into the room.  

When Clara silently presented the empty chair to her new guest, Maybelle turned her head in disbelief, noticing the others trying to conceal their discomfort. She happily untied her apron, handed it to the young man who stood by to pour the wine, and smoothed her gray uniform dress before accepting the seat. Even in silence, Clara wouldn’t take no for an answer.

From the blessing on, and with abundant wine, most of the table engaged in one conversation while Maybelle, who was well-versed in the language of nods, smirks, winks, and smiles, quietly chatted with Clara. They paid no attention to the ever-popular Daniel Show, featuring well-worn stories and declarations of pride. The details changed occasionally, but every word was always in service of a time-honored theme: Daniel was everything. His life plan was restated, though no one in attendance had not already heard it. After graduating from Brown, Daniel was to serve in the Air Force while earning a master’s degree and then attend law school. With a few years of experience at his father’s law firm, he would become District Attorney, followed by Congressman, Senator, possibly cabinet secretary, and finally, president, achieving what the Aldridges always believed was their family’s destiny. Daniel’s success was inevitable, all agreed; he had the name and the requisite intelligence, social skills, and physical form, all topped with a smile that could just as easily inspire trust as it could trigger lust. 

Grant yawned silently into his napkin while cousin Melanie began tapping and swiping at her watch. On and on, between courses of soup, salad, and filet mignon, the table listened to the perfection that was Daniel. There was a time when Grant took pleasure in knowing he could reveal things that would shatter his brother’s perfect image—Adderall, cocaine, odd fetishes, some minor criminal activity—things that weren’t hard to discover. Still, he knew better than to get in the way of the wunderkind. He didn’t want to be involved if Daniel ever stumbled and the family had to rewrite another history.  

On any given day, Grant went unnoticed without even trying. In that way, he was much like his Uncle Martin, a once-successful financier who had experienced a well-concealed breakdown. But that night, something inspired Grant—perhaps the wine, perhaps his grandmother’s actions—and he decided to test the waters. 

“I’ve been researching Spanish and Portuguese painters from the Enlightenment who studied in Italy and examining how the techniques they brought back influenced their home cultures. 

Amid thick silence, a few glances were cast in Grant’s direction, but of far greater importance were the year’s Bears football victories that Daniel had been solely responsible for. 

In for a penny, Grant tried again. “It’s pretty interesting. I’m told my work is publish-worthy. I might even expand on the theme for my master’s thesis.”

There were no movements, words, or even the clink of a utensil on the china. After a few moments, the awkwardness was dismissed. 

“Alright then,” his father said before returning to football.

“Don’t bother,” Martin whispered to his nephew before sending a slight nod for another refill. “They decided who to care about before you were out of diapers. Guess who they chose in my case?” 

Grant wasn’t sure if he should be grateful for a lifetime of independence and unquestioned choices that the family’s disregard afforded him, or humiliated by the weak attempt to receive just a bit more than a passing acknowledgment. Every inch of his body felt weak, and his hot face felt like it had surrendered to gravity. He sensed Clara’s eyes on him, but he couldn’t move. He wanted to leave the table, but that wasn’t permitted until Caroline offered after-dinner drinks in the library to anyone so inclined. 

Maybelle excused herself and slipped away, soon returning with a small, lit birthday cake, and led the table in a feebly performed song. At least Clara’s 90th year was acknowledged, Grant thought. 

“Well, Daniel,” Reverend Tyler said, in a rare empty-mouth moment, “you certainly are your father’s son. God bless you.” 

“Could we expect anything less?” Caroline chimed in. “You’re doing what an Aldridge man must.”

Martin released a barely audible scoff. 

“You’ll be one of the greats. Like your father. And his father. And his father. All the way back. Your 5th great-grandfather, who once owned this property, was the same way, you know. Practically a founding father, one achievement after the other, even when chased by all that silly gossip created by jealousy.” Mercifully, Thaddeus’ full tale had already been shared during cocktails. “I’ve always known it. You can’t keep a good Aldridge man down.”

That was new. Grant instantly noticed the variation. Once, you couldn’t keep an Aldridge man down, but now it was a good Aldridge man, a classification for which he was sure he did not qualify. With a lump in his throat, he glanced over to find Clara embracing him with her smile. 

The end of the meal was long overdue. Martin was busy guzzling, the Reverend was on his second slice of cake, and Daniel’s fiancée was fondling him under the table. 

“Well, who’s for coffee and brandy?” Caroline asked. “We’ll have it in the library.”

As the room cleared, Martin picked up Grant’s half-full wine glass, finished it in one gulp, and immediately feigned ignorance. “Oh, I’m sorry. Was that yours?” 

“That’s alright,” Grant said. “I’ve had enough.” 

The family and guests filed out in the direction of the brandy while Grant headed to his room. Stopping at the foot of the stairs, he remembered his grandmother and turned to wish her a happy birthday and a good night’s sleep. There, in the warm candlelight, he found Clara and Maybelle in each other’s arms, slowly swaying as if music were playing for them. It was a lovely moment he didn’t dare interrupt, so he took soft steps in the opposite direction and returned to his reading. 

It was close to midnight when Grant realized he had spent more than an hour on his bed, not moving, thinking, or looking at anything. The uninvited emptiness that had visited so often since his mid-teens was heavy, and it grew heavier as time passed, yet setting it down wasn’t within his power. Nothing was. Not the unconscious withdrawal from his surroundings nor the daily bouts of crippling fear and fatigue. His powerlessness brought on a maddening despair, an ever-present reminder that there was no solution, no drug or procedure that could uncross the wires in his brain, and there never would be. He could only tread through life as long as he dared, a life that was certain to be solitary, given the lack of interest and understanding of his condition. Then again, he wouldn’t want to subject anyone to the world in which he lived, so perhaps a life alone was better. So much for reading, he thought, resolving to sleep with the oversized book since he lacked the energy to return it to his desk. 

A soft tap on the bedroom door was heard, which he answered with a tentative call to enter, then again, but louder. Clara finally stepped into the room, cane-first; Grant sat up and began to rise but was waved back down as she sat at his side and placed her hand on his. They remained silent for a while, but her presence spoke volumes. He did his best to hold back the tears that had begun to fill his eyes.  

“Happy birthday,” Grant offered. His grandmother sighed and shrugged, expressing a weariness of age, and smiled. Grant’s head fell, void of thought. 

“Listen to me.” It was soft and slow, but she spoke. “Your brother is a fool. So are your parents, for that matter. They’re all braggarts and fools. But not you. Your mind works differently. You’re far more like me, and your great, great, however many greats grandfather—the one they love to talk about. I’ve heard the stories. I’ve heard the truth. I vaguely recall something about an asylum in Philadelphia—they did that in those days. Terrible. Or maybe that wasn’t him; I don’t remember. I imagine his mind worked differently, maybe like yours, like mine. We’re not alone. My great aunt, they say, was followed by a horrible melancholy all her days. They blamed that on the men in our family tree creating babies into their old age. And there was a cousin, oh, I forget his name, he had a similar situation. Who knows? I know you feel different than everyone else, and you are. It may not be a difference worth celebrating, and it may feel like something is wrong, but you’re still as nature made you. And you’re every bit as important as your brother, their big hero. You’re old enough now. Leave the family fools to their own foolish lives. You take what you feel, and be your own kind of hero. To me. You know how.” She wrapped an arm around him for a brief embrace. 

“So, how does it feel to be 90?” Grant asked, wiping tears from his cheeks.

“Inside, I’m still 40, 50. It’s this old shell that bothers me. But as difficult as every day is, I wouldn’t mind a few more tomorrows. So, I’ll take all the life I’m given. Remember that when I’m gone.”

“I don’t remember the last time you spoke.”

“I’m disappointed with your parents. If my husband—your grandfather—were still alive, this house would be a different place. He could keep them all in line. Not me. Now, I’m ornamental, and that’s if anyone notices me. Once they began to ignore me more than they acknowledged me, I realized I had nothing more to say to them. They wouldn’t listen if I did. I like it when you kids come home. Well, Mr. Gift from God is too big for his britches, but I look forward to seeing you. And I have Maybelle.” 

“I didn’t know she was so special to you.”

“I love her. Deeply. When we’re alone, I don’t stay silent.”

“I think you’re amazing.” 

“I think I am, too. One more thing for you.” She handed him the small box she brought with her. 

As Grant lifted the lid, he sensed something priceless, almost holy, waiting for him. In the single lamplight, a yellowed paper glowed, drawing attention to the blotchy ink script. He lifted the protective sleeve that held the letter and read, struggling to decipher the quill markings. 

May 16, 1789

My dearest Eve,

I do not know when this will reach you, but it may be the last you hear from me.

We have a leader now. Here in New York, I watched as he grasped The Good Book and promised good work, though I could not hear a word. I believe he will do just that.

Our love has been a gift from God, dearest one. In my heart, I never for one moment took it for granted. Please know that. It is my hope you will freely share the stories of our times together with our surviving children and encourage them to do the same, that our love may be kept alive well beyond our days. 

In moments of pensive stillness, I find drops of gratitude, not just for you, my love, but for this horrid and yet wonderful life. No longer do I notice my reflection and wonder why the existence of such a soul is possible. I believe my body fails to function because my heart is more deeply attuned to everything around me. I feel the pain of others. I absorb the laughter. I connect to the beauty of every tree, bird, and cloud to such a degree that I feel I am one of them. Yet, I am never energized by those moments. They fill my heart but weigh my soul with a fear I cannot understand. The world around me is capable of so much light, yet I only find it an increasingly dark place.  If this tortured life is as God above intended, He has forgotten to reveal why.   

As I give these words to the paper over several days, the air has become so thick I cannot maneuver. I fear I may never emerge, and even if I do, I won’t have what you need or deserve. You have always been the light in my life, my patient angel, my dearest one. Regrettably, I fear I can no longer see through the darkness. 

God bless you, Mrs. Aldridge, my love. 

Yours evermore,

 Thaddeus

Grant looked at his grandmother in astonishment. 

“Holy shit.” 

“Exactly.”

“Do you-?”

“I have no idea what happened after that. And don’t ask why I kept this to myself. If I showed it to your parents, it wouldn’t change anything, and I’d never see it again. The truth has no value in a house built on lies. I give it to you as a reminder. You have never been and never will be alone. You have more help available than poor Thaddeus could ever dream of, and I pray you find something that will do you some good. Remember, two things can be true at once. You’re enduring a kind of pain no one else can understand, a pain that sometimes leads to despair. But you also have deeper feelings and a strength that your brother, the future and probably one-term president of the United States, will never understand.” She squeezed Grant’s hand and stood to leave. “Now, Maybelle is waiting for me. Remember what I said. Sleep well. And leave your burdens at the door to your dreams. My hero.”