Acre Under a Green Sky

The next morning, my father took us kids to the office with him. My grandfather was sitting at his barge-like desk when we entered the waiting room. As soon as he saw us through the open doorway, he jumped to his feet with a loud, "Ho!", and bounded from behind his desk into the waiting room with his arms outstretched the whole way. We piled into his arms, and he was radiant with love. We were like puppies all over a big, old dog.

My grandfather was ugly and smelled like the inside of a pencil sharpener; but he was the happiest man I ever knew which made him beautiful. He was a big bull of a man with a loud lusty laugh and warts on his face. Life was fun for him, even when it was difficult. He was also a skillful attorney and a thief which made him rich; but never nearly as rich as he let on. My father was never rich.

My grandfather knelt there with us on the carpeted floor like a boy with three Christmas gifts; not knowing which to unwrap first. He held each of our faces in his hands with a look of awed wonder as if he were seeing us for the first time. He did a cursory inspection of hands and fingers and feet and knees all the while smiling and grunting approval. Then, one by one, he took hold of our shoulders tight between his powerful hands, and looking squarely into each face, he asked: "Are you having fun? Is everything all right? Have you learned anything yet?" In all the excitement, I can't remember any of us ever answering him.

My father watched all this joylessly from inside his office. My mother told us that my father envied us this attention, because he had no memory of ever getting anything like it himself. Perhaps that's why my father could not reach inside of us and grab hold the way my grandfather could.

One by one, my grandfather picked us up off the floor and bounced us down on the red leather couch across from where Liz was busy typing. Then he entered my father's office and shut the door.

Liz sat at her desk as straight as a West Point cadet with her elbows close to her side and her hands delicately poised over the typewriter. She wore a white sweater that accentuated her high pointed breasts. Her head was turned just slightly toward the small desk easel holding the material she was copying, and she appeared never to look at her magical flying fingers. A diamond engagement ring and wedding band flashed over the keys, and it seemed to me she was more a musician making music than a secretary typing. She was young, slim, and pretty; and I don't think we exchanged more than a dozen words all those years she sat there playing the typewriter.

Suddenly, I could hear voices raised from inside my father's office. Liz didn't bat an eye. Baby Ruth crawled onto my lap and wrapped her arms around my neck. There was a fight going on, all right.

"You're not going to make a dime! You'll never see a penny out of this, and if you do it right, it'll be a year or more before you have time for a real paying client. Boy, you're not thinking this through!"

"Christ, why does everything have to come down to money?! There are other things, you know."

"Like what? Prestige!? Where's the prestige in losing a murder case? The man's guilty as hell. Plead him "guilty" and get the hell out of it!"

"How do you know he's guilty?!"

"What makes you think he isn't? You haven't even interviewed the man."

"I'm seeing him later this morning."

"I'm not staking you to this one. I don't approve. You're taking this loser on without my approval. Don't come running to me for a handout six months down the line when . . . "

"You've got some fucking nerve. I've more than paid my way around . . ."

"Don't you ever talk to me like that!"

"Dad. Just this once, let me . . . "

"I won't have that language . . . "

"Shut up! I'm taking the case and that's that!"

"You don't shut me up, you little piss ant! You're here on my dime and don't you forget it."

Even Liz stopped typing after that. We all sat frozen in our seats listening for a fall, a blow, a gun shot, something! Again voices were heard; this time soft, conciliatory, punctuated by painful silences. My father's door opened to the sound of my grandfather's voice:

" . . . you're on your own. Deal?"

"It's what I studied law for."

"Deal?

"It's a deal."

My grandfather passed through the waiting room and into his office without so much as a glance in our direction. Baby Ruth followed after him, but his door closed before she could reach it. My father appeared a moment later, and took us downstairs to the conference room. There was a long table with lots of chairs, and the walls were books; floor to ceiling shelves of books. Law books. We were given our office collection of pads and pens and coloring books and paints and set loose. Baby Ruth rode her tricycle up and down the tiled hall outside. I couldn't help feeling sorry for my father. He barely said a word –– he was that upset. I understood. After all, he just "got it" from his father. But I couldn't say anything, could I?

Sometime later, he came down again to tell us he was on his way to the police station.

"To see Luka?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"Tell him "hi!" for me, okay."

Once again, our eyes met and a whole world of communication passed between us, or so I imagined. I was on his side this time, and he thanked me. All without a word.

"This shouldn't take long," my father finally said, "Then, we'll go down to the Royal for a burger. How's that?"

"Great."

My father started for the stairs when I heard myself say, "Wait! I want to go with you."

He looked me straight in the eye as if I had just asked him the hardest question in the world. Then he smiled and handed me his briefcase.

"All right, partner," he said, "Let's go."