No Sad Songs

by Frank Morelli

  He looked off into the distance for a few seconds. I could see the muscles twitching along his jawline. He scooped up a napkin and dabbed it over his eyes a few times. “Must have got a bit of ice cream in there when you made me laugh,” he said with a wink. “Now, Gabe, where’s the rest of the stuff? The glasses?”

  “I put them in the back seat.”

  I quickly dove behind the seat like a little jackrabbit and snagged the old glasses.

  “Ah,” Grandpa said. “These.” He held up a pair of black-rimmed reading glasses. They were pretty basic, but he stared at them like he was looking at one of the Seven Wonders of the World.

  “What’s so special about those things?” I asked.

  “They’re his,” he said. “Private Bradley’s. It’s the only one of his possessions that made it out intact that day.”

  “Why do you have them, Grandpa?”

  “Always thought I’d deliver them to his widowed wife one day. You know, as a keepsake. But I never had the courage.”

  “Were you afraid of her?”

  “In a way, Gabe, she scared me more than the German army. I was afraid to face her. To explain to her why I couldn’t save her husband. Why I was still alive and her husband was dead. I couldn’t do it, but I always thought she should have them.”

  “Can’t you bring them to her now?”

  “It’s too late, Gabe. She’s gone. Had a funeral a few years back and I was too much of a coward to even show up for that.”

  He slid the last bite of cone between his lips and chewed it slowly, still staring far off into the distance as if Private Bradley would somehow reemerge on the horizon.

  “Let me tell you one thing, Gabe, and please remember this for all of your days. Do you promise to remember it?”

  “I do, Grandpa,” I told him through a mouth full of ice cream. “I’ll never forget.”

  “Good. Now here it is. Never leave a debt, Gabe. Never. If you owe something to another—if you’ve made them any sort of promise whatsoever—stand by it. Because the only thing worse than debt is the regret of never having repaid it.”

  I’m not sure I knew what he was talking about that day, more than a decade ago, but I do now.

  And Dad knew.

  So maybe Grandpa’s advice is somehow more important now than it’s ever been.

  8

  HIT AND RUN

  “Just one time I want you to be a team other than the Cowboys,” I say. “Just once.”

  “I would if you didn’t call the Eagles for eternity,” John snaps back. He cocks the controller like he’s actually on the field. So annoying. Then he wheels Troy Aikman to the right sideline, waits for my defender to be close enough to see remnants of powdered donut from the quarterback’s breakfast, and then fires a bullet to freaking Michael Irvin in the back of the end zone. No one’s covering. I strangle my plastic Big Gulp cup until little, fizzy droplets of Mountain Dew surge to the top and dribble down the sides.

  “Unbelievable.”

  “I don’t think it matters which team I pick,” John boasts. “Same result.” John elects to attempt an onside kick on the ensuing kickoff. Who does that? I’m not prepared, so I watch helplessly as his kicker—his freaking kicker—pounces on the football while three of my heftiest lineman stand around and count their fingers. I don’t say anything. Just take a sip of Dew and place the cup back on the coffee table.

  “It’s getting pretty silent over there, LoScuda,” John says as we select plays for the next snap. “Nothing for me? No excuses about my team selection, or my choice in uniforms, or the sun glare out there on the animated gridiron? Nothing?”

  “Shut up, John.”

  “Okay, I’m just checking because you seem a little—”

  “It doesn’t help when you pick a team with a Super Bowl MVP, a rushing champ, and a reception machine, and—”

  “Oh, I see.” He calls timeout and pauses the game. Mid snap. What’s with this guy?

  “What are you doing?”

  He doesn’t respond. Just keeps toggling through his depth chart, moving guys from first string to third string and back again at warp speed. I swear this kid’s faster on the controls than Giordi on freaking Star Trek: The Next Generation.

  “John, let’s play already,” I tell him when the shuffling takes its toll. He hits “start” and we’re back to selecting plays.

  “That’s better,” he says.

  “What’d you do? Take out half your starting lineup?” I notice some schmoe named Burroughs is lined up under center. “Jesus Christ.” John snaps the ball and maneuvers his scrub quarterback around the left end, dodges two or three tackles, throws a damn stiff arm, and then disappears into the sunset. A scrub touchdown. The bastard.

  “Same result,” he says, but I’m already up out of my chair and I’m bounding for the power button.

  “Don’t do that,” I hear John screech from behind me. Then I hear some magazines ruffle and flip off the coffee table, and John has me in a headlock.

  “You don’t want to do that, Gabe. Finish it out! Finish it out!”

  “Beat me with the Redskins and we’ll talk,” I tell him as I drive the legs and break free. He tugs at the collar of my t-shirt and I hear the stitches tighten and snap, but it’s too late. My finger is already on the trigger. The picture on the screen is already wavy, and the evening news report is already shining through the game.

  “Protest!” John shouts, but there’s something happening on the news. Something important. “Protest!”

  “John,” I say. The word “breaking” is plastered in bold, red letters on the screen.

  “This game’s under pro—”

  “John, will you shut the hell up!?”

  I give him a look that says I’m sorry and pay attention at the same time. Like a tin soldier, he’s about-face and in his chair with eyes and ears glued to the set.

  Police are looking for an aggressive driver who almost took the life of a five-year-old child this morning. Shortly before noon, residents on the 400 block of Montgomery Street were shocked to find their sleepy, suburban street blocked off by an active crime scene.

  Witnesses reportedly heard a loud collision and saw a late model sports car speed away heading East. The young child was struck as he pedaled out of a driveway in front of his own home. He sustained multiple injuries and is recovering tonight at Children’s Hospital as a search for the driver intensifies across the Philadelphia suburbs. A squadron of plainclothes officers combed the neighborhood for additional witnesses who may be able to confirm the identity of the hit-and-run driver, but none emerged.

  “At this time, we are unable to produce a reliable sketch of the alleged assailant,” said Detective Michael Patterson, the lead investigator on the case, “but we are determined to build on the existing evidence until justice is served.”

  Concerned neighbors like Mary Wolnick, who lives two blocks away on Spruce Drive, plan to keep a sharp eye on the roadways outside their homes until the driver is found. “It’s just terrible,” Wolnick said. “In a small town we deserve to cross the street without fear. I know I won’t feel safe until this criminal is behind bars.”

  If you have information regarding the incident on Montgomery Street, please call our Crime Stopper hotline at …

  I can’t watch any more, so I hit the power button on the remote and stare at the blank screen.

  “So what?” John says. “A kid got hit by a car. Happens all the time.”

  “That’s right around the corner from here,” I say. I haven’t blinked or moved my eyes from the blank screen. It’s like I’m frozen in this moment before reality becomes reality.

  “Yeah, so?”

  I don’t know if my gut is telling me the truth or making me paranoid, but if anyone can help me make the determination it’s John.

  “Let me show you something.”

  Out on the driveway, I crouch down next to the front fender of the Trans-Am and motion John over like I’m in one of those old det
ective movies. I don’t want anyone taking notice of us assessing of the damage.

  “See for yourself,” I say.

  John kneels down and runs two fingers over the scratches and the giant pockmark at its epicenter.

  “What happened?”

  I motion him over to the garage and he looks at me funny, like I’m the nutjob for trying to be subtle.

  “You’re acting weird,” he says.

  When we’re safely inside the garage I say, “Well, I thought maybe some idiot sideswiped me in the Schuylkill lot Friday afternoon. Thought maybe I didn’t notice at the time since it’s on the passenger side.”

  “It wasn’t there, Gabe. I got in this side. I would have noticed something like that. You would have been pissed and annoying on the ride home, but I would have taken my chances and told you about it anyway.”

  “John, do you know what this means?”

  John stares down at his feet, thinks for a second. Then his eyes get all wide and he takes a deep breath.

  “It doesn’t necessarily mean—”

  “I found my spare keys sitting out on the hall table when I got back from Perdomo’s.”

  “But he couldn’t have—”

  “Nick said he heard me come home. Said I was loud. Tell me, John, how loud is my Mongoose?”

  “Not very loud.”

  We stare at each other with masks on our faces—masks of shock that block away all other thoughts and feelings. We have no other thoughts at the moment—only flashes of catastrophe, of all the unpleasant possibilities we could land on because of one moment of misguided judgment. All because I wanted to be the me I used to be for a just a few hours.

  “Maybe it’s just a coincidence,” John says. But he doesn’t seem so sure of himself.

  “There’s another way to check,” I say, and I lead him to Grandpa’s room to assist in a surprise inspection. If all goes well Grandpa won’t even know it happened.

  “Time for pajamas!” I shout out of nowhere. John almost launches out of his shoes, but Gramps knows the drill. Like a robot, he’s programmed to inch himself off the bed, drop his drawers and await further instructions. John looks on. He seems amazed at the swami-like powers I have over Grandpa in the pajama-changing department. One day I’ll tell him the whole routine is but a small win—especially since the grand prize happens to be a personal and rather intimate viewing of the wrinkled madness that is my grandfather without clothes—but it’s a win I’ll take.

  I grab Grandpa’s flannels off the top of his dresser and John helps me roll the legs up over his feet. When we get to about thigh level, I feel a tap on my shoulder. John is doing this weird squinty thing with his right eye. Then I see what he sees. A purple, snakelike bruise on the old man’s upper thigh—the type of bruise he might get if, say, he jammed the brakes without a seatbelt on and took a dead-leg from the underside of a steering wheel. It was that kind of bruise.

  So it was confirmed.

  Somehow, Grandpa had escaped the house undetected (freaking Nick). Somehow, he was able to take the Trans-Am out for a geezerly drive (freaking Nick). Somehow, Grandpa was the hit-and-run driver—and my car was the weapon of choice.

  We put the finishing touches on Grandpa’s pajama party. “Take a rest in bed,” I tell him. “I’ll be back in a few minutes to read you a story.” Thankfully, Gramps is in good spirits. He climbs into bed and pulls the covers up over himself. John rolls the shades so Grandpa doesn’t realize it’s barely twilight outside.

  When John and I are back outside I say, “What the hell am I going to do?” I pace back and forth through Mom’s dais+ies. She would have flipped out, but I can’t worry about that right now.

  “You should call the police, Gabe. I know he’s—”

  “Yeah. I’m not calling the police.”

  “But you can—”

  “Look, John. No police! If they find out he did what I think he did, they’ll toss him in jail, or worse … one of those homes where the orderlies harvest organs and perform senior citizen sacrifices.”

  “Dude, you’ve been watching too much 60 Minutes or something.”

  “You know what I mean.” I look him in the eyes really hard—like, criminally hard—and he nods. John gets it. He always gets it.

  “Then I guess we only have one choice,” he says.

  “And what’s that?”

  “I hope you paid attention in auto shop.”

  “John, Schuylkill High doesn’t offer auto shop.”

  “Well then we’re probably screwed. But it’s worth a try, right?”

  I look at him like he’s an idiot, because his idea is one that an idiot and only an idiot could ever dream up.

  “Unless you have any better ideas.”

  I don’t, so I pop the Trans-Am in neutral and John helps me push her into the garage—away from prying eyes.

  “See you in the morning,” I say as he scuttles off down the driveway.

  “First thing.”

  9

  SMOOTH AS SHE’LL EVER BE

  I’m in the garage by six o’clock the next morning. I have my AC/DC shirt on and there’s a bandana on my head in the style of freaking Blackbeard’s ghost. It took me twenty minutes to tie the damn thing and I still look a bit like Aunt Jemima. I flip on the radio to Philly’s number one rock station: 94.1 WYSP. Kurt Cobain is singing “All Apologies” and, for once, it’s not the crappy acoustic version.

  All of this prep work is just so we can look like we know what we’re doing—even if my last attempt at mechanics was building a tree house in the apple tree next to Mom’s garden … out of papier-mâché. Apparently, I didn’t take the lessons learned by the first two pigs very seriously when Dad would read me all those bedtime stories. Anyway, it rained that night and my paper house ended up looking like the victim of a fratboy prank by the next morning.

  Don’t laugh, because John’s not much better. He shows up at six-thirty with a bag full of sugar donuts and a cardboard box filled with assorted tools—two boxes of finishing nails, a set of pipe wrenches, four pairs of safety goggles, an electric drill, a hacksaw, and a brand-new roll of athletic tape. The items jingle and jangle together like Christmas ornaments as John sets them on the workbench. Dad’s workbench—where he used to construct the mansions of the birdhouse world and notch out tenons and use freaking wood glue. Wood glue.

  Boy, would he be happy to see me feeling my way through a box of tinker toys on the work bench he built with his own hands.

  “Tell me,” I say, “Did you pull a hammy on the walk over here? Because, what the hell are we going to do with athletic tape?” John shrugs and takes another tired bite of his donut. “This is a car we’re fixing here. It’s not a—man, I don’t even know what you’d build with this mess. And what’s with the safety goggles?”

  “You can blame my mom for that.”

  “You told her?!”

  I can feel the sweat begin to build under my pirate gear.

  “No. Don’t worry. I told her I’m working on a school assignment. Gravity-powered vehicles for physics.”

  That’s John—the geeky lab rat in grease monkey’s clothing.

  “Alright, let’s get serious,” I say—which apparently entails spreading John’s useless tools out in a line next to the car and staring, in silence, at the fender for twenty minutes straight. When that does nothing to improve the status of the vehicle, I kneel in front of the tire and wheel my nose to within centimeters of the pockmark.

  “You don’t know what to do, do you?” John asks after another full minute of silence.

  “Not a clue. Best I can do is guess.”

  I had seen Dad do a little bodywork on the old Volvo. Not enough to really know what I was doing, but enough to send me in a direction.

  I open a cabinet over the workbench and pull out a few strips of sandpaper. The words “coarse” and “16 point” are printed in small letters across the bottom.

  “Observe,” I say, and John shakes his head. I rake the grains of
the paper across the scratches and watch a few flakes of red paint peel off and flutter to the ground. I stand back. There’s a small patch of naked steel staring back and still a huge pockmark, but the scratches are almost gone.

  “Looks better,” I say.

  “Depends who you’re asking.”

  I give John a look, then step back up and continue sanding.

  “This is gonna take a while.”

  “We’ll take turns, save the shoulder. You know, for baseball season.”

  I stop sanding for a moment.

  “Don’t tell me you’re thinking of trying out.”

  “Oh, hell no.”

  John laughs a little, and before we know it we’re both hysterical. John playing baseball. Ha! Man, the thought of John playing anything without a video controller attached to his hand brings tears to my eyes.

  “No,” he says, “But, it’s senior year. You need to start training. I mean, I think I can handle tossing a few balls to you.”

  “We’ll see.” I hand John the sandpaper and we trade places. No wonder Mr. Miyagi prescribed Daniel LaRusso a heavy dose of sanding. This stuff is murder.

  “Offer’s always there,” he says. “And the stakes are high, because there’s no chance Marlie’s going out with a guy who picks splinters out of his ass after every game.”

  “Not cool, man. And the answer’s still ‘we’ll see.’ You gotta understand. I’m afraid.”

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Gabe. You’ve been playing this game—”

  “I’m afraid you’ll get hurt when I rip a screaming liner down your throat. I’ve seen you with a glove. It’s freaking scary.”

  John runs his bare hand over the freshly-sanded spot on the fender.

  “About as smooth as she’ll ever be.”

  I nod and lift the lid on a metal trunk Dad used for all his detailing needs—shammies, waxes, touch-up paint, the works. I rummage around until I find a nail polish-sized bottle of touch-up. It says “Pontiac” on the label so I know it’s for the Trans-Am.

  “We can probably get away with leaving the dent,” I say, “but let’s get some fresh paint on her.”