Free '74 & Sunny by A. J. Benza

said. “That kid looks like he’s been here before. Look deep inside his eyes. He’s hurt, Larry. He’s not happy. Whenever an eight-year-oldcan sing the blues better than a grown man, you gotta ask yourself where has he felt that pain before?”
    â€œAh, come on,” Uncle Larry said.
    â€œNo, no, no. And I’ll tell you where he’s felt that pain,” my father said. “At home.”
    â€œWhat’s the use?” my uncle said. “I’m right, but I can’t win.”
    After an awkward pause, and before the next song on the album could even begin, my father shot me a quick look to get back to his music. “Put on Frank again and then you guys go hit the rack so my brother and I can shoot the shit a little.”
    Before both men sent us off to bed, Uncle Larry was gentle with his kisses and hugs and pats on the head. My father’s send-off included a relentless bout of tickling; a mock prize fight; hard, loud kisses that roused the dogs from sleep; and a promise that “tomorrow is gonna top today.”
    After being sent to bed, Gino and I had a few laughs before he passed out in his cot right next to my single bed. With no TV in the room, the only entertainment I had was eavesdropping on the conversation downstairs. Amid countless replays of “My Way” and “That’s Life,” I heard the brothers make promises to each other through their tears. It wasn’t easy, and I had to stand real still and cock my head just right, but I swear I could make out the sounds of the twisted emotions of two devoted brothers that night. Sinatrawas loudly singing, “But if there’s nothing shaking come this here July / I’m gonna roll myself up in a big ball . . . and die.” But what bit deeper into my ear were the sniffles, hard hugs, and whispered promises my father and uncle shared as the giant consoled stereo huffed out and my big old house went silent for the night.

4

    COME AND GET YOUR LOVE
    E ven the sun had a hard time beating my father out of bed in the morning. I could hear him shuffling around at five or so, rifling through the newspapers, sucking down coffee, lighting a cigarette, talking to the dogs, and doing all sorts of stuff in and out of the house that would weigh heavily on the kind of day we were headed for. As much as I wished to fall back into a deep sleep, there was something so comforting about the noises he made on an early Sunday morning. I looked forward to them as much as I did sleep. Whether it was hearing him squirting lighter fluid into his silver Zippo lighter or going in and out the kitchen screen door or backwashing the pool filter, it was all music I stayed half asleep to. He would arrange the pots and pans we would need later on that dayfor dinner, tune the old AM radio to Goombadah Joe Rotolo’s Italian music countdown. He would get the dogs into a tizzy, rolling them over and rubbing their bellies until they panted for their lives.
    He was a father. He had a day off from work. He made noise. And it was a symphony to me.
    I heard him talking through the slats of the guest room door my uncle was still asleep in to give him some shit.
    â€œPaging Dr. Pazzo (crazy). Paging Dr. Pazzo. You have patients who need your assistance . Dr. Pazzo  . . . che cosa stai faciendo? (What are you doing?) Stai ancora dormendo? (Are you still asleep?) Sei ancora ubriaco? (Are you drunk?)PagingDr. Pazzo  . . . dove sono le sfere. (Where are your balls?) Scuso, Dr. Pazzo . . . possiamo anche avere della palline? (Pardon me,do you even have balls?)
    â€œJesus Christ ,” Uncle Larry said. “You can’t possibly be awake and fine with everything we drank last night. What the fuck are you made of?”
    â€œ Sono forte ,” my father said, loudly. (I am strong.)
    â€œWhat are you cooking for breakfast?”
    â€œ Cazzo (cock), calcazelle (squash), l’uove