No Sad Songs

by Frank Morelli

  John stops his tale midstream.

  “What?”

  “Does he always talk like this?” she asks to no one in particular.

  “Yes,” I say. “Yes he does.”

  Sofia shakes her head and scratches a dry patch of skin on her elbow just below the outstretched talons of an eagle tattoo.

  “Does this kid think he’s gonna live forever? I’ll need to make funeral arrangements before the story ends.”

  I start to laugh at John’s expense—I can never resist—but Sofia cuts me off and forces me to stifle it. “Not that I’d ever be seen at a funeral—dead or alive. They’re phony as hell, but that’s beside the point. Your situation is obvious, Gabe. Everything turns grey.”

  I’m not sure which one of these clowns is pissing me off more.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I ask, and there’s nothing gentle about my tone—like I’m a New York City cab driver or something, and she’s an obnoxious, drunken fare.

  “Agent Orange,” she says. “The band. It all turns grey no matter what you think or do or say. Or something like that. I don’t know. I’m not the geeky poet here. But it’s a line in one of their songs—a really simple way of saying you need to make a sacrifice, Gabe. And in about forty thousand less words than Faulkner over here.”

  I’m still pissed but I can’t hold back on a second opportunity to ridicule my best friend. So I laugh. And John laughs too—I swear the kid was tragically born without an ego. And, suddenly, all three of us are cracking up at John’s expense.

  The laughter clears the fog for just a moment. Long enough to see the point my friends are trying to make—a point I wish they hadn’t decided without me. Because it’s not strong enough to make me turn my back on Dad’s promise. Or on Grandpa. Nothing is that strong. I think even my Uncle Nick would agree, which is a pretty stunning development. I mean, it’s not everyday I find my thoughts in alignment with Nick’s. That alone should tell me to reason this thing through a little more, but every time I try I just think about Dad and I refuse to let him down.

  “I’m not turning him in,” I say matter-of-factly when the laughter dies and John and Sofia are back to munching on pizza. “You know, it really sucks having to worry about my grandfather every second of everyday. Even while I’m sleeping! I mean, I have nightmares where I’m trapped inside a Tetris board and all the falling shapes are Grandpa’s pills raining down on me. And then I wake up from the nightmare and help the man take a bath. There’s no escape. But if you think I would trade him away to avoid any of that stuff, then you don’t know me at all.”

  “The only thing we want you to avoid is jail time,” John says.

  “And when the police find out the real truth,” Sofia adds, “Things are gonna be a whole lot worse for you and Gramps.” I just shake my head and reach for their empty paper plates.

  “You two will never get it,” I grunt as I carry the trash over to the counter. “This has never been about how I can improve my life. And it never will be.”

  Neither of them respond, they just go on sipping cola through their straws. I guess John and Sofia think they accomplished enough for one day. I don’t tell them they’re wrong, of course. It’s more convenient to let them think they make a difference, even when they don’t. So, I create a diversion and change the subject altogether.

  “You know, Sofia is a tattoo artist,” I say to John.

  “I kind of figured that,” he says as he motions up and down Sofia’s arm with a shaky index finger. “You do all that yourself?”

  “Every single line,” she says. “And more. But Gabe knows the rules on seeing the rest of them.” She winks at me—I swear, this girl has no fear of anything. I could probably unleash the tiger from John’s lame fable on her and she’d send the poor thing back to me with a tattoo on its ass that says ‘mommy.’ I’m not much of a tough guy myself, so the blood rushes to my ears and I feel the red blotches form on my face.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Uh. You have to know her for a long time.”

  I’m nervous as hell all of a sudden and I don’t know why. Sofia laughs. One big hearty HA! And it saves me.

  “Lots of emergency room dates. That’s what I call them,” she tells John. As she says it, there’s a quick flash of light like when the sun hits the face of someone’s watch at just the right angle. My eyes move to the front window of the shop and I see him immediately. Officer Patterson. He’s across the street and behind the wheel of a brown, unmarked sedan. He can tell I see him, so he rolls up the window and pretends to read the newspaper. What is it with this guy?

  “Your buddy gets all middle school about the term,” Sofia continues without noticing my wandering eyes. “Sometimes I think he might pee his pants.” Now it’s John’s turn to laugh at my expense and he’s not shy about it. He smacks his hand down on the table hard enough to rouse Mr. Perdomo from meditation above his afternoon espresso.

  Boy, I’m so glad these two have met. Ugh. Nothing like being outnumbered. I think I’ll keep the Officer Patterson sighting to myself.

  13

  TRANS-AMBUSH

  It was only noon but Perdomo gave me the rest of the day off, which was pretty generous of him considering Saturdays are busy at the shop. “Don’t worry about it,” he told me as I finished wiping out the spill tray under the soda fountain. Thing’s always sticky as hell. “You look stressed, Gabe. Enjoy the afternoon. Maybe take that vampire girlfriend of yours to a double feature.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend,” I had told him. What I really wanted to say was, “What the hell is a double feature, old man? It’s the nineties for God’s sake. Do you see any girls walking in here after school in poodle skirts and freaking bobby socks?” But I figured that might have jeopardized my afternoon off, so I thanked him and clocked out.

  “Don’t worry about me, Gabe,” he said as I pushed through the front doors. “I been running this place forty years. I do it in my sleep.” Trust me, there was no worry—at least not about Perdomo.

  Officer Patterson is another story. It’s been a few days and I still haven’t told John or Sofia I’d seen secret agent man snooping around outside the shop. That would only lead to further lectures and even more detailed fablery from my best friend. I think jail might be a better option.

  The story still leads the local news. Every time I see a report, there’s little Timmy Mullins with a big cast on his arm and his gap-toothed, toddler grin. If the situation were different I might find him adorable like the rest of the saps in this town. Instead, every time I see him on screen, I get the urge to race around the block to his house, pick him up like a human-sized pigskin, and punt him into the cheap seats—on third down. But that’s just me. Maybe I’m biased.

  The police haven’t named a suspect yet, which makes me feel a little queasy every time I think about it—because I’m pretty sure Officer Patterson wasn’t lurking outside the Perdomo’s parking lot so he could catch up on his reading. Somehow I know I haven’t shared my last conversation with the guy, and each time I look at the macaroni collage John and I constructed on the Trans-Am’s fender, I’m reminded of it. And I’m powerless.

  The only thing I can think to do is take another stab in the old LoScuda body shop. This time I’ll keep it in the family. No John. I don’t have patience for Tinker Toys today. I ask Nick.

  He’s in the bathroom, but the door’s open a crack so I barge in without knocking. He’s in front of the sink shaving—which is weird for Nick—and I see his eyes shoot to my reflection in the mirror. There’s a glob of shaving cream encrusted with tiny flecks of spent beard hanging off one of his earlobes. A wet trail of the stuff dribbles down the side of his neck and piles itself on the stained collar of his tee shirt. He grabs a clean towel off the rack and wipes it away before I get the urge to do it myself.

  “Any chance you want to help me repair the monstrosity in the garage?”

  “The car again?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’d do it, Ga
be, but I’m all booked up today.”

  All booked up? The guy spends most mornings eating cereal from a Frisbee and trying to perfect the melody of the “Star Spangled Banner” in farts.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Got a job.”

  He glides the razor over a final patch of stubble and looks at my reflection again, this time with a self-satisfied grin on his face. I’m speechless. “Reconnected with an old buddy of mine. He’s a supervisor over at McLeod’s Trucking. Got me a gig in the warehouse. Nights, so we can split watch duty.”

  “You’re serious?”

  He nods and then splashes a handful of warm water over his face. For a second, the guy sort of looks human.

  “You know today’s Saturday, right?”

  “Six days a week, Gabe. We need the money. Can you see if Perdomo will keep you off the schedule for Saturdays like he did today.”

  I’m stunned. It’s almost like this bumbling, crazy-bearded, baboon invaded my house one day and all it took was a shave and he’s suddenly a real human.

  “That sounds great,” I say, and I’m aware that I’m speaking in the voice of someone who’d just witnessed a UFO landing. “Gramps can hang with me today.” I watch as Nick squirts aftershave from a green bottle on his hand and slaps it on his cheeks. Then he grabs a comb—a freaking comb—and runs it through his hair.

  “I’m proud of you,” I say, and now both of us are stunned. I don’t know where they came from, these words. But there had been no chance of swallowing them up before they tumbled out of my mouth. There was no sucking them back now. They were out there.

  But Nick doesn’t make a big deal. He keeps the comb running through tangles and says, “Yeah, me too.” Vintage Nick. The big ape.

  I fetch Gramps from his room and tell him we’re taking a trip to the beach. His eyes grow wide and they flash toward the closet—where he keeps all of his ancient swim trunks, ones with waistlines so high I’m afraid he might choke. I swing the closet door open and a ratty, leather bag filled with marbles—probably from a time when Gramps wore a freaking Angus Young-style schoolboy outfit—falls off the top shelf and smashes me in the face. Then all the little glass balls explode from the leather bag and shoot off across the wooden floor in no less than four thousand directions. Scattered, just like Grandpa’s thoughts for the last few years. I gather as many of the marbles as I can and stuff them in the bag. If only it were this easy to collect Grandpa’s thoughts and store them all in one place.

  Before I have a chance to offer Grandpa one of my expert swimwear recommendations, he shouts “I want this one!” and nearly makes me jump through the freaking ceiling. He points at a green chest-hugger made out of some heavy material that would be better for covering the pool instead of swimming in it. I help him out of his robe—the thing smells like old milk so I toss it in a pile of dirty socks heaped near the door—and he climbs into the trunks. He must have lost a bit of weight because there’s enough space between his gut and the waistband to fit a Chihuahua. Whatever. It’s not like the beach we’re going to will have any witnesses in the event of a total pants droppage. In fact, the beach we’re going to won’t have any other bathers. It won’t have umbrellas or sand, or water, or even sunlight. Because it’s the garage. Cape Freaking LoScuda.

  I set Grandpa up in one of those beach chairs middle age mothers always sit in—the ones with legs that extend only about three inches off the ground so when you sit your knees are basically scraping your forehead and your ass leaves a crater in the sand. It’s perfect for Gramps because there isn’t far to fall.

  I set up a multicolored beach towel in front of the chair with a bunch of smiling sea turtles printed on it. I even put my old plastic buckets and a dime store shovel on the blanket just to set the scene. Gramps plops himself down in the chair and sprawls out like he’s catching some insane rays through the roof of the garage. It’s another piece of trickery I’m not all that proud of, but at least he’s happy.

  I pop a CD into the stereo on Dad’s workbench: Nirvana. The one with the naked, swimming baby on the cover. I figure I can use a little teen spirit right about now. I move a few of Dad’s miscellaneous items off the surface of the bench: a torn carton full of penny nails, two rubber mallets, a socket set in an army green canvas bag, and his maroon and baby-blue Phillies hat. The fabric on the brim is all frayed so the plastic shows through the front, and there’s a ring of salty whiteness around the bottom edge of the hat—probably a collection of Dad’s sweat from a million humid Philadelphia summers spent grooming Mom’s yard.

  I think about slapping it on my head with my ears all tucked in like I used to do when I was three. But I know that’ll just make the tears hang heavy on my eyelids, so I place it on one of the metal hooks Dad nailed over the workbench to keep his screwdrivers and pliers comfortable between birdhouse-making sessions. The old hat with its trademark Phillies ‘P’ in the center hangs like a tattered battle flag. Dad’s flag. Seeing it holding sentry over all the other workings of the garage makes it feel like Dad’s here with me. But the feeling only lasts a second before I look at the car and see the mess John and I had made of it. Man, if only Dad were here for real. He’d be pissed, but he’d know what to do.

  An old piece of sandpaper lies limp and half-shredded on the cement floor—another casualty of the last repair attempt. This time I select a new strip with less grit. It says “fine” and “150 pt.” in small letters across the bottom. With Gramps half asleep on his own private beach and Kurt Cobain belting out “In Bloom,” I start applying some elbow grease to the fender.

  With a few strokes, the raised, bubbly sections of paint are reduced to naked, metallic patches. By the time Kurt starts to sing “Lithium,” all the crappy corrections we added to the fender are gone. I stand back and admire my handiwork. There’s a bunch of powdery paint residue on the floor, but the fender already looks better. Gramps is still lounging away, sipping imaginary Mai Tais in his own imaginary paradise. Perfect.

  There’s a brown, paper bag on Dad’s workbench. I grab it and empty the contents—a single spray can of red paint with the Pontiac symbol staring back at me. This time I did my homework. Stopped off at the auto store and had the guys match my paint up with whatever they had in stock. Asked for some pointers, too. The salesman—some dude with a ZZ Top beard and a pair of overalls—told me to cover up the parts of the car I didn’t want slathered in paint and then spray away until my heart’s content.

  It’s worth a try, so I grab a roll of butcher’s paper Dad always kept in a tall cabinet beside the garage door. I cut off a few large pieces and lay them on the hood. Then I grab a roll of masking tape. I start to arrange the squares of paper over the untouchable areas of the car, but before I can tape anything down I hear footsteps.

  They are brisk and they are close. I look out toward the driveway and see Officer Patterson, in his patent leather cop shoes, walking toward me. I pretend not to see him at first; shoot my eyes down at the pavement. But it’s no use. I’m cornered. Like a rat. And what am I going to do? Run in the house? Yeah, that wouldn’t be obvious. Crap.

  “Mr. LoScuda,” I hear him say as he enters the garage and stands near the tailpipes of the Trans-Am. “It’s good to see you so hard at work on a Saturday.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Kind of tired of driving around in a demolition derby car. Girls think I’m a creep.”

  He chuckles a little, but I know it’s fake because what I said was not funny, just desperate.

  “I’m just stopping by to see if you’ve heard any new information about the case,” he says. He glances over at Grandpa, pans his eyes from head to feet and back like he’s studying an exhibit at the zoo. “You know, seeing as you live in the area and all.”

  “No. Nothing new, officer. Have you been questioning all the other people who live in this neighborhood or do you only have eyes for me?”

  “I can’t speak about an open investigation, son. Just be sure we are doing all we can—and I mean
everything—to find the person who did this to poor, little Timothy Mullins.” Man, am I ready to punt that little runt—second down is fine with me. “You mind if I ask a few questions?” he asks, and what am I supposed to say? No?

  “Of course,” I say. “I’ll do anything I can to help.”

  Yeah, except tell you the truth.

  “So you say you smashed the car here in the garage. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  Officer Patterson moves around the garage inspecting the walls, picking up stray tools, stepping over Grandpa in the process.

  “And you say you did the repairs yourself?”

  “Yes. That’s correct.”

  Patterson looks over at Gramps again, doing that whole inspection thing he does. He reaches down on the beach blanket and snags the tube of Coppertone I had placed next to Gramps just to set the seaside mood—you know, since we’re in a freaking garage and all. He pretends to read the label. What does he want to know? Whether the stuff is paba-free or something? He looks satisfied, as if he were about to slather himself up and catch some rays right there beside the old man. He tosses the tube back down on the blanket next to Gramps. I cringe because the last thing I need is for the ancient war hero to wake up and start ducking for cover like we’re in the middle of a bombing raid. His eyes twitch behind his eyelids, but they don’t open—thankfully.

  “Mind if I see them?”

  “Well—”

  “It’s your right fender,” he says without waiting for my permission, “so that means you must have hit the garage somewhere around …”

  He roots around on the right side wall, looks back at the fender and then slaps his hand against the spot he imagines to be marked with the “X.”

  “Here?”

  He looks at me. I can tell he’s waiting for a response now, but I have no idea how to talk my way out of this so I stay silent. “Would you agree, Mr. LoScuda?”

  “Oh,” I say. “Uh. It’s hard to say exactly where the damage was. Definitely in that general area I’d say, but—”