Acre Under a Green Sky

My father looked like a whipped dog that morning. He was caved into my mother's chair –– diminished by the high spirits of the good old boys around him. The sun shone brightly through the picture window illuminating a thick fog of cigar smoke that was tear-choking. My grandfather and his two cronies were putting on their jackets, straightening their ties, reassuming their disguises as men of distinction. I stood there in my pajamas feeling highly territorial and indignant; like a parent who has discovered that the kids were out all night.

"Hey!" my grandfather shouted on seeing me. He scooped me up in his arms. "Here's our little detective!"

He introduced me to the two old men who gushed appropriately while my grandfather bragged that I was the one who broke into the Death House and overheard Matt Bradley and the Chief plot their dirty deeds. Adults always smile so stupidly when introduced to children like love-besotted fans meeting a celebrity.

My grandfather regarded mortal sin as no more than mischief. He winked at mine and tossed me into the air. He let me know in a million ways that he admired my mischief. Even when it inconvenienced him, like the time I put small holes in the bottom of all the seed bags in the barn so that when he carried them over his shoulder, they left a trail of seed behind him all the way to the fields. He was furious and gave me a good whack on the butt, but he also let me know by some half-perceived smile around the eyes that he liked the joke –– that it was a good one.

I looked down at my father from my perch in my grandfather's arms and gloated shamelessly. In the war for my grandfather's affection, I was winning. And my joy over winning only served to substantiate how bad I was –– how right my father was about me. And then, just as powerfully, I was overwhelmed with empathy for my father, and I felt ashamed.

But don't for a minute cast my grandfather as the innocent in this drama. He challenged us to compete for his favor, and to my grandfather that challenge from man to man was an affectionate gesture –– an act of love. Affection is often expressed among men as a challenge to dare, to win, to excel. Sometimes, a challenge is the only way a man can express his love for another man –– even a son. It galled my grandfather that my father would never take up the challenge. My father was not a street fighter, and he could not be goaded into becoming one. But my grandfather saw it as weakness, and I believe he experienced my father's dispassionate refusal to fight back as a rejection of his love. The simple truth was that my father refused to take part in any contest in which love was the prize; and for that, I will always respect him. Ultimately, my father was the winner. Every time.

The Daily News said that the murder weapon had been found in the folds of blood-splattered sheets that had been taken as evidence to the property room of the Waterstop Police Department the day after the murders. District Attorney, Matthew Bradley said that he would not seek the death penalty in the case, but that he fully expected the defendant to get life. He also confirmed that samples of tissue taken from under the fingernails of Marilyn Luka proved to be the skin of Chuck Luka, and that there was a corresponding scratch on the inside of Luka's wrist.

The lie was as close to the truth as possible. That was the instruction: "Make the lie as close to the truth as possible!" What an ironic play on words! Still, it saved Luka's life. He would not get the chair. And my father would not have to confront the finest prosecutor in the State. He told me that almost all games are war games; chess, football, soccer, etc., and that this was no different. Bradley had simply made a bad move, and he would have to pay the penalty. More to the point, he was predictable; a highly defeatable opponent, and they would not be calling in a new player. Right or wrong had nothing to do with it. Justice had nothing to do with it. It was a game and now at last my father was a player.