Grave on Grand Avenue by Naomi Hirahara Page A

Finally I found a news story that said Puddy had been arrested as an accessory to a robbery in West Los Angeles. He was sentenced to seven years in prison.”
    So my fear was right. My grandfather was a jailbird.
    “My mother was devastated. She made up stories about him to all our family friends. But when I finally had your father, I didn’t include Puddy’s name on the birth certificate. So your dad became a Rush like me instead of a Fernandes.”
    “Was that his real name? Puddy?”
    “No, it was Pascoal, a real Portuguese name.” Lita put her mug down. “It was rocky living with my mother. Wefought all the time. But because of her being around, I was able to get my teaching credential while raising your dad. Even able to have somewhat of a social life—my mother always wanted me to get married.
    “When my mother died—all too young—I started to tell people the truth, at least that I didn’t know where Puddy was. I told your father that his father had been just an indiscretion of mine, but that I was so thankful for that relationship because it gave me him. I told him nothing about Puddy’s arrest.”
    All the missing puzzle pieces to Dad’s life seem to be coming together. For all these years, I thought that I was used to not knowing. But now, hearing this all from Lita, I saw that keeping those secrets hidden hadn’t helped me personally—although maybe they had benefited me professionally. Since I knew nothing of this at the time, there’d been no reason to write up Fernandes’s record in my LAPD application.
    “In some ways, I think your father is like my mother. He always wants to accentuate the positive and all that. He’s my sunshine.”
    “And Fernandes? You never saw him again?”
    Lita shakes her head. “No. He did leave the Skylark for me. For us all.”
    “And you didn’t know whether he was dead or alive.”
    “Well, I was curious. Then with all this Internet stuff in the 1990s . . .”
    “You looked him up.”
    “Besides the robbery conviction, there was nothing. No record of Pascoal or Puddy Fernandes owning property.Giving donations. Working anywhere. It’s like he just disappeared.”
    “He told me that he worked on container ships. Was a crewman his whole life.”
    “Oh, he hated the ocean. And the water. That was his father’s life. He was even allergic to seafood,” Lita said, then mused, “Maybe he had no other options.”
    I nodded. I’m sure having a prison record hadn’t helped his work prospects.
    “I debated to tell you when you graduated high school. And then you were in college and before I knew it, you had graduated and were on your way to join the LAPD. Having a felon for a grandfather wouldn’t help you, I figured. I didn’t want you to have to answer for that. Puddy’s run-in with the law was nothing to do with you.”
    “You know, Fernandes came to see me because he claims to know who is committing the Old Lady Bandit robberies.”
    “Don’t believe him. Stay away from him. He can’t be trusted.”
    “Well, that’s what I told him. That I couldn’t help him out.”
    “Good girl, querida .”
    We remain quiet for a few minutes as we watch Shippo play with a piece of loose string, probably from Lita’s throw rug. This whole thing with the Old Lady Bandit is pretty serious. A conviction for first-degree murder with special circumstances could possibly mean the death penalty. Suddenly, I feel exhausted. This has been a lot to take in, and I need time to process how it will impact me personally. I’m a lot like Grandma Toma in that way. And this is sure a lot of new and a whole lot of personal. I look at my phone for the time. “I better get going.”
    “A date?” Color has returned to Lita’s face.
    “Some errands. And then dinner at my parents’ tonight.”
    “Oh no, don’t go. Make some excuse. Say that you got the flu.”
    “Why?”
    “You shouldn’t tell your parents about all this. Let some time pass.”
    “I’m not planning