Joe Greco

THE FATHER’S DAY GOAT

I.

Some say that in southern Italy where my family’s from, one of the first lessons a father teaches his son is to know when to keep quiet. The wisdom of that guidance, forged over centuries of hardship and tumult in the region, is unmistakable: a man is more likely to talk his way into trouble than out of it. 

My father was born in a hardscrabble Pennsylvania mining town, soon after my grandparents emigrated from Calabria during the Depression. And he apparently learned that lesson well: He’d speak cautiously and sparingly, often using silence as a language of its own. As for me, however, the stern ways of the Old World had trouble taking root in the mellow environs of 1960s suburban California.

If my father had talked more, and I less, the whole incident with the goat might not have happened. Or if it had, it may’ve been hedged about with warnings and euphemisms that would’ve tamed it, diluted it, and made it hardly worth remembering. I suppose we all learn that trouble usually is best avoided. But there are times that, when it finds you, it leaves you better off than if you’d steered clear.

This bit of trouble started innocently enough on a Sunday evening, a week before Father’s Day when I was six years old. My father smiled and hung up the phone. “Pop’s getting a goat for the barbecue,” he said to my mother. Then he sat in his leather chair and turned back to the book he’d been reading before the phone had rung. My mother looked at him for a moment, then slowly turned her eyes toward me. Her fleeting hope that I hadn’t been listening was dashed. I already had jumped up from the rug where I’d been watching TV. I stood, eyes wide, and began rapidly firing questions at my father. “A goat? Grandpa’s getting a goat? Is it a billy goat? What color is he? Can I play with him?” 

My father, expressionless, peered over the top of his book. “It’s your bedtime,” he said and went back to reading. I looked at my mother, hoping to appeal his judgment. But she was staring at him and wouldn’t look at me. 

“Now,” my father said to me, no hint of compromise in his voice. “And you, too,” he said to my three-year-old sister.

“Go brush teeth,” my mother said, still not looking at me. 

I took my sister by the hand and began leading her out of the room. Then I danced her around in a circle, singing, “We get to play with a goat!  We get to play with a goat!”  She smiled, giggling, caught up in my excitement.

“Stop horsing around,” my father snapped.

I obeyed, hustling my sister down the hall. Once in the bathroom, I quickly helped her prepare her toothbrush, then stood by the door, listening. My parents were arguing in hushed tones, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Strange behavior, I thought, when something as exciting as a goat at a barbecue was on the horizon. 

II.

I could barely sleep that night. We didn’t visit my grandparents often because they lived 150 miles to the south in the Santa Clara Valley. But as I lay in bed, I imagined in detail their big backyard and the goat jumping and bouncing about, just like the ones in the petting zoo that my kindergarten class had visited. I saw myself chasing the goat and jumping with it as the adults looked on, laughing, eating their chicken and macaroni salad. 

My grandfather had thinning gray hair and was small in stature, although still muscular in his mid-sixties. I often simply smiled when he spoke to me because I had a hard time understanding his heavily accented English. I knew little about him back then, other than he was from someplace in Italy people called “the toe-of-the-boot.” Later in life, I learned that he’d scratched a living from the dirt-poor countryside of Calabria by herding goats. His family had sold the milk and a few of the kids in the spring. They’d only sacrifice a goat to eat for the most special of feasts. 

Eventually, he’d married my grandmother, left for America and become a coal miner. After World War II, he’d somehow managed to move the family to California’s Santa Clara Valley to live amidst the blossoming fruit orchards of what was known in those pre-Silicon Valley days as “The Valley of the Heart’s Delight.” But as far as I was concerned, my grandfather’s procuring a goat to entertain me at the barbecue was the best thing he’d ever done.

When morning came, I was determined to find out more about the goat. But by the time I finished my breakfast, I knew that extracting information from my parents was unlikely. My mother said the goat was my father’s business and she deferred all goat questions to him. My father deflected questions by either changing the subject or threatening to cancel the trip altogether if I persisted in pestering him with inquiries.

The week dragged on slowly. Because I’d been forbidden to mention the goat, my curiosity swirled and fermented inside me and found expression in other ways. I drew surreptitious images of the goat with my sister’s crayons. I composed a little ditty—“The Goat Song,” I called it—and taught my sister to sing it with me under a blanket tent in my bedroom. These outlets for my excitement quieted my urge to ask about the goat and allowed a tenuous peace to settle in the house.

III.

Sunday finally arrived. The drive to my grandparents’ house seemed eternal. When the boredom periodically grew unbearable, I’d lean over to my sister’s ear and sing The Goat Song in a soft whisper. She’d start to giggle, and my parents would look back. But they didn’t ask what I was saying, afraid to elicit dreaded goat questions.

Finally, I felt like crawling out of my skin. “How. . .much. . . farther?” I asked loudly in staccato bursts.

My father glared at me in the rearview mirror. “Behave,” he said. 

I looked at my sister, opened my eyes as wide as I could, and stuck my index fingers behind my head—they were my horns; I was the goat. She giggled loudly.

My father turned his head around toward me. “Do you want me to stop this car?” he shouted.

“Watch out!” my mother gasped, grabbing the steering wheel.

I kept quiet the rest of the way.

IV.

My grandparents’ house was teeming with uncles and aunts and cousins. I suffered the obligatory gauntlet of hugs and kisses and canned compliments about how much I’d grown. Finally, the throng released me to the sanctity of the backyard. I immediately reconnoitered the territory—back of the tool shed, behind the fig tree, the far side of the freestanding garage—but there was no goat in sight.

I needed information. My chubby cousin, Petey, two years older than I, was standing by the picnic table, stuffing potato chips into his mouth. “Hey,” I said. “What’re you doing?”

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” he said. “I’m eating. Hey, come here. I want to tell you something.” My heart leapt. He must know about the goat, I thought. I leaned over to him. He cupped his greasy hand around my ear and whispered, “Listen. Grandma’s got a big box of donuts in the kitchen for dessert. You could sneak in there and grab us a couple.”

I pulled back. “Nah, I don’t want to get in trouble. But hey, Petey. Where’s the goat? Have you seen him yet?”

Petey screwed up his rotund face. “What’re you talking about? Goat? What goat?”

“Grandpa’s getting a goat today. My dad said. We can pet him and play with him.”

“You’re nuts,” he said. “There ain’t no goat. Say, listen. If you could get me one of them donuts, I’ll give you a nickel.”

“Nah,” I said. “I don’t want to.”

“You’re a big wimp,” he snarled. He grabbed another big handful of potato chips and stuffed them into his mouth. I walked away. 

None of the other candidates for questioning looked more promising than Petey. They were laughing, eating, and drinking, as if it were some run-of-the-mill picnic. I grabbed a glass of lemonade and sat down underneath the walnut tree. Soon I noticed a slight commotion by the side of the house next to the driveway. Some adults, my father and grandfather included, were gesturing to each other, looking down the driveway. I put down the lemonade and ran over.

A small panel truck was slowly backing up the driveway. It stopped. The driver hopped out and walked to the rear. He unlocked the back latch and opened the doors. I crowded closer, standing on tiptoes to see. My father suddenly noticed my arrival. His face grew tight. He watched me as my eyes met the truck’s cargo: the goat. But not the bounding, playful goat I’d envisioned. This goat lay limp on the bed of the truck. Its body was still. Its four legs were stretched out to one side. Its glazed eyes were half open. The damned goat was dead.

I let out a shriek. Everyone snapped their heads towards me. I turned and ran back into the yard, looking for my mother.

“The goat’s dead,” I wailed, drawing everyone’s attention. “He’s dead.”  

My mother reached out to hold me. “Oh now,” she comforted. “That’s why they got the goat, honey. It wasn’t for you to play with. It was for the barbecue. I told your father he should’ve warned you.”

Her words didn’t sink in at first. “What?” I cried. “What?” But before she could answer, I’d figured out the sordid truth: This had been no accident; this was murder. And I knew the murderer. I turned to run back.

My father had followed me from the driveway. “Hey,” he said firmly. “Where do you think you’re going?” He reached out to grab me, but I dodged him easily and headed for the driveway. There stood the goat killer—my grandfather—watching my uncles lift the corpse out of the truck. He turned to see me, my face red, running at him. His mouth opened slightly, confused. I let him have it. “You killed the goat,” I shouted up at him. “You killed him. You’re a bad man.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I felt a vice-like grip on my left arm. My father, who’d been in hot pursuit, had caught up.

My grandfather held up one hand to my father, directing restraint. Then he held both hands out to me. “No. No. I no kill,” he said. “The butcher kill. I get from the butcher. He kill.” He looked down with equal parts contrition and confusion at his grandchild of a different culture who’d indicted him for killing the food, the good food, he’d proudly ordered for this special day.

I wasn’t buying his defense. “I don’t care,” I yelled back. “You let the butcher kill him. It’s your fault.”

That was it. My father whisked me up, struggling, into his arms and tightened the grip. “Keep quiet, right now,” he snarled.

Back we went behind the tool shed, disappearing from the gawking uncles, aunts and cousins. My father placed me down firmly on the ground. His index finger was rigid, pointing at my face. “What’s the matter with you?  Don’t you dare talk to your grandfather that way. I should spank you right here.”

“But—” I tried to interrupt.

“Be quiet,” he hissed. “You should be ashamed of yourself. And on Father’s Day. To talk to Grandpa that way.”

“But he killed—” 

“What’s the matter with you? The goat’s meat. Do you think meat starts out in cellophane in the grocery store?”

“No, but—”

“You eat steak, don’t you? You eat lamb chops? Those were animals. Somebody had to kill them before you ate them, didn’t they? You want to give up eating meat?”

“No,” I said weakly, feeling my father’s logic beginning to overwhelm me.

He charged on, his face red. “You should be a smarter boy than to call Grandpa a bad man. Grandpa’s not a bad man. If he’s a bad man, then you’re a bad boy for eating meat. How do you like that? You like being called a bad boy for eating meat?”

I looked down, hesitated. “No,” I said, slowly realizing that I was learning something important about the smallness of my comfortable world.

“Now you’re going to tell Grandpa you’re sorry.” My father grabbed me by the arm and marched me to my grandfather who was standing alone, forlorn, by the garage. Behind him, my uncles had laid the goat out on a plastic tarp and were cutting it with knives. I looked away.

My father’s voice was stern. “Pop, your grandson has something to tell you.”

I kept my eyes down and murmured, “I’m sorry, Grandpa.”

My grandfather knelt in front of me and hugged me. “It’s all right,” he said softly. “You a good boy. It’s all right.”

“Now go and play,” my father commanded. I turned and walked away. When I glanced back, my father and grandfather had joined my uncles by the goat.

V.

I slowly wandered the yard, refusing invitations from cousins to play and from aunts to eat a snack. My sister came over and started trying to sing The Goat Song, but I quickly shushed her and carried her to my mother. “Keep her away from me,” I said crossly.

Petey walked up to me, stuffing his face with some pretzels. “Why don’t you get some of these?” he said.

“I don’t want any,” I said sullenly.

He screwed up his face. “What’s the matter with you? You’re acting like a turd.”

“Shut up, fat butt,” I snapped, my eyes burning.

“I’ll kick your butt, you wimp,” he said. But his voice was weak and high-pitched. I could tell he was afraid of the way I looked at him. “Ah, the heck with you,” he squeaked and walked away.

As Petey headed back to the snack table, I noticed my father walking towards me. My grandfather was standing by the garage, watching. At first, I wondered whether I was in trouble again, but the placid looks on both their faces comforted me.

“Listen,” my father said softly, leaning over to me. “Grandpa wants to give you something if you want them. You don’t have to take them.” He paused. “But if you want them, he’ll give you the goat’s ears and tail.”

I didn’t say anything at first. Over my father’s shoulder I saw my grandfather looking at me, waiting for my answer. I was scared. I didn’t know whether the offer was a peace overture or a test.

I looked up, slowly nodding my head “yes.” My father smiled. “Okay,” he said. He took my hand and led me toward my grandfather who, upon seeing our approach, began smiling.

“You wait here,” my grandfather said. He disappeared momentarily into the garage. He returned, holding out his cupped hands bearing the gift and knelt in front of me. “Look,” he said softly. “See? The ears. You feel,” he said, taking my hand. 

I looked into his dark brown eyes and although I couldn’t have articulated it at the time, I sensed his apprehension and how much he wanted me to accept and respect him. I tensely let him guide my hand to one of the ears. I felt the softness of the cartilage under the bristling hair.

“You like”? he asked, smiling at me, handing the ears to my father. I smiled and nodded my head.

“And look, the tail,” he said. “You feel how soft?” I reached my hand out on my own this time and stroked the soft white hair of the tail.

“Go get a bag,” my grandfather directed my father. 

We put the ears and tail in the plastic bag. I skipped back to the yard to show off my gift. I headed straight for Petey, who was wolfing down a hot dog. I held up the bag. “What’s that?” he mumbled, his mouth full.

“I told you there’d be a goat,” I said triumphantly, opening the bag and holding it up close to his face. 

“What is that?” he asked, frowning. But by the time the question left his mouth, his widening eyes had provided the answer. He spit out his hot dog and whined, “Oh, God.” Then he put his hand over his mouth, staggered off behind the fig tree and upchucked the excesses of his day.

I walked up behind him while he was heaving. “Grandpa gave me these,” I said, holding up the bag. “He didn’t give them to you, because he knows you’re a big wimp.”

VI.

Petey wasted no time ratting on me. My mother and a posse of aunts confiscated the goat parts. I yelled for my grandfather. He struck a deal for me: I’d get the ears and tail back after the barbecue.

The goat, skinned and cleaned, was cooked on a spit over the brick barbecue. I was the only one of the grandchildren who chose it over hot dogs. I sat proudly between my father and grandfather, none of us saying a word, as we devoured the sweet, tender meat. It was better than anything I’d ever tasted.

VII.

We packed up the car to leave later that evening. The ears and tail were safely stored in a cooler in the trunk. I was making plans to show the trophies around my neighborhood the next day, not knowing that my parents would dispose of them as soon as we got home, lest they be judged as bad parents for letting a little suburban American boy possess something so macabre. 

After I’d climbed into the car’s back seat, my grandfather leaned over to kiss me goodbye. The gray-black bristles of his beard brushed against my cheek, reminding me of the bristling hairs on the goat’s ears. As we pulled away down the street, I waved to him until I couldn’t see him anymore.

I never saw my grandfather again. He died later that year. My father told me I wouldn’t be going to the funeral. I looked up at him and asked why. He hesitated, took a deep breath. “Because funerals aren’t for children,” he said. I wanted to argue, to plead for an exception so I could see Grandpa one last time. But I just nodded and remained silent, understanding that it wasn’t a time for words. As I turned to go, my father reached out to touch my shoulder, then bent over and hugged me.

VIII.

I’m an old man now with little grandchildren of my own. They have no cultural connection to my grandfather other than their surname. Perhaps if they read this writing when they’re older, they’ll obtain some intellectual understanding of him and where he came from and the life he lived. But as for me, I remember my grandfather viscerally and vividly. I remember him whenever I’m in a supermarket looking at a counter of meat in little cellophane packages, like so many bricks, odorless, bland, insipid, for me, ever since that Father’s Day.

Joe Greco is a lawyer and writer who lives on California’s Central Coast. His short stories have appeared in 34th Parallel, Flash Fiction Magazine, Emprise Review, 101 Words, Bartelby Snopes, Still Crazy, Right Hand Pointing, Long Story Short and other publications. He has an undergraduate degree from Dartmouth College and a law degree from Stanford Law School.