The Temptations of St. Frank (16 page)

Frank had heard of Yeheudi Menuin. The man was famous. Jesus, his father must've really been hot shit back then.

The next clipping was a short piece from the
Newark News.
“Local Violinist to Audition for New York Philharmonic.” Frank read the article.

“Local musician, Frank Grimaldi, 21, has been granted an audition with the New York Philharmonic. Grimaldi, who plays the violin, is currently concert master of the Newark Music Society's symphony orchestra. He will be competing with dozens of other candidates for a coveted seat in the philharmonic's string section. Auditions are scheduled to being in May.”

Frank was stunned. The New York fucking Philharmonic? Fuck! He never knew any of this about his father.

“Grandpa,” he said, “did Dad ever play for the New York Philharmonic?”

“Ehhh?” His grandfather was leaning over a bowl of
minestra,
slurping up a limp strand of spinach.

“Did my father ever get the job playing violin for the New York Philharmonic?”

The old man shrugged as he chewed. It was a don't-ask-
me
shrug.

“He must have been pretty good,” Frank said.

Another shrug.

“So how come he decided to be—”

A gardener, Frank thought and rephrased his question, not wanting his grandfather to think he thought there was anything wrong with being a gardener.

“How come he didn't stay with the violin if he was that good.”

His grandfather narrowed his eyes, a piece of spinach hanging out of the corner of his mouth. Frank couldn't read his expression. It could have been a sly look or a mad look, Frank couldn't tell. Frank stared at him, waiting for an answer. He was still holding the violin, and the tailpiece rattled against the body.

His grandfather stared back at him, chewing slowly. He slurped up another gob of spinach. “You ask him.”

His mother sat at the kitchen table, leaning over the newspaper, engrossed in the obituaries.

His sister Carol was in her seat against the wall, doing her homework. She didn't lift her eyes from her work. Her expression was serious, her bangs as straight as a ruler. Rosary Bead Barbie was close at hand on the table next to Carol's math book.

The coffee pot was perking on the stove, an Entenmann's almond coffee ring on the table. Frank could see through the cellophane window that a piece was missing and a butter knife had been left inside.

“You want some coffee?” his mother asked. “I just made it.”

“No thanks.”

He looked around, hoping that his father had gotten home. He wanted to ask him about this violin business. Frank was hoping that if his father had almost had a career in music, then he understood Frank better than he let on, that he really wasn't the blue-collar Fred Flintstone he appeared to be.

“Sit down,” his mother said. “Wanna piece of cake?”

“I'm not hungry.”

“Come on, sit down. I want to hear about this girl.”

Carol's big brown eyes popped open. “What girl?”

“I think Frank has a girlfriend,” his mother whispered.

“Frank has a girl-friend!” Carol chanted. “Frank has a girl-friend!”

Frank frowned. “She's not my girlfriend.”

But Carol kept chanting. “Frank doesn't have a girl-friend! Frank doesn't have a girl-friend!”

“Shut up!”

“Frank! Be nice,” his mother said. “No reason to be mean to your sister.”

“Why? You guys are being mean to me.”

“We're just curious about this girl you met.”

“Why? What's the big deal?”

“Having a girlfriend
is
a big deal.”

Frank could feel his face getting red. Having Yolanda as a girlfriend, that might be a big deal, but Annette Trombetta was not the girlfriend of his dreams. She was just the girl he'd gotten the farthest with. But he couldn't say that. Hey, Mom, guess what I did?

A hole in one,
a voice in his head said. He stared at the coffee ring. It was talking, the missing piece its mouth. Frank didn't see it moving, but he imagined that was where the voice had come from. The coffee ring was taunting him with its hole-iness. It was referring to the hole in one he didn't make that morning with Annette. Frank stared at the hole, the white cardboard under the coffee ring, mesmerized by it. He was thinking about her, about having his hand down her bikini bottom, the tip of his middle finger on the edge of her twat. He was horny all over again, flying a full mast under his dirty jeans.

“Are you listening to me?” his mother said.

“Yeah, I'm listening”

But he wasn't listening, not to her. He was waiting for the coffee ring to say something else. He was staring hard at it, thinking he could cut another piece and eat it, and the mouth would be bigger. The thought of eating made him hungry again. He'd had a big ham and mozzarella sub for lunch. And he'd eaten a Mr. Goodbar and a Milky Way from his father's private stash in the glove compartment of the truck. I must still be having the munchies, he thought, because I still feel a little high. He'd heard about the munchies. This had to be that.

“Frank, you're not listening,” his mother said. “You're just like your father.”

He opened the box and picked up the knife. “Yes, I'm listening. And no, I'm not just like Dad.”

Unless he was a great violinist, a gifted artist, and a tortured soul prevented from realizing his dream.

The knife was dull. Frank pressed down hard, gritting his teeth as he tried to hack off a piece of coffee ring.

His mother reached for the knife. “Here, let me do it.”

“No, I got it.” Frank ripped the piece off with his fingers, leaving a ragged pastry wound. He lifted it to his mouth and took a big bite. Cinnamon and sugar made his mouth water. White frosting dotted the corners of his lips.

“Use a plate!” his mother nagged. “And here, take a napkin.” She snatched one out of the dispenser on the table and handed it to him.

But he didn't take it. He didn't even notice her holding it out to him because he was staring at the hole in the coffee ring as he chewed.

Hole in one
, it said. The coffee ring was louder now that its mouth was bigger.

Shit, he thought. He should have gone for it when he'd had the chance. Annette was willing. Her mother wouldn't have just walked into her room, would she? And so what if his father was down in the driveway, yelling his head off? Frank could have told him he was in the bathroom taking a dump. Frank could have actually had his first hole in one. But he missed his chance. Fuck! And who knows when he might get a chance like that again?

“Frank!”

He might never get that close again.

“Frank!”

He might never get laid.

“
Frank!”

Ever.

“
I am talking to you, Frank! Is there something wrong with you?”

Frank stared at his mother, her hair wound up in tight little swirls like tiny cinnamon buns all over her head. I got high, Ma, but I didn't get laid, he thought. That's what's wrong with me.

“I asked you ten times now about that girl. Can't you answer? Are you ashamed of her? Is there something wrong with her? Did you do something you shouldn't have–?”

“What the fuck do you want from me?” He threw what was left of his cake back into the box. “Why are you hounding me? Why do you want to know so much about this girl? It's the Trombettas' daughter. You hate them.”

Carol was staring at him, her eyes wide pools of chocolate brown, her mouth hanging wide open.

He suddenly realized that he'd been yelling, his arms in the air, fists clenched.

His mother's face was crumpling, like Atlantis falling into the sea. She was biting down on the edge of the dishtowel slung over her shoulder.

A spear of guilt went right through him. The Roman spear that pierced Christ's side. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't mean to yell.”

“Never mind,” she mumbled, her eyes brimming. “I'm sorry I asked.” She stood up fast, knocking her chair into the metal cabinet behind her, rattling the silverware inside and the toaster on top. She fled to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

Frank rushed to the door. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I'm sorry!”

“You're just like your father,” she wailed through the door. It was a screech of raw emotion, and it scared Frank.

“Mom, I'm sorry. What can I say?” His guilt was bleeding all over the floor, seeping under the closed door.

The volume on the radio rose to a deafening level. Phil Rizutto, the voice of the Yankees, blaring, “Two outs, top of the sixth. Murcer is on third, and Thurman Munson is coming to the plate…”

Frank sat down in her seat and stared at the coffee ring. Phil Rizutto's voice filled the kitchen, his words like giant, bloated inner tubes that took up the entire space and kept Frank from moving.

“You shouldn't have said that,” his sister said. She put down her pencil and picked up Rosary Bead Barbie.

He nodded. “I know.”

“That was bad.”

“I know.”

“What're you going to do?”

Frank shrugged, staring at the coffee ring.

What're you gonna do?
the coffee ring said.

Bells rang. High tinkling bells like the six-pack of brass bells that he used to ring at Mass back when he'd been an altar boy, shaking them forcefully but briefly at the moment of Transubstantiation when the bread and wine supposedly turns into the body and blood of Christ. The ringing sound squeezed through Phil Rizutto's big rubbery words. Frank wasn't sure it was real until he looked at Carol's face. Her expression sharpened like a puppy hearing a dog whistle. These were the bells on the Freezee Treat ice cream truck that came around every day in good weather. Frank took this as a sign. A good sign.

“You want some ice cream?” he asked his sister.

“Can't,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Too close to dinner time.”

“So what?”

“Mom'll get mad.”

“Just tell her you ate dessert first.”

“No. That would be bad.” She clutched Rosary Bead Barbie to her cheek.

“I know you like those strawberry shortcake things.”

“Strawberry Shortcake Stupendos.”

“Yeah, those things. Come on. My treat.”

Carol did her best to hide a devilish grin with Rosary Bead Barbie's long blond hair, but temptation was in her eyes.

“Come on. Before the Freezee Treat man leaves.”

She crooked her finger for him to come closer. “Okay,” she whispered. As if their mother could hear with bigmouth Phil Rizutto yammering about the Yankees' pitching staff.

They walked softly down the squeaky stairs, not wanting their Grandma to hear them leaving. Grandma was always on the alert for people coming in or out, and she always had something important to tell you or a dish she wanted you to taste, or she needed something from the store. Though it was never discussed, Frank was pretty sure that everyone in the family dreaded Grandma's cry-baby, sing-song pleas for attention. Frank and Carol slipped out the front door like Hansel and Gretel trying to sneak away from the witch.

They walked quickly down the long driveway. The big cherry tree in the front yard had dropped its blossoms, which now covered the asphalt like bright pink confetti. Their house was an oddity in a neighborhood that was otherwise borderline ghetto. It was a large, two-story white clapboard structure with a big sloping front lawn. The property faced a row of tenements, and the projects were a block away. Italian-Americans, Italian immigrants, and blacks lived cheek-by-jowl, but the blacks and whites tried not to have anything to do with one another. But one of the few things both groups did share was a taste for Freezee Treats. The Freezee Treat truck was parked at the curb in front of Frank's house, and a line of kids were waiting—three little black kids and two little white kids. They said nothing to one another and stood in silence with slitty suspicious eyes, clutching their coins in tight sweaty fists, ready to start swinging if anyone of any color tried to take their ice-cream money from them.

Frank and Carol got in line and waited.

“What can I get you?” the Freezee Treat man said when they reached the window in the side of the truck. He had a huge rubbery face and a smile that took up the whole window. Frank figured this guy must have a second job as a clown when he wasn't selling ice cream. Frank could see him working rich-kid birthday parties in places like West Orange and Short Hills.

Bet he was the entertainment at the Trombettas' house when Annette was a little kid, Frank thought. She probably had pony parties for her birthdays. Rich kids riding Shetland ponies around the yard. Frank's father probably had to clean up the pony shit when it was over.

“So what'll it be?” the Freezee Treat man said. Frank couldn't stop staring at his big rubber lips.

“Ah, let's see, “ Frank said. “A Strawberry Shortcake… whatever you call it.”

“Stupendo.” The man reached down into his freezer and pulled out a wrapped pop. “Anything else.”

Frank scanned the menu board. He zeroed in on the vanilla cone dipped in chocolate and rolled in nuts. The ice cream always sucked on those things, but the sugar cone was chewy and sweet like nothing else he'd ever tasted. He suddenly had to have one. “And one of these.” He put his finger on the picture on the board.

“One Cone-a-riffic coming right up.” In the blink of an eye the man put a wrapped cone on the counter right next to the Strawberry Shortcake Stupendo. He was like a magician pulling rabbits out of a hat. “A dollar thirty-five, my friend.”

Frank pulled out his wallet and fished out two bucks. As he waited for his change, he stared into his wallet and felt stupid for not keeping a rubber in there. A lot of guys kept condoms tucked away in their wallets. Just in case they got lucky. Like this morning. Frank came very close to getting lucky today. He should definitely keep a rubber in there.

Rubber Face slapped two quarters, a dime, and a nickel on the counter. “Thanks for your business, my friend. I appreciate it.”

Frank scooped up his change and the ice creams, handing the Stupendo to his sister. She unwrapped it fast and held it in front of her face, admiring it. She was in heaven, her favorite ice-cream pop in the whole world in one hand, Rosary Bead Barbie in the other. She glanced up at Frank for approval before she bit into the pop.

“Go ahead. Eat,” he said, and she did, taking a big bite.

The look on her face was pure joy. Frank was happy for her, but he envied her, too. Things were simpler when he was her age. Black and white. Chocolate and vanilla. And strawberry. He unwrapped his cone and bit into the chocolate crust. All he really wanted was the cone, but if he started at that end, the ice cream would eventually drip all over his hand and make a mess. He thought about eating the ice cream quickly to get it out of the way, but if he did that, he'd get a brain freeze. He watched his sister in her state of bliss systematically licking, licking, licking, then chomping when the piece she'd licked was soft enough to bite into. She knew how to get what she wanted. Apparently he didn't.

Just wait till you grow up, he said in his head. Even eating a Strawberry Shortcake Stupendo will be complicated.

The burping roar of a leaky muffler startled the little kids. They froze where they stood like a herd of deer. Frank's father's truck zoomed into the driveway and came to an abrupt squeaky-brake stop. His father gestured at Frank and his sister through the open window. “Whoa!” he called out with a big smile. He was looking at Carol.

Frank's eye went to the lettering on the door right under his father's well tanned arm.

Frank Grimaldi

Landscape Gardener