When the man was a boy he used to go to the building with beautiful glass to light candles and watch the smoke rise in ethereal whispers. He used to go to the city of smudge and steel to visit his great grandfather—the Irishman. When the Irishman was younger he fixed the trolleys but by the time the boy was born he sat quietly in the dark of the attic and sipped whiskey. Each room of the old house had a picture of Jesus and a small holy font.
The house smelled of mothballs and cinnamon. The boy would sit with his great aunts in the kitchen and wonder if he would ever see his ‘Pap.’
“Can I go see Pap?” The answer was always the same: no.
He’d eat homemade rolls with chip chopped ham and listen to the old women talk. He watched a busy hand thumb a Lucite button; he felt lonely and missed his Pap. He could feel the wondering eye of Jesus. “Are there any Klondike bars?”
Hush boy.
He could hear the soft thud of footsteps on the attic stairs and ice cubes dancing in a glass.
