No Sad Songs

by Frank Morelli

  I mean, this is all pretty insulting stuff if you come to believe Sofia’s intent was to make fun of an old man whose mind is no longer his. But it’s almost unforgivable when you realize the lyrics are intended for me, the almighty ben dan—the boy who puts a stupid value, a damn promise, ahead of his fate. A total moron who must be completely insane because his word and his duty mean something.

  At least that’s how John and Sofia see it. I know that without question now, and without question I am filled with more resolve than ever. For a second, I feel all the heat in my body rise to the tips of my ears, and the blood quickens through the chambers of my heart. I feel it again—the urge to smash the Walkman, the headphones, and the cassette all over the driveway until there’s nothing left but those tiny bits of reflective plastic you see in the street after car accidents.

  But again I stop myself, because why should I stoop to their level? Why should I attempt to destroy something another person holds dear? That’s not what friends do. Maybe that’s a note I should leave in Sofia’s or John’s mailbox. But why bother?

  I place the Walkman on the kitchen table and watch Nick stack all his legal pads, pencils, and loose notes in a pile.

  “You ready?” he asks. I nod. I can’t say anything back because my throat suddenly feels like it’s filled with rubber cement.

  This thing just became real. Much too real.

  17

  GUILTY

  Three generations of LoScuda are piled in the backseat of a cab on the way to the courtroom. Sounds like the hook of some legendary, barroom comedy routine, but it’s not. It’s my actual life, with Nick and I flanking the window seats and taking turns slapping Grandpa’s hand away before he yanks on the driver’s earlobe like it’s a pull cord on a Teddy Ruxpin bear. Add a couple of eye gouges, a bowl-cut hairdo, and film the whole thing in black-and-white and you could probably slip us in on a Saturday morning between episodes of The Three Stooges and no one would know the difference.

  The whole slapstick routine is as routine as routine can get by now—it’s like freaking breathing to me. I slap at a withered hand and straighten a threadbare tie and lose myself in thought all at once.

  I think about my future. Not, like, years and years ahead. Like, my future in the next few hours. When I step out of this cab and into the next phase of my life—the one where I’m a convicted felon. No future for you!

  I imagine myself gliding out of the cab and onto a red carpet that floats weightlessly an inch off the four hundred ninety-nine cement steps that rise all the way up to the federal courtroom nestled snugly on the hilltop above. I see myself behind a pair of dark sunglasses—maybe Ray-Bans with a hazy, black finish to the lenses—and I am a study in stoicism, like a wrongly-accused defendant or a small fry fighting the big company on one of those episodes of Law & Order that fed Mom’s addiction. I don’t even crack an expression, face as barren as a slab of granite, as flashbulbs sparkle like in a Dick Tracy comic and reporters shower down questions like rancid confetti. Me, Gramps, and Uncle Nick just glide up that mountain of steps and through the heavy, courtroom doors as if transported on a chariot made of clouds. Nothing can touch us.

  But reality is often the most worthy opponent to imagination.

  For starters, when the cab sputters around a turn and closes in on our destination, I notice the courtroom is not atop a hill. It’s set back within an enormous parking lot where I imagine you could pack the combined vehicular inventory of all five branches of the armed forces—planes, ships, tanks, freaking aircraft carriers, they’d all fit here no problem. The courtroom forms the large “L” of a building that also houses an ice cream shop, a dry cleaners, two coffee shops, and a Hair Cuttery. Pretty low budget crap for a governmental institution, if you ask me.

  The Texas-sized parking lot is empty except for a few random sedans, a police car, and a couple of news vans from Channel 3. Great. They’d been riding my ass all week, calling the house bugging me for quotes, sound bytes—anything into which they could sink their pointed, yellowed, journalistic teeth. Freaking jackals, I tell you. I said ‘no comment’ so many times this week it became a sort of mantra. I wonder if Gandhi used the same one to endure his hunger strike. Doubtful.

  As the cab approaches, more reporters stir from their metal hives. The door swings open on the police car and an officer, in full uniform, steps out. It’s Patterson. The bastard. Here to watch me fry, I guess. All of my imaginary stoicism dissipates in a single rush of heat and sweat. I feel it melt like an oozing, drippy glob of ice cream on a scorching-hot day in mid July. It forms a little puddle in the hollow just above my shoulder where my neck runs into my collarbone.

  And then I realize it’s not melted stoicism or ice cream at all. It’s saliva. From Gramps. Somehow, amid the hand slapping, and the Three Stooges routine, and the media circus, and the somber sound of taps playing on a lone and distant trumpet (that perhaps exists solely for my ears), he was able to pass out with his face all twisted and scrunched up on my shoulder. Great timing, old man. I glance over at Nick. There’s a glimmer of recognition in his eyes like he knows what I’m thinking—that half-carrying, half-wrestling a helpless old man out of a cab and into a courtroom wouldn’t make me look all that endearing if it happened to play on the evening news as people sat down to eat their dinners. Because one thing will always ring true in this society, and Sofia, the traitor, would agree—elder abuse and meatloaf just don’t mix.

  But my “high-powered” lawyer is not about to let me walk the plank. At least not yet. “Pull around to the pavilion entrance,” Nick tells the driver, who nods. The tires wobble a little and a loose belt squeals under the hood as the cab bypasses the crowd of gawkers in front of our patriotic strip mall courtroom and heads for a deserted corner of the shopping center lot.

  “I’m thinking we could cut behind the row of shops on foot and slip in the side entrance,” Nick says to me.

  “Wake up Gramps.”

  I jerk my shoulder a few times and watch Grandpa’s head bob up and down like a buoy on high waters, but he’s still snoring and drooling like a madman. The cab stops along the curb and already I see something disheartening reflected in the side view mirror. The news vans, once again armed to the hilt with their assorted drones, their killer bees with legal pads, back out of their spots in front of the courthouse as Patterson speaks furiously into his walkie.

  “Gramps!” I shout, and I ruffle my hand through his white mane once or twice. Nothing. Nick slips a twenty into the driver’s hand. I can feel the low rumble of the twin news vans as they complete a rotation around the parking lot and lumber toward us. “Keep the change,” Nick says, and then we both shake Grandpa and tug at his sleeves and the front of his shirt—not the ideal awakening for someone with dementia. But it works. His eyelids flutter. Then he coughs, and suddenly the power’s back on. Gramps looks around. I can see the confusion in his eyes—likes he’s an alien and he just crash-landed on our planet with no understanding of the laws or the land or the customs of its people. I can see the panic rise, the pupils dilate, the whites nearly disappear as if the irises are splotches of ink bleeding through the fibers of a page. I have to reel him in before it’s too late, before he’s off the cliff and down the embankment—and before those damn news vans get any closer.

  “We’re almost to the ballpark, Grandpa,” I say in a voice that’s maybe me at age eight, all squeaky and pre-pubescent. His eyebrows perk and he looks around. “Ryan’s on the mound tonight,” I say. “Think our boy can take him?” A smile washes over Grandpa’s face and the creases in his forehead soften. I look over at Nick. He’s stunned, but he nods his approval to continue the ruse. “Hayes might be the man for the job,” I say.

  “Hayes,” Grandpa grunts as we lead him down a cobblestone walkway and behind the Hair Cuttery to the abandoned strip of employee parking spots businesses provide to their employees—the ones next to the smelly, grimy loading docks and trash receptacles. “Hayes is a gamer,” Gramps says under h
is breath.

  “He sure is,” I say, still like I’m singing a song to a two-year-old. “I think he’ll take Ryan deep at least once today.”

  And we’re making good progress, already nearing a short breezeway that connects the main thoroughfare of the strip mall to the crumbling backbone behind it. We hang a quick right and guide Gramps up the narrow alleyway and, for a brief moment, it feels to me like we could be at Veteran’s Stadium. Then the spell is broken by the clatter of voices—questions fired off from long range—and the swoosh-swoosh of vinyl jackets as they brush against canvas messenger bags. The media. And Gramps’s eyes are bulging out of his head. And so are Nick’s. I can’t see mine, but my head feels hot and my stomach churns like I had better find a bathroom five minutes ago.

  “Come on, Grandpa. It’s almost the third inning already!” I yell and somehow I have him captured again. Nick notices and snatches Grandpa’s wrists and we run and trip and pull and scuffle our way down the alley with the flood gaining on us.

  We slip out the other side of the alley into daylight, and I can tell Gramps is gassed. He’s hunched over and there are little whistling noises coming from his nose and mouth. “Is Hayes on deck?” he asks. He pushes the words through exhausted lungs.

  “He’s on deck all right,” I tell him and he perks up. Takes a few steps toward the courthouse. Then a few more, and by the time the journalistic hoard squeezes its way through the bottleneck in the breezeway, we’re back to a light jog, or at least a compromised sort of half-stagger, half-leg drag. Whatever it is, it’s not fast enough. I feel the questions ping off my back first. They rain down like artillery fire:

  “Do you plan to take full responsibility?”

  “Are you sorry for—”

  “Why didn’t you turn yourself in before—”

  “Care to comment on—”

  “NO COMMENT!” I shout for the final time, and now Nick and I pull at Grandpa without remorse. But he won’t budge. He’s like a statue—a very heavy and very immovable statue. The hoard approaches. More questions, then the patter of footsteps. Closer. Closer. Nick shoots me a deer-in-headlights look and then he reacts. He bends down and attempts to hoist Gramps over his shoulder, but the old man resists. He turns himself into a limp noodle and wriggles out of Nick’s grasp. The hoard surrounds us. Six or seven microphones and several cameras are thrust into the pile like hot pokers:

  “Do you have anything to say to little—”

  “Why didn’t you hire professional representation?”

  “Are you prepared to do time?”

  And then, suddenly, the buzzing ceases and the swarm erodes. All at once, Gramps stands fully erect (and under his own power) and the hot poker microphones are off point. I look over my shoulder and see our savior. The freaking almighty Messiah himself. Officer Patterson.

  “Any further questions can be directed to the commanding officer on the case,” he says with deadpan authority. There’s a smatter of disapproval among the hoard, then a loudmouth decides to speak up.

  “But we have a right to report this story. He’s not even inside the courthouse yet. He’s not officially off-limits.”

  Officer Patterson snaps on his words as deftly and businesslike as if he were snapping the guy’s neck. “Code two-dash-four two-dot-seven of the commonwealth penal code states ‘the grounds of the courthouse can be extended up to one hundred yards beyond the interior structure to provide imminent safety to all officers of the court, its principles, and any member of the jury as deemed necessary by a ranking official.’”

  “And where might we find this official?” one of the reporters asks.

  “You’re talking to him,” Patterson says, and for a second I think he might be Dirty freaking Harry. But that passes quickly. “You’re late for the proceedings, Mr. LoScuda,” he says without looking at me. “I suggest you escort your two counsels inside.” Two counsels. The bastard. But, at least, he’s the best kind of bastard you can be—the kind who can Dirty Harry the hell out of a bunch of local reporters.

  We get Gramps situated in a chair outside the court chamber and I pull a paper bathroom cup out of my jacket pocket (I always carry one with me since I adopted Gramps). I hand it to Nick and he fills it with water from the fountain so Grandpa can take his pills before the show gets started.

  “Hayes is due up soon,” I say as I plop two pills in his water and tell him to drink until the whole cup is empty. I know you don’t believe me, but it works for some reason.

  Nick checks us in with the clerk and fills out a couple of forms. I hear the clerk, a mousy-looking lady with a sour expression, say, “You’re lucky you got here when you did. Your case is next on the docket and Judge Waner simply does NOT accept lateness.” Nick accelerates the pace of his pen across the surface of the last form in the stack. “Courtroom Two,” Mouse Lady says. “Sit in the back and wait to be called.”

  “Come on,” I say to Gramps, “we’re heading to our seats.”

  “Three twenty-six?” he asks.

  “Always,” I tell him as we tiptoe into the back of a wood-paneled chamber with proceedings already in full session. A few heads pop up to gawk at the old man as he bumbles and stumbles his way to a pew at the back of the chamber between Nick and me. We push our thighs up close to his like the slices of bread on a sandwich. To the innocent bystander, Nick and I probably resemble either hyper-vigilant bodyguards or extremely reserved body snatchers. Take your pick, because I can never tell either and it’s my own freaking life.

  Gramps nods off again, this time on Nick’s shoulder as Judge Waner issues this long-winded lecture to a thirteen-year-old kid accused of stealing his neighbor’s bicycle.

  “We all make decisions in our lives,” he says, “and we all need to learn how to live with them. My late grandfather, the Honorable William J. Waner, Esquire, once told me ‘there is a day time, and a night time, and a tea time, and a mean time …. but there is no right time for dishonesty.” The judge lowers his Ben Franklin spectacles (he probably bought them directly from old Ben) and scans the silent courtroom like he’s aching to find a stray syllable, or even a poorly-timed cough vibrating at the edge of anyone’s mouth. There is only one such vibration—from the young defendant himself.

  “But Javon left his bike in our garage,” he says. I can barely make out a whitish outline, stained by a long, salty tear, that streaks down the right side of his face. His words sputter in his throat a little, and he has to wipe his nose before he can continue. “I never made any decision, sir. I didn’t even know the bike was there until the next—”

  Judge Waner holds up one withered hand like he intends to stop the entire courtroom at a cross walk. The gesture serves its purpose. Complete silence, which the old judge enjoys for a moment by staring at the mahogany surface of his bench and providing the court with a magnificent view of the seven or eight grey threads clinging to his liver-spotted scalp. Then he raises his eyes and bores them deep into the defendant.

  It’s kind of bone chilling—even from back here in the nosebleeds. I mean, it’s not bad enough the guy has absolute power over your future, or that he’s a virtual doppelganger of the Crypt Keeper from that show Tales from the Crypt—but those beady, black eyes. Ferret eyes. They are cold and vacant and full of hate. They can see well beyond the cotton knit drab of the defendant’s freshly-pressed dress shirt, past his puffy lips and boyish dimples, right through to the boy’s brain matter and into all the tiny neurons pumping fear hormones every which way, maybe even into his soul. Because, what looked to me like a normal, everyday, pretty nice kid—kind of a mama’s boy if you ask me—Judge Waner saw as the devil incarnate.

  “You did not notify the authorities, Mr. Reynolds!”

  “But—”

  “And you did not contact the owner of the bicycle, Mr. Reynolds!”

  “But—”

  “And you retained the bicycle under lock and key for multiple days, Mr. Reynolds!”

  “But—”

  “Enoug
h of this! My sentence is for one hundred hours of community service and two years probation.” The defendant is motionless except for the slow deflation of his shoulders. “You’re lucky to be a minor,” Judge Waner continues. “Don’t let me see you in my courtroom again, Mr. Reynolds, unless you desire lodgings in the local jailhouse.”

  Damn. All the kid did was keep his friend’s bike dry in his garage for a couple of nights and Waner’s got him going to sleep with visions of the chain gang in mind. I give Nick a look that says, “Can you freaking believe this guy?” He receives the message and returns a nod that attempts to say “don’t worry, I have everything under control,” but which actually comes across as “looks like we are freaking screwed.”

  Typical LoScuda luck. All the judges in the world and I get to the one that unearthed himself from the grave in time to host a popular horror show on cable and send a good Samaritan from Scout Troop 117 to the chair. I’m picturing the whole thing unfold—the defendant in his long, brown socks, khaki shorts, and goofy shirt with all the patches on it getting strapped down and read his final rites—when Waner slams his gavel on the bench and calls for a recess. The crack of wood on wood reverberates through the court chambers.

  Gramps springs to attention and his giant skull nearly smashes Nick’s eye socket to smithereens. “Gah!” Grandpa shouts and twenty heads spin around at once to gawk at the psychotic old dude. Man, I hate rubberneckers. But I hate embarrassment more, so I think quickly. “Just a foul ball, Grandpa,” I say with my arm around his shoulders. “Strike two.”

  His eyes scan the rows of pews and all the people in brown, tweed jackets and dress pants moving around the “concourse.” I feel his back relax against the seat. “Hayes?” he asks.