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Authors: Lee Martin
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him for days he worked. I’ve been with you a good number of years. I thought you’d do me better than this. You’ll make things right, won’t you, Junior? You know I’ve got my little girl sick right now. I need that money.”
“This is my home.” My father was holding a barbecue fork. He waved it in front of him as if swatting gnats. “For Pete’s sake, I’m here with my family.”
“Junior, you’ve got to listen to me. You and I, we go back a ways. My daddy and your daddy were friends. I’m trying to be as decent as I can, but damn it, you’ve got to listen.”
“I don’t have to listen to a thing you have to say. I don’t keep drunk men on my payroll.”
“You know I’m not a drunk, Junior. You know it’s just I’ve had a tough time with my girl being sick and all. If you want to let me go, I can accept that. But still, I did the work those days, and I ought to be paid.”
“I’m sorry about your girl,” my father said. “I truly am, and I’m sorry things have to end like this between you and me. But I can’t pay you for time when you were laid up on a pallet sleeping it off.”
The man rubbed his hand over his face. “It’s true what you say.” He pushed back his shoulders and lifted his chin, owning up to whatever he had to face. “I won’t deny it. You’ve always been good to me in the past, but I guess you don’t believe I deserve a second chance.”
I could see that my father was thinking it over. “Do you need help with your girl’s doctor bills?”
“I do, Junior.”
“You come in tomorrow,” my father said. “We’ll talk about it then.”
“I’ll do that, Junior. I surely will. And I’ll be sober. You can count on that from here on.”
My father put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “There’s nothing more important than family,” he told him. “You have to remember that. No matter how rough things get, you’ve got to do what you can to take care of your wife and kids.”
You have to understand, because I didn’t then, that even as far back as high school days, my father was deliberately and carefully choosing the life that he would one day have. It would be a life of comfort and distinction. He had learned as much from his own father, who had passed the family business to him—had let him “see the future,” my grandfather always joked, and left my father, if he “kept a good head on his shoulders” and made all the right moves, “set for life.” So much of the world was made of glass, my grandfather said. Windows, doors, dishes, mirrors. That didn’t begin to account for it all. A man who made glass would always have as much business as he wanted.
But my father’s dreams of the future went far beyond the money he would earn, all on the strength of glass. Not long ago, I found a list of ambitions he had made when he was just a boy. A sheet of stationery slipped from between the pages of his senior-year
Hilltopper
. On it, in the precise and elegant handwriting that men used to have, he had noted that he intended to marry Patsy Molloy, that they would have two children, a boy and a girl. The girl, they would name Katie; the boy would be Gilbert, but they would call him Gilley.
“Gilley,” he said to me that evening after the man had thanked him and gone. “Go get your mother and Katie.” He speared a steak and held it up on the fork. He winked at me. “Get ready for some good eating, Gilley. Now that’s a fine hunk of meat.”
A house in the Heights
, he had written on his list.
A new car—a Lincoln—every two years. Vacations in the summer: Yellowstone, the Grand Canyon, Hollywood, New York City, Canada
. I’ve often imagined him daydreaming as he made his list. Maybe he was sitting in class—physics, let’s say—and instead of listening to the teacher talk about matter and energy, he was moving on through the future, creating Katie and me and the life we would all one day have as a family.
I believe he needed this dreaming
“This is my home.” My father was holding a barbecue fork. He waved it in front of him as if swatting gnats. “For Pete’s sake, I’m here with my family.”
“Junior, you’ve got to listen to me. You and I, we go back a ways. My daddy and your daddy were friends. I’m trying to be as decent as I can, but damn it, you’ve got to listen.”
“I don’t have to listen to a thing you have to say. I don’t keep drunk men on my payroll.”
“You know I’m not a drunk, Junior. You know it’s just I’ve had a tough time with my girl being sick and all. If you want to let me go, I can accept that. But still, I did the work those days, and I ought to be paid.”
“I’m sorry about your girl,” my father said. “I truly am, and I’m sorry things have to end like this between you and me. But I can’t pay you for time when you were laid up on a pallet sleeping it off.”
The man rubbed his hand over his face. “It’s true what you say.” He pushed back his shoulders and lifted his chin, owning up to whatever he had to face. “I won’t deny it. You’ve always been good to me in the past, but I guess you don’t believe I deserve a second chance.”
I could see that my father was thinking it over. “Do you need help with your girl’s doctor bills?”
“I do, Junior.”
“You come in tomorrow,” my father said. “We’ll talk about it then.”
“I’ll do that, Junior. I surely will. And I’ll be sober. You can count on that from here on.”
My father put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “There’s nothing more important than family,” he told him. “You have to remember that. No matter how rough things get, you’ve got to do what you can to take care of your wife and kids.”
You have to understand, because I didn’t then, that even as far back as high school days, my father was deliberately and carefully choosing the life that he would one day have. It would be a life of comfort and distinction. He had learned as much from his own father, who had passed the family business to him—had let him “see the future,” my grandfather always joked, and left my father, if he “kept a good head on his shoulders” and made all the right moves, “set for life.” So much of the world was made of glass, my grandfather said. Windows, doors, dishes, mirrors. That didn’t begin to account for it all. A man who made glass would always have as much business as he wanted.
But my father’s dreams of the future went far beyond the money he would earn, all on the strength of glass. Not long ago, I found a list of ambitions he had made when he was just a boy. A sheet of stationery slipped from between the pages of his senior-year
Hilltopper
. On it, in the precise and elegant handwriting that men used to have, he had noted that he intended to marry Patsy Molloy, that they would have two children, a boy and a girl. The girl, they would name Katie; the boy would be Gilbert, but they would call him Gilley.
“Gilley,” he said to me that evening after the man had thanked him and gone. “Go get your mother and Katie.” He speared a steak and held it up on the fork. He winked at me. “Get ready for some good eating, Gilley. Now that’s a fine hunk of meat.”
A house in the Heights
, he had written on his list.
A new car—a Lincoln—every two years. Vacations in the summer: Yellowstone, the Grand Canyon, Hollywood, New York City, Canada
. I’ve often imagined him daydreaming as he made his list. Maybe he was sitting in class—physics, let’s say—and instead of listening to the teacher talk about matter and energy, he was moving on through the future, creating Katie and me and the life we would all one day have as a family.
I believe he needed this dreaming
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