The Temptations of St. Frank (21 page)

The car wasn't in the driveway, and his father's truck wasn't in the shed. He figured his mother was out shopping with his little sister. Perfect, he thought with a grin. He'd be alone for a while. He could go to his room and take care of the little soldier.

But then he thought of something. He might have an opportunity here. He rummaged through his book bag and pulled out the newspaper clipping Yolanda's grandfather had given him. He'd read the article, and he'd been thinking about calling the reporter who wrote it. The problem had been privacy. When it came to using the home phone, he didn't have any.

He walked through the living room to a tiny alcove just big enough for the desk where the beige touch-tone phone sat. Frank almost never used that phone because it was six feet from the couch where someone always seemed to be watching TV. Actually the top TV in the stack of three. For some reason his parents never threw out the ones that broke, they just bought smaller ones and stacked them like a totem pole—console set on the bottom, 21-inch in the middle, 18-inch on top. It was as if they were so addicted to television, they couldn't make time to throw out the broken sets. If someone was home, the TV was on, and if it wasn't one of his parents watching, it was his little sister. But now it was off and he had a chance to make a call without someone listening in.

He picked up the thick Yellow Pages from the floor and opened it on the desk. Under “Newspapers,” he found the number for the
Newark Herald.
He punched out the number and glanced out the window, watching for vehicles coming up the driveway.

The phone rang once, and a woman answered: “
Newark Herald.
How may I direct your call?”

“Ah…” Frank looked down at the byline on the article in his hand. “May I speak to Arthur Brown please?”

“Do you know what department he's in?”

Frank was surprised that she didn't know who he was. “He's a reporter.”

“Please hold.”

A moment later another woman's voice came on the line. “City desk.”

“May I speak to Arthur Brown please?”

“Hang on.” She put him on hold.

Frank looked out the window and waited, anxious that his parents would return at any moment, wondering if maybe Mr. Brown was stuck in the bathroom or something.

Finally the woman came back on the line. “Mr. Brown isn't in right now? Give me your name and number and he'll get back to you.”

Frank stared at the garish autumn-leaf pattern on the couch's upholstery and the console TV set and the kitchen table through the open doorway. “That's okay,” he said. “I'll call back another time.”

He hung up the phone, closed the Yellow Pages, and put it back on the floor to cover up the evidence. He couldn't imagine how embarrassing it would be if Mr. Brown called him back and his father answered. Or even if Frank answered and the whole family was around listening to the conversation. The questions would go on forever.

He checked the driveway again. Still time to beat off, he thought as he stepped through the living room and into the kitchen. He whipped his untied tie out of his collar and took off his St. A's blazer. But as he reached down for his book bag to take it into his room, he noticed something on the kitchen table. A letter standing up straight, propped up by the salt and pepper shakers. His mother did that whenever something important came in the mail, like a notice from the IRS that his father was behind in his estimated tax payments or a threat from the water company that they were going to discontinue service if they didn't get paid. Frank was about to ignore it, but then he thought maybe it could be for him. From a college maybe. He took a closer look and spotted the return address on the letter. Black letters and a red shield logo. His heart started to pound. It was from Boston University.

Frank picked it up and felt its weight. It was addressed to him, and it was thick. A regular white envelope, not a big brown manila envelope. It could be an acceptance. Or a long-ass rejection. Or a waiting-list acceptance, which would be almost worst than a rejection.

He ripped it open, his heart slamming so hard it could have broken a rib. He ripped it unevenly in his haste, made a mess of it. A sheaf of papers inside. He unfolded them, stared down at the cover letter, expecting the worst.

Dear Mr. Grimaldi:

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into the Boston University class of 1974…

He didn't have to read anymore. He couldn't. He was too ecstatic. He was electric. He couldn't believe it. He had gotten in. He could go away to school next fall. He could start his life. His real life. Free to be himself. Holy fuck!

He couldn't wait to tell someone. But he was home alone. There was no one to tell. Except his grandfather. He was probably down in the cellar, reading. Frank knew he'd be happy for him. He was the perfect person to tell first.

Frank headed down the staircase with the letter in his hand. “Hey, Grandpa!” he called out. “I gotta show you something.”

But when he got to the first floor, he heard the rumble of his father's engine. Frank looked through the lace curtain over the window in the front door and saw his father's truck coming up the driveway and backing into the shed. He wondered if he should tell his father first. He knew his father wasn't going to be ecstatic about it. Maybe he should wait until his mother got home.

As he watched his father ease the big truck into the ramshackle shed, another car came up the driveway. Mr. Nunziato's two-tone green Cadillac. Fuck! Frank thought. Was this Dom coming to kick his ass because Frank had stolen Annette from him? He couldn't see the driver through the glare on the windshield. Instead of just parking, the driver pulled the car around so that it was facing the street. The trunk popped open, and Frank wondered if Dom had brought a baseball bat or two-by-four or a shotgun. Fucking asshole.

But it wasn't Dom who got out of the car, it was Mr. Nunziato. Frank grinned. This was good, he thought. Better to tell his father about the acceptance with Mr. Nunziato here. Mr. Nunziato wanted his own son to go to college so he might stick up for Frank. Plus, his father probably wouldn't get all crazy in front of his buddy. This was good.

As Frank stepped out onto the front porch, his father was walking toward Mr. Nunziato who was standing by the open trunk of his car. The two men greeted each other with their usual wordless greeting.

“O!” his father said. It was a clipped guttural sound with a short gravelly trail.

Mr. Nunziato responded in kind. “O!”

They were like gorillas meeting in the jungle.

Mr. Nunziato waved to Frank. “Hiya, Frankie.”

His father noticed him on the porch. “O,” he said. “Whatta ya doin'?” He was smiling and seemed to be in a good mood.

Great, Frank thought. He walked down the steps, not fast, not slow, trying to figure out how to approach this. Blurt it right out or hang back and wait for a good opening?

His father and Mr. Nunziato huddled over the trunk as Frank joined them.

“You need underwear?” his father said to him.

“What?”

“Hey, everybody needs underwear,” Mr. Nunziato said.

Frank didn't know what the hell they were talking about until he looked in the trunk. Four open cardboard boxes full of plastic-wrapped packages of underwear. White briefs, tee shirts, guinea tees, and women's panties as well as black dress sox, white gym sox, panty hose, and nylons. Frank didn't need to be told that this stuff had “fallen off the truck.”

“Whatta ya need?” his father said.

Mr. Nunziato pulled out a three-pack of white briefs. They were Shop-Well brand, the cheap stuff they sell at the supermarket. His mother had bought him Shop-Well tee shirts once. They were so scratchy they should have been labeled “hair shirts.”

“I'm okay,” Frank said. “I don't need anything.”

“You sure?” Mr. Nunziato said. “Special price for you, Frankie.”

His father reached into a box and pulled out a three-pack of women's panties. Pastel pink, purple, and yellow, each one with a lacey waistband. The pink ones had little cherries printed all over them. Frank remembered the pink panties on the floor in Annette's room. There was no way Annette Trombetta wore Shop-Well panties. Even if they did fall off the truck.

“Your sister wear these kind?” his father asked.

“How am I supposed to know?” They didn't look like kid panties to Frank, but he wasn't going to get into a discussion about women's underwear with his father.

“Take ‘em,” Mr. Nunziato said. “She'll use ‘em eventually. When she gets bigger.”

There was no mention of underwear for Frank's mother. From what Frank could see, Mr. Nunziato's stash didn't include plus sizes.

“What's that?” his father looking at the acceptance letter in Frank's hand, scowling at it. “Jesus H. Christ! Don't tell me it's another bill. Did your mother tell you to give that to me just to bust my balls?”

His father's temper flared the way it usually did, fast and hot. Not good, Frank thought. Maybe he shouldn't tell him now.

“So what is that?” his father said, his brows furrowed. “It looks like a bill to me.”

“It's not a bill,” Frank mumbled. “It's something else.”

“Well, what? Lemme see.” His father took it out of Frank's hand, and for some reason Frank just let him. Maybe it would be better if he read it himself instead of Frank telling him. The letter looked official and impressive. That might help.

His father unfolded the letter. Frank watched his eyes move left to right and back again as he read. Frank held his breath, waiting.

“Aw, Jesus,” his father looking up for the letter. “I suppose this means you really want to go.” He handed the letter back to Frank as if he wanted to be rid of it.

“Well, yeah. Why would I have applied if I didn't want to go?”

“Just to see if you could get in.”

“Why would I do that? That's a waste of money.”

“College is a waste of money.”

Frank rolled his eyes. Here we go.

“Don't roll your eyes. It's true. College is a waste of money. Unless you're gonna be a doctor or a lawyer. And you already said you don't wanna be one of those things.”

Frank didn't want go over this again. They'd had this fight a million times already, and they all ended with his father bludgeoning him with volume and illogic, and Frank just throwing his hands up. But now it was different. He had an acceptance, a good one. He had to fight this fight.

“How can you say an education is a waste of money?”

“Because it is. You look at all these kids in college, what do they do? They grow their hair long, they take drugs, they protest against anything Nixon does, and they don't respect anything.”

“You learn stuff in college, valuable stuff.”

“Valuable my ass. You know what they learn in college? How to be bums. That's what they learn in college.”

Frank's hands were shaking he was so furious with his father's deliberate ignorance. “You're wrong. One hundred-percent wrong.”

“Oh, yeah?” His father pointed at Mr. Nunziato. “Your buddy Dom's not going to college. Now he's smart.”

Mr. Nunziato looked sad. “Dom didn't apply anyplace. He doesn't like school.”

Frank knew that Mr. Nunziato wanted Dom to go to college. Dom had told Frank.

“See?” Frank's father said. “Dom didn't even waste money on applications.” He tapped his temple with his index finger. “He's thinking, that kid.”

“But, Dad, BU is a good college. Not everybody gets in there.” Which was sort of a lie, but Frank was prepared to say anything to change his mind.

“Bullshit. Don't believe that. If you got the tuition money, they take you. It's like everything else in the world. It's all about money.” He looked to Mr. Nunziato. “Right?”

Mr. Nunziato just shrugged. He didn't want to get involved.

“You can't buy your way into Harvard,” Frank said.

“You don't think so? Then you're stupid. How do you think President Kennedy got in? It was his old man's bootlegging money.”

Mr. Nunziato nodded with authority.

“I don't care about the Kennedys,” Frank said. “I care about me!”

“And
I
care about you. That's why I don't want you to waste your time at some stupid college. Work with me for few years, then you can start your own business. I'll give you some customers the way Grandpa gave me some of his when I started.” He was smiling as if he'd come up with a solution, a life plan. As if this were a good thing.

Frank's head was ready to explode. This was everything he
didn't
want. His father made it sound like following in his footsteps was the best thing he could possibly do, but to Frank, he was presenting quick sand, a tar pit, a fucking life sentence.

“Just do what I tell you,” his father said. “You'll thank me one day.”

“No, I won't thank you. I'll die! Living at home and working with you will frigging kill me! Don't you get it?”

His father's face turned into a dark storm cloud. Frank braced himself for thunder and lightning. “You want any goddamn underwear or not?” he barked.

“Forget about the underwear?” Frank shouted. “This is serious!”

“You're right,” he shouted back. “It is serious. And I'm telling you right now. You are not going away to Boston or anyplace else for college. If you wanna go to college, go to a state school. Nights, so you can work.”

Frank's father looked at Mr. Nunziato and smirked as if he'd just zinged one in and scored a point. Mr. Nunziato flashed a brief, half-hearted grin.

Frank erupted like Vesuvius, spewing lava out of his mouth. “Hey, just because you gave up the violin, don't take it out on me. I got my own life to lead.”