Night & Day

Or, The Price of a Broken Windshield

We are in our grandparents’ yard, which doubles as our baseball field. I throw a curve ball, and for once, it breaks. Hoagie swings and misses and the ball squirts through the chain-link fence that serves as the backstop. The fence is nearly as old as us and has seen better days. Grandpa makes us use tennis balls because he doesn’t want a broken window every time we hit a foul ball, but they bounce a lot more than regular baseballs. Once my pitch clears the fence, it takes a high hop and heads for the street at the bottom of the hill.

This isn’t the first time we’ve encountered this problem. A few weeks earlier, I bounced a pitch over the waist-high fence. A cop just happened to be parked at the bottom of the hill, eating a cheeseburger for lunch with his windows down. The tennis ball jumped right into his passenger seat, like it wanted to go for a ride. Luckily, he didn’t spill his drink, but that didn’t stop Hoagie and I from freaking out. We’re both eleven years old, and when the ball went into his cruiser, I had a vision of myself going to jail. Hoagie and I shared a panicked glance, and then we wordlessly agreed to run.

The two of us sprinted inside, past the confused expressions of our moms and grandparents, and hid out in the basement. The cop knocked on the door and returned the ball to my grandpa. They knew each other well enough to share a good laugh at our cowardice. Grandpa made us come up and apologize though. Not because the ball went in his car, but because we ran away.

Nobody is parked at the bottom of the hill this time, but a maroon Ford Ranger is driving past. The ball bounces off the windshield and continues across the street. Hoagie and I hold our breath, but we don’t bolt. Not at first anyway. No harm seems to be done, until the Ranger’s brake lights flash. “Shit,” I say out loud, but I resist the urge to run. I shoot Hoagie a nervous glance. “We better get Grandpa.”

The driver is knocking on the front door before we can tell Grandpa the full story. He gets up from his TV chair to answer, but Hoagie and I hang back in the living room with Grandma and our moms, still within earshot. The driver is Don Nies (pronounced like it rhymes with geese), the owner of a garage down on Commercial Street called Night & Day. As in, “We’ll keep your vehicle running Night & Day!” He even has the logo and slogan stenciled on the doors of his truck, though it’s faded so much that it’s hard to read.

I’ve heard their low-budget ads on the local radio station, but I don’t know anything about Nies. My mom and aunt do though. He’s a staple from the police report in the Stinton Globe, and they recognize him right away from his mugshot. He has a reputation for beating his wife and getting into bar fights. Sometimes they get really out of hand.

He’s been busted for flashing a gun on several occasions, and narrowly avoided prison time for stabbing a guy a few years earlier, when the victim changed his testimony during the trial. Rumors speculate Nies and his buddies had a hand in convincing him to have a change of heart, but the cops’ efforts to prove it come to nothing. The poor guy has no desire to get stabbed again, so he ain’t saying nothing.

All I know is he’s a scary-looking dude standing at my grandparents’ front door, and he’s got our tennis ball in his hand. He casually tosses it up and down, radiating cool through a white trash filter. The sleeves are cut off his work shirt, and several scars are visible. The grin on his face is obviously phony, bordering on predatory.

“Can I help you?” Grandpa asks. If he knows who Nies is, he doesn’t show it.

“Yeah, I was driving by and your kids’ ball hit my windshield,” he says. He continues to toss the ball up and down, making no effort to hand it over.

Grandpa turns to me and Hoagie. “Goddammit,” he says. “I thought we talked about this. Were you runnin’ away again?”

Hoagie vehemently shakes his head. “No,” I say. “I swear. We just came in to tell you he stopped.”

Grandpa narrows his eyes and hears me out. He decides I’m telling the truth. “Well, all right then,” he says, turning back to Nies. Twice as old as Nies, he surprises the younger man by snatching the ball in mid-air. “Sorry about that. Thanks for returning their ball.”

He goes to shut the door, but Nies stops it with his foot. “I wish that was it,” he says. Nies flashes a smile that makes me think of a shark who’s never been to the dentist. I know that doesn’t make much sense, but I’m eleven, so it doesn’t have to. His teeth are brown and his gums are swollen, but he has a gold tooth that practically sparkles. “Ya see, the ball cracked my windshield.”

Grandpa pulls the door back open and eyes Nies like the two-bit con man he obviously is. “C’mon, guy,” he says. “You aren’t actually gonna try to pull this shit, are you? It was a tennis ball.”

If he thinks he’s going to shame Nies into common decency, he’s mistaken. The mechanic shrugs. “What can I say? One in a million shot. See for yourself.”

Grandpa steps out on the porch to get a better look at Nies’s truck at the bottom of the hill. Hoagie and I sneak a peek through the living room curtains. The back end of it is rusted out and the muffler is scraping the pavement. The nicest thing about it is an eight-ball decoration attached to the top of the antenna. The windshield does have a large crack in it, running nearly the length of the glass, but it obviously wasn’t caused by a tennis ball. From the looks of it, the crack has been there for a while.

“I didn’t even throw it that hard,” I say, when Grandpa steps back into the doorway. He shoots me a silent order to shut up.

My grandfather is an authoritative man, and I know better than to talk back. He’s a World War II vet nearing retirement from the loading dock at Porter Shipping, and he’s also a recovering alcoholic. Shortly after Hoagie and I were born a few months apart, our moms gave him an ultimatum. Either stop drinking or he wouldn’t get to see his grandkids. He chose his grandkids, though we know he keeps a bottle in the drawer of his workbench in the basement for the occasional nip.

Hoagie and I discovered it a few years earlier, and Hoagie’s older brother sometimes sneaks a drink or two. Neither Hoagie or I have worked up the nerve to do that yet. I’ve never seen Grandpa drunk though, and his priorities are clear. His family comes first. And if I ever have reason to doubt this, I need only recall another incident involving a broken window the previous summer.

Hoagie and I are into professional wrestling, so that means we have impromptu matches almost anywhere we go. Our favorite spot is the sitting room in our grandparents’ house. Located next to the living room, the parlor is open and spacious. There isn’t a TV in there, so it’s usually empty, unless someone is using the phone. In other words, it’s the perfect wrestling ring.

We pretend to be muscle-bound freaks like the Ultimate Warrior and the Macho Man, and engage in improvised knock-down-drag-out brawls that rattle the whole house. We also have to announce our actions, and our high-pitched, excited Vince McMahon impersonations get on everyone’s nerves, even if there is a wall between us. Inevitably, they tell us to knock it off and we have to either stop or move somewhere else.

On this occasion, we took it upstairs to my grandparents’ bedroom. They have a king-size bed that makes for a far more forgiving ring. It’s much softer than the sitting room floor. And bouncier. And when Hoagie suplexed me across the mattress, I bounced right into the bedroom window. At least my leg does. Maybe the two of us just need to stay away from bouncing in any form. It always seems to get us in trouble.

Somehow, despite the pointed shards of glass surrounding us, no one got hurt. My leg doesn’t even have a scratch on it. I thought I might be the luckiest kid in the world, until we contemplated what would happen to us after the adults in the house found out what we did. Everyone had to have heard the glass shattering, and while we may not have had a firm grasp on the meaning of a dollar yet, we knew enough to understand replacing a window was going to be expensive. Grandpa is notoriously cheap, and he has a temper, so once the shock wore off, the terror set in.

We ran up to the attic and hid in a dark closet. I was prepared to live the rest of my life in that closet, if that’s what it took, and we huddled together for comfort. It took them thirty minutes to find us. Grandpa came across us first, but the weird part was he wasn’t angry. He didn’t yell or threaten to flay us alive. He was just relieved we were okay. We were puzzled by this reaction, but not dumb enough to question it. Of course, he made our parents pay to replace the pane, and assigned us each a series of chores around the house, but that was an afterthought. I learned something about my grandfather that day, and I see that same side of him come out again when Don Nies is standing at the front door.

“I figure it’s gonna run me around five hundred to get that fixed,” Nies says.

Grandpa looks almost impressed by the man’s audacity, but the feeling quickly wilts. “Half-a-grand? You must be out of your goddamn mind.”

“Junior,” Grandma says from her chair in the living room. She gives him hell for cussing, though she isn’t above dropping an F-bomb every now and then herself.

“Well, I might be able to go a little lower than that,” Nies says. He’s a man who likes to haggle, because he’s used to getting his way in the end. “I’ll have to look around the shop and see what I got on hand.”

“Bullshit,” Grandpa says. “You ain’t getting a dime from me. Take me to court, if you want.”

Nies isn’t bothered. “No need to bother with the law. There’s other ways to settle these matters.” The implied threat isn’t subtle.

Grandpa steps to him, but my mom and my aunt are off the couch in a flash. They each take one of my grandfather’s arms and pull him back into the house. “Give us a second, will ya?” my aunt says. Nies nods like a gentleman, antagonizing us all with his false civility.

He stands in the doorway while my mom and aunt lead my grandpa into the living room for a conversation. Hoagie and I keep our eyes on Nies, fuming over the wrench he’s thrown into our baseball game, and he gives us a wink. Neither of us want to flinch, but we both do.

We can eavesdrop on the conversation in the living room at the same time. My mom fills Grandpa in on who Nies is, but he isn’t moved. “I don’t care if he’s goddamn Jesse James,” Grandpa says. “I’m not letting anyone come into my home and extort me.”

“Junior!” Grandma says. She is usually never at a loss for words, but that is the extent of her contribution to this powwow. She is content to let her daughters talk some sense into their father.

“We don’t need this kind of headache,” my mom says. “Just write this asshole a check and get rid of him.”

It takes a few minutes for them to wear him down, but Grandpa reluctantly trudges back to the door. “Tell ya what,” he says. “I got a friend over at Dillon’s who’ll cut me a deal. Take your truck in there and I’ll foot the bill.”

Nies shakes his head. That’s not going to be good enough. “I don’t like other people workin’ on my baby. I’d much rather do it myself at Night & Day.”

Grandpa casts a doubtful glance at his truck. “You call that piece of shit your baby?”

For the first time, Nies stiffens slightly, though he quickly recovers. “Now, now, no reason to be throwin’ around insults.”

“Dad,” my aunt says from the living room. She only speaks one word, but her tone tells him to stop fucking around.

“Fine,” Grandpa says, taking his checkbook out of his pocket and grabbing a pen from the notepad next to the phone. “I’ll give you three-fifty, and we both know you’re robbing me blind. Take it or leave it.”

Nies takes it. He folds the check and drops it into the breast pocket of his work shirt. I haven’t noticed until now, but his nametag is stained. He flashes us all one last gold-toothed grin. “Pleasure doing business with you,” he says. Then, to my grandpa, he adds, “I’m glad we could settle this like gentlemen.”

“Don’t ever come around here again if you know what’s good for you,” Grandpa tells him.

Nies leaves, and Grandpa tells my mom and my aunt they owe him three-hundred-and-fifty dollars. Then he slips away to the basement, probably for a drink that will take the edge off. I don’t blame him. In fact, I feel guilty. This whole thing is my fault. If only my curveball wasn’t so damn good.

Three months later, I’ve forgotten about Don Nies. I’m spending the night at my grandparents’ house because I want to watch a college football game and we don’t have ESPN at home. After the game, I’m in the kitchen fixing myself a bowl of ice cream before I call it a night. That’s when I catch Grandpa sneaking out the back door. Nothing about him is blatantly suspicious, other than the fact that he hardly ever leaves the house after dark. He’s wearing his normal clothes, although he is carrying a duffel bag I’ve never seen before. He usually goes to bed early, and gets up at the crack of dawn. A typical old man schedule. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen him awake after ten o’clock. It’s entirely possible I never have. Grandma is already in bed.

“Going out?” I ask.

He’s got his story ready and isn’t caught off guard. “Jim’s car broke down across the bridge,” he says, holding up the bag. I can hear tools clattering around inside it when he gives it a shake. “Gonna see if I can get it running. Or, if all else fails, give him a ride home.”

Jim is the old black man who lives next door. He never wears his false teeth, which makes it impossible for me to understand anything he says, but Grandpa is always giving him rides around town. Never, to my knowledge, in the middle of the night, but Jim’s car is a hunk of junk, so if he’s broken down somewhere, it would make sense for him to call Grandpa.

I’ve heard my grandpa use the n-word a few times, and there’s no doubt he’s prejudiced, like a lot of men his age, but he and Jim are pals. His generation is fucked up like that, but there’s no reason for me to doubt him. Grandpa leaves and I eat my ice cream. I fall asleep before he gets back. It’s only after I wake up the next morning that I realize Jim’s car was parked in his driveway when I put my bowl in the kitchen sink. I saw it clear as day through the window, even though it was the middle of the night, and I knew something about it wasn’t right. I didn’t connect the dots in the moment, but I know better than to ask about it now.

I’m waiting for my mom to pick me up when there is a familiar knock on the front door. Grandpa answers it and I hang back at a safe distance to observe. The cop who returned my first errant pitch is standing on the porch, but he’s not alone. Don Nies is behind him. His insincere charm is gone this time, and the man is clearly agitated. I cringe when I see him, but Grandpa is cool. “Afternoon, Pete,” Grandpa says to the cop. “What can I do for you?”

Nies can’t help himself. He lunges toward Grandpa, but with the cop between them, it’s half-hearted. Grandpa doesn’t even twitch. “You know what this is about, old man,” he says. “I know what you did.”

The officer pushes Nies back. “Will you shut the fuck up?” he says. Nies protests weakly, then crawls back into his shell. The cop takes a moment to compose himself before addressing Grandpa. “Sorry to bother you on a Sunday, Jack. Somebody broke into Don’s shop last night and trashed the place. He was doing some bodywork on his truck, so he left it there overnight, and it’s been completely dismantled.”

Grandpa has a reputation as a solid poker player, even if he prefers craps. His expression gives nothing away. He whistles. “Whoo boy,” he says. “That sounds like an awful mess. Which shop is that?”

“You know exactly what shop,” Nies says.

The cop shuts him up with a glare that might as well be cocked and loaded. “Last warning,” he says. Then, to Grandpa, “Night & Day. And I hate to bother you with this, Jack, but Don here seems to think you might have had something to do with it. Says the two of you had some unpleasantness a while back.”

Now it is Grandpa’s turn to sport a cocky, devilish grin. “Me?” he says. “Been a long time since I stormed the beaches at Normandy. Doubt I could even get over that fence in the yard these days, much less break into some place. Although I’m still one hell of a shot.” He pauses and makes eye contact with Nies when he says this last part.

Nies wants to bark back, but he looks away instead. Message received. “We had an accident with a ball a while back, but we settled that amicably. I paid Mr. Nies for the damage to his windshield. I can go get the check stub, if you like. But I don’t see why I’d break what I just paid to fix. Plus, I know how much that truck means to Mr. Nies.”

I worry he’s laying it on a bit too thick, but he knows exactly how to play Nies. The mechanic does nothing to help his case. “You lying motherfucker,” he says, spouting off like a volcano with a mullet. “I want a search warrant for this house. I know there’s evidence inside!”

I picture the bag Grandpa was carrying last night, wonder where it might be right now, but before I can sweat it, the cop swings around in an instant, practically pressing his nose against Nies’s face. The smell of his breath must be awful, judging by the face the officer makes. He doesn’t see the antagonistic smile Grandpa shoots the mechanic. “I swear to God, Nies. I will slap the cuffs on you and let Jack go to town on you with the kid’s baseball bat if you say one more goddamn word. You hear me?”

Nies hears him and is suitably chastened. The cop brushes off his shirt and takes a deep breath. Grandpa is the first to speak. “You’re welcome to come in and take a look around, Pete. Don’t know that you’ll find anything very interesting though.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” the cop says. Nies slumps behind him. “But is there any chance you have an alibi for last night, Jack?”

Grandpa nods to me. “We watched the Notre Dame game, and then we played checkers till a little after midnight. After that, I was in bed with Norma until six this morning.”

The part about the football game is true, but I no longer play checkers with my grandpa. He never takes it easy on me, and I’ve resolved not to challenge him again until I’m confident I can take him down. I’m not sure that day will ever come, but I don’t hesitate when the cop turns to me. This isn’t something that needs to be rehearsed. This is family. “That true, son?” the cop asks.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. It’s good enough for the cop, but Nies flips out again. “Oh c’mon,” he says. “Of course that little punk is gonna back him up.”

“That’s it,” the cop says. He slaps the cuffs on in a shockingly fast flurry of moves. Before he can drag Nies away to the car, Grandpa stops him.

“Hang on a second,” Grandpa says, stepping to Nies. He straightens up to his full height, towering over the shorter man. I worry he’s going to punch him. Nies deserves it, but I don’t want to see him hauled off to jail. But Grandpa doesn’t even ball his fists.

“I’m sorry to hear about your shop,” he says, though none of us buy his sincerity on that subject. “Although I imagine a man like you has made your fair share of enemies, so it was bound to happen sooner or later. But I promise you this. If you ever so much as look at my grandson funny, much less insult him again, I’ll be the last enemy you ever have the misfortune to see. You hear me, shitkicker?”

Nies doesn’t say anything right away. He looks over Grandpa’s shoulder at me. I’m beaming. My heart is beating out of my chest, and I realize part of me wants Nies to test him. He doesn’t have it in him though. “I’d listen to him if I were you,” the cop says. Nies mutters something under his breath and moves toward the police car without being prodded. The cop apologizes to Grandpa, and drives Nies away.

I expect more trouble to follow, but Nies never comes back.

A few months later, Hoagie calls me down to the basement. He opens Grandpa’s secret drawer. “Check it out,” he says. The eight-ball from Nies’s antenna is rolling around inside it beside Grandpa’s bottle of vodka. Hoagie unscrews the cap and we take our first drink to toast its presence.

The burn is worth it.

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