“You did?”

“I did. Spring of ’85. It was torture, not knowing whether your father had even seen the notes, and at a certain point I figured I’d take a trip and meet Russ’s people. I found the house and rang the doorbell, and your grandmother answered. The moment I saw her face, I realized I couldn’t follow through. I pretended to ask for directions, and we spoke for maybe thirty seconds. When I lingered after, hoping to catch a glimpse of your father, I saw the pastor peek out through his blinds. I nodded at him, and he was very strange, kept looking out his blinds at me. One of them called the police on me, and I remember seeing your father come outside when the police car arrived. I had to tell them I had the wrong address and was sorry to have bothered anyone. Your father, he was maybe twenty by then, handsome beyond belief. I always felt, well — I always felt that in some way he knew who I was. I’m sure that’s crazy. It’s just a feeling I had and never got rid of. The way he looked at me.”

“He didn’t, I’m sure,” I say. “I’m pretty sure this will be news to him.”

“So we’re going to tell him?”

I put my hand on his back in a way that feels normal, now that I understand that he’s my blood. He is me, and I am him, and I am my grandfather. We’re the same. It’s freaky to think that someone who is just like me died of AIDS. That someday, I might get a disease because I’m a human and all humans get diseases and die. It’s part of life, I guess, and that makes me feel surprisingly alive.

“So can I call you Grandpa?” I ask.

The smile starts at his ears and lengthens the minus signs to full dashes, and I see his teeth, so small and a little browned out, and I love them.

“You must,” he says.

MY NEW GRANDPA and I have lunch at a pasta place in his neighborhood, and even though the news he just gave me is sad, I feel a little giddy. Maybe I haven’t found my grandfather, but I have found someone I like, who seems to understand me pretty darn well. I especially like telling Turk funny things, because of his reactions. I explain to him, for instance, how my mother says things like, “I need to own this feeling,” and then add, “I think it would be cool if there was some sort of business out there that bought and sold feelings, leased them, or allowed people to buy aftermarket feelings at reduced rates.” He looks at me with kind eyes and says, “Oh, Russ.”

It could be creepy. But it isn’t creepy. It makes me feel connected to my granddad.

When he goes to the restroom, I look at my phone. I have a bunch of text messages from Aisha. The most recent is all question marks. I know I should answer, but I just want to focus on Turk.

I write: Call you in a bit. All good.

Toward the end of lunch, I see someone with a beer walk by. I look at Turk and say, “Would it surprise you if I told you I’m a little too curious about alcohol?

“No,” he says. “It wouldn’t surprise me. Alcoholism can run in families, you know.”

“How would I know if I’m an alcoholic? If I should be going to meetings?”

“How much do you drink?”

“I had my first beers in Salt Lake City. Three of them. Pissed Aisha off big-time.”

He nods. “I think if you’re worried, you shouldn’t drink. It gets bad, Carson. And it happens fast. Once that train starts rolling, you can’t stop it. I promise.”

In that moment, I make a vow to myself. I may have a million other problems. I may make all sorts of mistakes in my life. But I will not become an alcoholic. I will not cross that line, and I’ll do it by never drinking, ever. It’s the only way I can be sure.

“Thanks. You may have just saved my life.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says, smiling.

He sees the waiter and asks for the check, and when the check comes, he motions for the waiter to bend down so he can whisper in the guy’s ear. The waiter looks confused, and then he smiles. And I’m like, Is he propositioning the waiter?

When the waiter walks away, I say, “What was that all about?”

Turk waves me off. The check comes, and Turk gives the guy his credit card.

We sit in awkward silence. “You’re really not going to tell me what that was?”

“Don’t you worry about it,” he says, giving me a quizzical look.

The guy brings back two credit card slips. Um, what’s happening here? Is he paying the guy? Is this like a prostitution thing? A drug thing? My stomach sinks.

“Now you really have to tell me,” I say.

“Carson,” my new grandfather says. “For God’s sake. Drop it.”

As we leave the restaurant, the waiter gives Turk a hug. Once outside, I stop walking. “No. You one hundred percent have to tell me what’s going on. I am freaking out here.”

He shakes his head at me. “Good God, you’re a drama queen. You really need to know?”

“Yes.”

“You’re very nosy,” he says.

“Just tell me,” I say.

He runs his craggy left hand through what’s left of his hair. “I just attempted to do a random act of kindness, if you must know. I paid the restaurant an extra sum of money, none of your business how much, so that the next few people could eat for free. But since it was supposed to be an anonymous random act of kindness, I suppose the anonymous part is null and void now.”

He walks on and I just stand there, feeling dirt low about what I suspected. “Sorry,” I mumble.

He waits for me to catch up, and we walk on together. “Don’t worry about it,” he says.

“No, really,” I say. “I’m sorry. I trust you. I won’t do that again.”

“You’re a sweet kid,” he says. “Like your grandpa.”

“He was, like, forty, right?”

“That’s a kid,” he says.

By the time we get back to his place, I feel like I’ve known Turk forever. I curl up on the couch, and Gomer sits next to me and rests his muzzle on my feet, which is cool. Maybe I’m beginning to get dogs.

“So what’s the average price of a present you would have given me, say, every birthday and Christmas?” I ask, patting Gomer’s head, which makes him turn around and pant, his mouth open wide, his tongue sticking out.

Turk laughs. “Is this a shakedown? On the very first day of my grandfatherhood?”

I nod. “Yep. Total shakedown.”

“What the hell do I care?” he says, throwing his hands in the air. “I got all the funds I’ll ever need, and a severe lack of family. Seems like a good trade. What do you need?”

When I explain to him the first thing I really want, he isn’t so sure he can do it.

“You sure? How about a nice sweater? I would happily improve your wardrobe. Because this,” he says, pointing up and down at my ratty T-shirt and Gareth’s baggy shorts. “This is unbecoming.”

“This is unbecoming because we left for a day trip a week ago and all I’ve had since then is what I was wearing that day, plus what a Wyoming oldster and a Salt Lake City boozer-in-training was willing to give me. And, of course, most of what I have is currently in Aisha’s car.”

He wrinkles his nose. Then he sits down and relents. “Fine. Dial for me.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I owe you on this one. And since this has no monetary value, we’ll start on the birthday and Christmas presents after, okay?”

He grins and mutters, “The kids these days.”

Turk takes the phone from me. He nods slightly when the call is picked up.

“Hi,” he says. “Would this be Aisha Stinson? I’m calling on behalf of a misguided child named Carson Smith. This is Turk Braverman, Carson’s late grandfather’s ex-lover.”

I can’t hear the words, but I can actually hear a happy shriek through the phone, and I realize how much I miss Aisha.