The Temptations of St. Frank (23 page)

Frank didn't even know why he'd come here. The landfill was right next door to this cemetery, and the wind was blowing this way. He could smell the toxic smoke, taste it at the back of his throat. It was probably killing him the way it had killed old Andrzej here. If he really was Yolanda's grandfather.

All day long he'd been thinking about what Tina had told him, working on his “bank shot,” wracking is brain for a way to get closer to Yolanda without being obvious about it. But it was a contradiction, a conundrum, a bigger mystery than he ever imagined. How do you get it across to a girl that you like her without making it obvious? Is it like mental telepathy? You beam your thoughts into the girl's brain? Is that what Tina meant about being subtle? But if you're too subtle, then you're not doing anything. And if you're not subtle enough, you're guaranteed to blow it. Frank was totally flummoxed. Tina had said she was giving him pearls of wisdom, but he felt like he understood less now than he did before she'd given him the “secret” to success with girls.

He spit the acrid taste out of his mouth and felt like an idiot. He'd just spent an hour and a half riding three buses to get here, and what the hell did he think would happen? That he'd find Yolanda weeping at her grandfather's grave, that he'd comfort her, that he'd show his concern and sympathy and she'd fall in love with him on the spot? What a fucking idiot! He had no idea in the world why he'd come here. It made no sense. He knew it as he was sitting on the first bus. And yet he still came. He just felt the need to make a connection, that his chances with Yolanda were tied to this fucking landfill and that if he was going to make anything happen, he had to be here, breathing this poison, risking his health the same way she and everyone else in her neighborhood was.

But this was totally stupid, he thought. Just go home and forget about it. Forget about her. Forget everything.

He started walking back toward the cemetery entrance, walking between the graves with his book bag in one hand, holding his blazer over his shoulder with the other, his collar unbuttoned, his tie loosened. It was after five. The sun was bright, and he was walking right toward it, squinting to see through the glare. He stepped between the gravestones, careful not to walk over the spaces where the dead people were lying. He came to a narrow cobblestone road and felt every stone he walked over through the rubber soles of his desert boots. He coughed into his fist. The smoke was thicker than the last time he'd been down here, and the corners of his eyes stung.

Maybe I should just keep walking, he thought. Walk to Canada. Go where it's clean and the landfills aren't toxic. Maybe I could get into a college in Canada. Work my way through school. Maybe find a Canadian girl someday. Canadian girls are probably more straight forward than American girls. You probably don't need to perfect your “bank shot” with them. It's a thought. Maybe he could—

“What're you doing here?”

Frank looked up as soon as he heard the high-pitched voice, fumbling with his jacket to shade his eyes. Holy fuck! It was Yolanda.

“What are you
doing
here?” she demanded. She sounded mad. He was trespassing on her family burial ground.

“Well, I…”

I want to kiss you, he thought. I want to hold you.

Bank shots, he told himself.

“Well, what?” she said. She wore a black dress and shiny black pumps. Funeral clothes.

“I…” he started.

Bank shots! Bank shots!

“I heard about your grandfather. I'm sorry.”

“What's it to you? You didn't know my grandfather.”

“Well, I met him once. He told me about the landfill.” Frank nodded toward the source of the smoke on the other side of the fence.

She just glared at him. The glimmering eyes he thought about all the time were looking daggers at him.

“He told me a little bit about the landfill, how it was making people sick. I'm interested in that.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“Because it's not right. That underground fire should be put out, and the people who own it should go to jail.”

He couldn't believe he was saying this. Hearing himself, he felt like an asshole. The only reason he cared about the landfill was because he cared about her. But this was a bank shot, right? Aim at the landfill when the shot he really wanted to sink was Yolanda. Still, he felt like a conniving shit.

“You're right,” she said, but she still sounded mad, as if it were all his fault. “They should go to jail. All of them.”

“Yeah,” he said. He didn't know what else to say.

“But they won't go to jail. None of them. They're all too powerful.”

“Who?” He knew who, but he wondered if she knew who. He worried that it would steal his thunder if she already knew that the church and the mob were behind this.

“Them!” She wailed like a wounded animal, pointing at the landfill. Fresh tears dribbled down her cheeks.

Frank felt so bad for her, but he didn't know what to do. He wanted to hold her and comfort her, but he was afraid she'd take it the wrong way because they didn't know each other that well. She pulled a wad of tissue paper out of her sleeve and blotted her tears. He wanted to do it for her. He wanted to do something.

Standing there right next to her, saying nothing, was excruciating. “I'll bet your grandfather was a good man,” he finally said. “He seemed like a good man.”

She started sobbing and blubbering, her eyes pressed closed, sprouting tears that dribbled down the side of her nose.

Shit, he thought. He shouldn't have said that. He shouldn't have come here at all.

“Hey, I'm sorry,” he said and reached out to her, touching her shoulder without even thinking.

“No!” she said, recoiling from him. “Not now!” She swiped her face with the back of her hand and walked away, heading toward her grandfather's grave.

He stared at the golden light in her departing hair. Not now, she'd said. What did she mean by that? Not now but yes later? Maybe later? Did it mean anything at all? But she'd said it. She meant something. No one says things they don't mean even if they say they don't mean them. It's in their head when they say it. A Freudian slip.

Frank watched her walking away, walking fast. He waited for her to turn around and look at him,
hoped
that she would turn around and look at him. But she didn't. But she
did
say, Not now. He'd heard her loud and clear. He wasn't making it up. He felt bad for her, but he also felt hopeful. She'd said, Not
now.
She'd left the door open.

A wispy cloud of smoke washed over him and made his eyes tear. He had to do something, he thought. He was in her mind. He could feel it. He had to do something to reinforce that. But nothing blatant. A bank shot, Tina said. But still something. The
right
thing. That's what he had to do. He had to do the right thing. That's what Mr. Nunziato had told him.

But what was that?

He picked up his book bag, coughed, and walked slowly into the sun.

Sensing Frank's presence in the room, she woke with snort and a start. “What'sa matter, Grandma?” she said in her Italian accent, staring at him in alarm. For some reason that Frank could never figure out, she called all her grandkids by
her
name, “Grandma.” “What's wrong?”

Her brows furrowed, and she was ready to break some heads to defend her home and family. Though she wasn't Sicilian—she had been born near Naples—she had a Sicilian's cold-blooded notion of acceptable violence. When she was angry, she was a poet of violence, promising to do the incredible. Once when the fish man mistakenly overcharged her for two pounds of smelts, she threatened to stick her two fingers up his nose and drag him around the block “three time.” She was a huge woman, a female version of Haystack Calhoun, the man-mountain wrestler who wore hillbilly coveralls in the ring to cover his girth. She wasn't fast, but Frank had no doubt that if she caught whoever crossed her, the poor bastard would suffer dearly.

“What'sa matter?” she said. “You hungry?”

Of all the crosses she had to bear, the heaviest was the fact that her daughter-in-law, Frank's mother, was an atrocious cook. His Grandma was convinced that her terrible cooking was killing Frank's family, and that it was her duty to feed Frank, his sister, and his father every chance she got.

“You want some macaronis?” she said. “I heat it up for you.” She started to haul herself off the sofa.

“No, it's okay, Grandma.” Frank motioned for her to stay put. “I was just wondering if I could use your phone. My mother's using ours.”

“Yeah, sure. Go ahead.” She fluttered her hand in the direction of the kitchen phone, her arm fat jiggling.

“Thanks, Grandma.”

On television, Bruno Sammartino was beating the shit out of Gorilla Monsoon, smashing the heel of his hand into Monsoon's face.

“So who's winning?” he asked, nodding at the set.

“Huh?” She just noticed that the TV was on.

“I said, who's winning.”

She squinted to see who was fighting, then flashed a smug smile when she recognized her favorite. “Sammartino,” she said. “Who else?”

They stared at the set together, him in the doorway, her on the sofa. Despite the racket of the jeering crowd on TV, her head drifted back and she fell fast asleep. Frank smiled. He knew she'd do that.

He stepped into the kitchen and listened for footsteps on the stairway. He'd lied to his grandmother about his mother using the phone. No one was using their phone, but it was on the desk in the alcove right off the living room, and Frank's mother and sister were in there watching TV. If he used the phone upstairs, he wouldn't have any privacy, and he wasn't about to make this call with an audience. Rich kids had phones of their own in their bedrooms—they had phones all over the house—but not Frank. He'd wished on many occasions that they had another phone somewhere that wasn't so public, but they didn't, and getting one wasn't even a topic for discussion with his parents. There were two phones in the whole house, one on each floor, and it was gonna stay that way.

He walked over to the black wall phone near the kitchen table and unfolded the page from
The Scarlet Letter
on which Annette had scribbled down her phone number. He stared at her rounded, even handwriting. Every number could have been the beginning of a roly-poly teddy bear sketch. He looked at the phone, and his heart started to thump.

What if he dialed and Mr. Trombetta answered?

He'd hang up, he decided.

What if he has all his phones tapped? What if he could trace the number?

Why would he do that?

Because he's a mob boss and he can.

Frank laid his hand on the receiver but didn't take it off the hook. He was gathering his nerve, mentally rehearsing his lines.

Hi, it's Frank. Remember me?

Of course she remembers, numbnuts. How many guys does she let get their fingers into her twat? Well, almost into her twat.

I was wondering if you still wanted to go to the prom. With me.

Maybe I should say “
my
prom.” Or was it better to say “the St. A's prom”? What the fuck difference does it make? She isn't stupid. She'll know what he's talking about. She's a prom-minded kind of girl.

Just get it over with, he told himself. Just say it. She'll understand.

But she's not the problem. What if someone else answers the phone? She said it was her own line, but these people are Italian. Her family had to be as intrusive as his. Frank did not want to talk to her parents or her brother. Johnny Trombetta was almost as scary as their father.

Maybe I should just forget about the whole thing.

Frank let go of the receiver.

But what about the landfill? And Yolanda?

He put his hand back on the receiver.

And what about maybe getting another shot at doing it with Annette? And maybe getting whacked for trying. He took his hand off the receiver. It was a definite possibility.

His breath was short. He wasn't sure what he should do.

Do it, he told himself. Just do it. Not for me. For Yolanda. For her neighborhood. For the people down near the landfill. He frowned at his self-serving bullshit reasoning. Well, yeah, maybe for me, too. But he did care about the people who were getting sick. And the fact that the church and the mob were in cahoots poisoning people.

Tis a far far better thing I do
…

Yeah, he thought. I'm like that guy in
A Tale of Two Cities
. But he couldn't remember exactly why that guy agreed to go to the guillotine. But he knew it was a noble reason… whatever it was.

He snatched up the receiver and started to dial before he changed his mind. Problem was, his grandparents didn't have a touch-tone phone. They had an old rotary phone, and it took longer to dial, time he shouldn't have because he might think about it and back out. Frank looked at Annette's phone number in his hand. There were a lot of 2s in it. Good. He could dial those fast.

He dialed all but the last number and paused. He listened for signs of eavesdroppers in the near vicinity, but all he heard was the Big Time Wrestling racket on TV. His grandmother was out like a light, he was sure of that. He sucked in his breath and stuck his finger in the hole in the rotary for the last number, which was a 5. Not long, not short. He spun the dial to the metal stopper, held his breath, and let go.

It started to ring. Once…

His heart was pounding hard.

Twice…

Just hang up, he told himself. Before someone answers.

Three times…

He could feel cold sweat in his armpits. There's still time. Just hang up. Go ahead, do it.

On the fourth ring, someone picked up.

Frank's body went stiff. He was a cartoon character in a haunted house seeing a ghost for the first time.

“Hello?” It was Mrs. Trombetta.

Fuck!
he thought.

“Hello?” she said again.

Say something stupid.

“Hel-
lo!”
She sounded annoyed.

Frank cleared his throat. “Ah… hello. Is, ah, Annette there?”

“Who is this?”

“Ah…”

Hang up now, he thought. There's still time.

“Ah,” he said. “This is Frank Grimaldi.”

“Frank Grimaldi?” She sounded puzzled. He knew why.

“The son,” he said.

“Oh, Frankie,” she said. “I thought it was your father. But the voice was different.”

“No, it's me. Not him.” He felt stupid.

“You said you wanted to talk to Annette?” He could hear her lighting a cigarette, exhaling smoke into the phone.

“Yes. If she's there.” He felt even stupider.

“Of course. Hold on.” She sounded too happy. Maybe she was high. Or more likely tipsy. He could hear her calling out to her daughter. “Annette? It's for you.” She was definitely tipsy. Frank imagined her with a cocktail in her hand, the cigarette between her fingers.

“She'll be right there,” Mrs. Trombetta said,

He heard her setting down the receiver a little too hard.

Frank's armpits were sopping.

“Hello?” It was Annette.

“Hi,” Frank said.

Silence. “Who's this?”

“Oh… it's Frank. Sorry.”

“Oh, Frank. Hi.”

“Hi.”

Silence. Frank wasn't sure how he should start.

“So what's up?” she said.

I shouldn't have called.

“Well, I was wondering if, you know, you still—“

Frank heard heavy footsteps. He looked up and saw his father breeze into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and rooted around like Yogi Bear in a picnic basket.

Shit, Frank thought. Potential humiliation toasted his face. He was sweating buckets.

“Frank?” Annette said. “Are you there? Did we get cut off?”

“Ah, no,” he muttered. He was standing right in the middle of the kitchen, but his father hadn't noticed him. His head was deep inside the refrigerator.

Frank lowered his voice, hoping to get it out before his father realized he was there. He cupped his hand over the receiver and lowered his voice. “I was wondering if you would—“

“I can barely hear you. Can you speak up?”

He raised his voice but just a little. “I was wondering if—“

“I
still
can't hear you.”

His father's butt was facing him. Frank could hear him pulling tin foil off something.

Frank spoke up and spoke fast. “I was wondering if you would, you know, if you would like to go… to the prom. My prom.”

Frank looked up, and his father was looking at him, a rolled-up slice of salami clamped between his first and second finger, a wedge of provolone cheese between his second and third. In his other hand he held a ragged hunk of Italian bread, chewing and grinning like a pig in shit. He gave Frank the thumbs up sign.

Fuck, Frank thought. He did not want anybody to know about this. Not yet.

“Really, Frank?” Annette said. “That would be so neat. The St. A's proms are supposed to be the best.” She gushed all over the phone. Frank's ear was already wet with sweat.

“Who's that?” his father whispered.

Frank looked down and tried to ignore him.

“When is it?” Annette asked.

“May twenty-third. At the—“

“The Gazebo in Montclair.” She obviously knew all about it.

“So do you want to go?”

“Yes, yes. Of course I want to go.”

Frank glanced up. His father was right next to him, drinking from a quart bottle of White Rock black cherry soda. He gestured at Frank. “Who is she?” he whispered, grinning the way Dom would if he were here, grinning with horn-dog adolescent anticipation.

“So I'll, like, get the tickets, okay?”

“Yes, get the tickets,” she said. “This is gonna be so neat.”

“Yeah,” he said, trying not to look at his father.

His father whispered loudly, “Who is she?”

“Look, I gotta go take care of something, but I'll call you soon and we'll figure out the details.” He wasn't sure what details he was talking about, but he just had to get off the phone. He couldn't talk to her with his father listening. It was too embarrassing. And he wasn't ready for anyone to know that he had asked John Trombetta's daughter to the prom.

“You promise to call me?” she said.

“Yeah, I'll call you,” Frank itching to hang up.

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

“When?”

“As soon as I get the tickets.”

“When's that?”

“This week.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, I gotta go now.”

“Right now?”

“Yeah. My grandmother's calling me. She needs me to help her.”

“Help her do what?”

“Stuff. You know.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“You know, old people stuff. Stuff she can't do.”

“Oh.”

“Okay, so I'll call you. This week.”

“Okay. Don't forget.”

“I won't. I promise. So… bye.”

“Bye, Frank. This is gonna be neat.”

“Yeah, really. Bye.” He wished the fuck she'd just shut up and let him go.

“Good night, Frank.”

Frank frowned at the receiver before he hung up. “Good night” seemed like an odd thing to say. She should have just said “bye.”

“So who is she?” his father picking his teeth with a pinkie nail. “Do I know her?”

“No.” Frank started to leave.

“So aren't you gonna tell me who she is?”

“Just some girl. You don't know her.”

His father guzzled a little more soda. “You're mother's gonna be so happy. She was afraid you weren't gonna go.”

Frank cringed. Fingernails on a blackboard.

“Grandma?” his grandmother called from the living room. “Who's there? Frank?”

Frank's father gnawed on a hunk of bread. They exchanged glances.

“She's calling you,” Frank said. To his grandmother, he was Frankie, his father was Frank.

“Who's there?” his grandmother called out. “Is that you, Frank? Talk.”

“Yeah, it's me, Ma,” his father called out.

“You hungry? You want me to make something?”

Loud jeers and boos from the TV. The
ka-boom
of some wrestler being slammed into the mat.

Frank left the kitchen and headed upstairs to his room before his father could say anything else.

The next day after school Frank climbed the front steps to Dom's porch, carrying his pickle-shaped guitar case. That was the one thing he didn't like about his guitar, the case. Vox cases looked like big light-gray pickles. He stood the case on end and pressed the door bell.

The door opened, Dom standing on the other side of the screen. Johnny Trombetta was behind him.

Fuck! Frank had thought it was just going to be him and Dom.