Martin Granger

Frank Granger turned his head and found his son standing next to his bar-stool.

“Oh, ba'jasus, Martin!” he said. He clutched at his chest and said loudly, “Ya like to have nearly given me a heart attack, boyo!” He laughed a hearty laugh and looked around to his fellow drinkers, but nobody but he seemed amused.

The boy stood alone with his hair combed and parted. He wore a tie which he had obviously tied himself with a large double-knot. The tie was tucked into brown corduroy pants that showed an inch or so of white socks. His black shoes appeared freshly shined. Martin peered back at his father with a look that gave nothing away. His arms hung loosely at his sides.

Frank said loudly for the bar in general, “If it's your dear saintly mother that sent you, run along home. Tell her I'll be there shortly.”

Martin stood where he was absorbing the eyes of his father and of the old, tired looking people sitting along both sides of him along the scarred wood of the bartop. He expected to see someone he knew sitting beside his father, maybe the silly Mr. Hooper with the thumb-trick for one, but he recognized no one other than his dad.

“Tell her I'll be home in a jiffy, Martin,” Frank said, letting his unsmiling face do most of the talking now.

The boy's lips grew taunt and lost their color. He took a deep, secret breath, smelling stale cigarette smoke, and B.O. and what might have been vinegar and might have been urine and might have been both. He felt the solemn eyes of the people at the bar burning both sides of his face.

“Be there in two shakes of a lamb's tail,” Frank said in a lowered voice. He smiled just enough to let the boy know he wasn't in trouble yet, but to watch himself.

Martin looked up into the cherry red eyes of his pink-faced father and stood perfectly still. After a moment Frank turned to face the front. He took long sips of thick, black beer and wiped his mouth. Martin watched him put his nearly empty glass down on the wood and gaze over at the four men sitting on his left, then the three on his right. They both saw all of them shift their attention elsewhere.

Frank picked up his money off the bar, counted it, and put back a five which he set under his pint glass.

Some of the men at the bar nodded at Frank, but most didn't seem to notice him standing to leave. Frank reached down for Martin's hand, but Martin put his hands behind his back and stepped a step further away. His father straightened then and walked carefully out the bar's open door to the neon lit sidewalk, where he disappeared from view.

Martin followed his father outside and found him waiting just past the doorway with a cold look in his eye. Martin reluctantly stepped up to him. They looked at each other for only a moment, and then began to walk without talking along the dark sidewalk in the direction of home.

A block down, his father asked, “Did your mother send ya?”

“No, sir.”

“She didn't send you? You just decided to come here on yer own?”

Martin nodded his head and returned his father's stare until his father looked away.

They then continued walking along the broken pavement feeling glass crunching beneath their shoes. The street was dark and no cars passed by.

“We're going to have to get you some new pants, boyo,” his father said.

“Okay," Martin said.


“How'd ya learn to tie a tie?”

Martin shrugged his shoulders and felt his father smiling at him, and a great weight seemed to lift from his shoulders.

"Sometimes we fight, don't you know? We say some mean things. We'll work it out. You watch, boyo, we'll work it out."

Martin nodded his head and let his father take his hand. They swung each other's arms high, and then higher and higher in the air. They talked about the stars and outer-space, and about hopes and dreams, and about being afraid and about being brave. They talked about mothers too. And right before they reached the front door they talked about how, when you get older, you start to understand all sorts of things you never knew before.

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