Acre Under a Green Sky

My grandfather pulled his Cadillac into a parking space on Main street a short distance from the Royal Grill. Already, I could see Joe Scarceletti pacing out front.

My grandfather told Danny to keep an eye on Baby Ruth and then he grabbed my wrist.

"You come with me. I want you to see this."

He opened his car door out into the street with no regard to the traffic passing by and pulled me out through the driver's side of the car. My father would never have done that, but then my father didn't own the world –– didn't count among his close personal friends the Governor of Pennsylvania and God. I swear one car brushed my shirt and my heart was set to racing. I liked the adrenaline rush, but I was also a little miffed.

Joe stopped his pacing when he saw us approaching. My grandfather was charging like a bull with me still in tow.

"He's talking," Joe said, even before we reached him, "He's talking too much."

"What's he saying?"

"Enough for me to know that Luka did it."

"Good God! He'll get himself hung."

My grandfather pulled open the red door, and I could feel the music and laughter hit me like an ocean wave. It was Friday evening and the crowd at the bar was three-deep. Paychecks had been cashed and the whole week-end lay ahead for recuperation.

Patsy Cline was crying so loudly from the juke box I had to hold my ears for a second. My grandfather stopped just inside the door to look around. I could see Gladys Mulley standing by a crowded booth with dupe pad in hand, but she wasn't taking anyone's order. She was looking back at my grandfather and the look on her face was grave. Billy Kiernan waved from behind the bar and he, too, had a sinister look on his face. His full-handed wave turned into a single finger pointed toward the center of the bar. It was a mob scene with octopus arms reaching across the bar –– vying with each other to hand over their week's wages –– and patrons shouting to be heard over the sobs of Patsy Cline. My grandfather pulled me into the melee.

Waves of arms and legs parted for us only to fill the void again once we had passed. This was no place for a little kid. I was being stepped on, dripped on, cooed at, and nearly incinerated by cigarettes that weren't flying up into the air nearly quick enough.

Suddenly, my father appeared before us as if from a thick fog. He was seated at the bar head-to-head with another man. He was holding his scotch with one hand and cupping his ear with the other. My grandfather said something, but nobody heard him. Then he tapped my father on the shoulder. My father glanced over his shoulder offhandedly as if the tap on his shoulder had been an accident. He did a classic double take on seeing my grandfather, and sang out, "Hey!" He opened his arms expansively; spilling some of his drink into the lap of his neighbor who merely brushed the wet away as if it were an ash. Then he looked down and saw me standing there a little behind my grandfather and he sang out again growing even more expansive:

"Look who's here! My two favorite guys!"

He nudged his bar mate, and said, "Look here! This is my Dad and this guy down here is my boy! My oldest boy!"

He had to shout to be heard. He told us, "We were having a great talk about ethics and the law before all hell broke loose in here. Can't hear myself think."

I had never seen my father drunk, and I liked it. He looked happy. He began introducing us to everyone around him. It seemed very important that we meet everyone. When it appeared that the introductions were over, someone new would appear and my father would apologize and insist that we meet him, too. He didn't want to leave anyone out. But no one could hear anyone else. Everyone was cupping an ear and saying, "What?"; and begging you to repeat what you'd said. And then there would be a cheer of recognition and a nodding of heads to let you know that they got it.

And all this time I was watching the man sitting next to my father at the bar. He wasn't so much smiling as he was sneering at my father with sideways glances to see if we got the joke, too. But the joke was my father.

I hated that man whoever he was. I hated his assumption that we would share in his glee over my father's vulnerability. And my father was vulnerable –– so vulnerable that he couldn't see that his new friend was mocking him in front of the whole bar.

My father was trying to buy another round of drinks, but Billy Kiernan was taking his cue from my grandfather and pretending not to hear.

My grandfather took my father's arm and said, "Come on. Let's go."

"No, have a drink with me. I think we deserve it after the day Luka's given us. Hey, Billy!" he shouted down the bar, "We're dying of thirst here. I'm losing consciousness."

"Will you shut up, you damned fool!" my grandfather said, tightened his grasp on my father's arm, "You're gonna ruin us here!"

Only a handful of people around us heard him, but my father reacted as if the whole bar had witnessed his humiliation. He ripped his arm out of my grandfather's grasp and said something I could not hear. I was grateful not to hear; given the look on my father's face. It was ugly. My grandfather moved closer to my father. Apparently, he hadn't heard either.

My father grabbed the back of my grandfather's neck and jerked his head against my father's shoulder. Then he spoke directly into my grandfather's ear loud enough for us to hear:

"If you ever touch me again, I'll break your arm."

Then he pushed my grandfather back in place as if he were an object. My grandfather grabbed me and stepped back in horror. My father pulled me away from my grandfather, saying, "This is my son! Do you understand, my son!"

He was holding me close to him with both arms. There was a lull between records on the juke box and a terrible quiet was spreading through the bar. Gladys Mulley appeared just in time and stood between my father and grandfather. All she said was: "Josh, please."

That seemed to bring my father back to himself. He was looking from face to face and the terrible realization of what he'd done was sinking in. His eyes filled with tears and he pulled me up onto his lap. Gladys walked my grandfather a few steps away. She was petting him like he was a big old dog. The juke box was blaring, 'Wake up, little Susie' and a few couples began dancing while others clapped. My father hugged me close and pressed his face against mine. We were sharing a space so intimate that the rest of the world moved in mute slow motion. Then he whispered softly, "Oh God, what am I going to do? What am I going to do?" This was the closest we had ever been. I'm sure that only God and I could hear him. Then he pulled away a little and looked me full in the face. He smiled a big smile, but his eyes were full of tears.

"Your old man's a fool, isn't he?"

He didn't want an answer. His smile faded and we looked into each other's eyes and a world of pain passed between us. No one had heard a word. No one appeared to care. We were all alone together in that crowded room and I began to cry.

"I want to go home," I said, "I want to go home."

He held me close again and began rocking me from side to side saying, "All right. All right, we'll go home."

Then he said, "You're an outstanding human being, kid. I don't care what anyone says. You're an outstanding human being."

Then he began laughing at some phantom irony, and I knew that he was remembering those words. It sounded like something my grandfather might say –– perhaps to his small son. I'll never know, but I've never felt I could rightfully own those words. I know in my heart that they belong to my father.