The Temptations of St. Frank (24 page)

Dom pushed the screen door open. He had a sour look on his face.

“How's it going–” Frank started.

Dom threw a wild roundhouse and caught Frank's jaw. Frank stumbled back and dropped his guitar. He held his face where he'd been hit.

“What the fuck was that for?” The punch was just a glancing blow, more stun than sting. Looking at his upside-down guitar case, he was more worried about the guitar than his face.

Dom huffed and puffed like a bull at a bullfight, standing with his feet planted and his fists clenched tight. “Asshole,” he snorted and charged at Frank.

Frank rushed down the porch steps and stood on the lawn. “What the fuck's wrong with you?”

Dom stood on the steps like a vicious Doberman guarding the house. “Get the fuck outta here, Grimaldi.”

Frank just stared at him. Dom had never called him by his last name. “What's your problem?”

“I don't have a problem. You're the problem.”

Dom was itching for a fight. It was in his posture. Frank sized him up. He was built like his old man—average height, barrel-chested and solid. He'd always been more aggressive than Frank, but Frank was taller and outweighed him. Frank figured if he could wrestle with Wilenski twice a week in gym class, he could handle Dom. But it made him sad that he was thinking this way. He never thought he would ever get into a fist fight with his best friend.

“I said get the fuck outta here, Grimaldi, before I kick your ass.”

Yeah, you and what army?
was the first thing that popped into Frank's head, but he thought better of saying it. He was ready to take Dom on, but Johnny had just stepped out onto the porch. Most guys would stand back if two other guys got into a fight, but there was something sneaky and underhanded about Johnny. He'd get involved, and Frank didn't want to mix it up with the two of them. A kid like Johnny Trombetta might do anything—use a brick or a chain or a length of pipe. But if Frank hurt him, Christ, there'd be hell to pay.

“All right, I'm going,” Frank said. “Just gimme my guitar.”

Johnny walked over to Frank's guitar, frowned down at it as if it were a pile of dog shit, and flipped it over with the pointy toe of his faggy black ankle boot.

Frank cringed. The jerk was gonna break it.

Johnny squatted over the case, opened the latches, and lifted the lid. He picked up Frank's black-and-white Vox Phantom with its asymmetrical body. It looked fragile outdoors in the sun in Johnny's hand. He held it by the neck as if it were a poisonous snake.

“What a piece of shit,” he said.

Frank's arms trembled. He wanted his goddamn guitar back. If Johnny damaged it, he swore to God he'd kill him.

Johnny kicked the case off the porch. It skidded past Dom, surfing over the steps and clattered onto the cement walk.

Frank stared at him. If he broke that guitar, Frank would never get another one. His mother would say they couldn't afford it. Because Mr. Trombetta never paid for the work his father did. Not on time. Not all of it. Motherfucker.

Johnny moved to the top step and dangled the guitar over the edge. He held Frank's gaze, smirking at him. “You gonna do something about it?”

Frank's chest was heaving. All he wanted was his guitar back.

“Where the hell do you get off asking my sister to your prom?”

“Yeah,” Dom said, “who the hell do you think you are?” Dom's voice was shaky as if he were holding back his emotions. Christ, he was jealous and hurt. Over Annette?

Frank played dumb. “I don't get it. What's the big deal? I just asked her to the prom, that's all.”

“Yeah, that's all,” Dom spitting fire.

Johnny swung the guitar slowly like pendulum.

The Pit and the Pendulum, Frank thought. He remembered the movie version, a giant pendulum with a razor-sharp blade swinging back and forth, back and forth, dropping a little bit with each swing, getting closer and closer to some bare-chested guy tied down to a table. That was him, Frank thought, the guy being tortured. But this was bullshit and he didn't want any part of their game.

“Just give me my guitar and I'll leave,” he said.

Dom blew up, “What'd you say? Huh?” He leapt off the stairs and charged Frank, grabbing him by the shirt and trying to wrestle him down.

Frank grabbed two fistfuls of Dom's shirt and tried to do the same. He could feel the fabric tightening around his shoulders and hear one of their shirts starting to rip but he wasn't sure whose it was.

“What fuck's going on, Dom?” Frank breathed in his face. “How the hell was I supposed to know you liked Annette?”

As soon as Frank mentioned her name, Dom went berserk. He growled and grunted and yanked on Frank's shirt. Buttons popped off. He tried to get his leg behind Frank's to trip him, but Frank knew that move from gym class, and he held his position, surprising himself that he could keep Dom at bay. After tussling with Wilenski, Dom felt like a lightweight.

“I didn't know you liked her,” Frank whispered so only Dom could hear. “You never said anything about her. I wouldn't have asked her if I had know.”

“Just shut the fuck up!” Dom screamed.

“Yo, asshole!” Johnny called from the porch. “Catch!” He swung Frank's guitar and pitched it underhanded.

Frank's heart stopped when he saw his Vox flying in midair, a line drive parallel with the front walk. He struggled to break free from Dom so he could catch it, but Dom hung on tight. Frank dragged him like an anchor, reaching out to grab the guitar before it hit the ground, but he couldn't get close enough.

The guitar lost velocity and dropped quickly, hitting the concrete walk with a horrible sound and skittering all the way to the curb. The harsh scraping cut right through Frank.

He flailed his arms, breaking free from Dom's grip and ran to his instrument. It was half in the street, half on the strip of lawn that bordered the sidewalk. He picked it up, anxious to inspect the damage, afraid that it would be beyond repair. The bottom edge of the body was scraped raw, right down to the wood. A thin piece of the headstock had splintered off. Frank felt the neck and the body like a frantic mother checking her child for broken bones. Nothing else seemed to be broken, but he wouldn't know for sure until he got home and plugged it in.

He raised his head and glared at Dom and Johnny who were back on the porch. Dom was looking sullen but superior, and Johnny had a wiseass smirk on his face. Frank was on the verge of tears of rage. The guitar was ruined, he thought, and he had a powerful urge to use it like a club and do a Jimi Hendrix on their fucking heads.

“Dominick! What's going on down there?” Mrs. Nunziato's voice came out of one of the screened windows upstairs. Frank looked up, but she was nowhere to be seen. He rarely saw her because she stayed in her room most of the time. She supposedly had some kind of condition. This was the loudest Frank had ever heard her, but she still sounded sick and pathetic.

“Dominick! I'm talking to you.”

Dom yelled back, “Nothing's going on, ma.” He was staring at Frank, daring him to do something.

Frank thought about it. He could do something. He
wanted
to do something. He wanted to explode all over them. He was bigger than either of them. He could mess them up bad. But Johnny's father could arrange to have him messed up even worse. And then there was Annette. She probably wouldn't go to the prom with him if he put her brother in a coma.

Frank rubbed the ragged pieces of wood off his guitar as he walked across the lawn. He turned the pickle case over and put the guitar inside, closing the latches. He kept an eye on Dom and Johnny, not trusting either of them, as he picked up his guitar and started to back away toward the street.

“Dom!” Mrs. Nunziato screeched like a wounded bird of prey. “Are you
sure
nothing's going on down there? I think something's going on.”

Frank glanced up at the empty upstairs windows as he stepped off the lawn onto the sidewalk. He remembered the Edgar Allan Poe poem they'd read in Mr. Dalton's class. Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”

He was sitting in the cockpit behind the desk in
The Summit
office. Frank sat on the couch, a pile of black and white 5×7 photographs in his lap, another pile on the seat next to him. Peter had been checking the time every five minutes for the past two hours. It was almost 8:00 PM and just starting to get dark out. They were working late because tomorrow was their deadline for turning in the last parts of the yearbook to the printer—the spring sports and the student life sections.

Peter was a good guy, but he was also a 4H drone who checked his grade point average the way a diabetic checks his blood sugar level. He was tall for a Chinese kid, and like a lot of the guys at St. A's, he dressed like a preppy by choice underneath his school blazer—rep ties, button-down broadcloth shirts, penny loafers. Frank wore tan suede desert boots, wool knit ties, and whatever shirts his mother bought for him.

“Don't you have an English test tomorrow, too?” Peter said.

“Yeah.” Frank was sorting through candid photos that Molloy had taken throughout the year, a lot of them paparazzi-type, gotcha shots of students looking stupid and dorky and teachers looking stupid or pissed. Frank had picked out a bunch and written funny captions for them, like “Who stole the toilet paper?” for a picture of Mr. Whalley coming out of the men's room with a scowl on his face. The humor was pretty lame, and Frank knew it, but it had to be because it would never get past Monsignor Fitzgerald, who also served as the yearbook moderator. He had to okay everything they submitted. Frank was a big fan of iconoclastic writers like H.L. Mencken and Terry Southern, and whenever he submitted copy that even hinted at the kind of scalding satire he aspired to in his own writing, the monsignor would just rip it up—photos and all—and tell Peter to come up with something else. The monsignor would only deal with Peter. Even though Frank was the literary editor in charge of all the copy, Fitzgerald had never spoken to him directly about yearbook matters. Never. The only feedback Frank ever got was the torn pages and photos that Peter dutifully brought back to the office. Frank really liked Peter, but the word “coolie” came to mind whenever he faithfully brought back the monsignor's droppings.

Peter looked at his watch again. Frank knew he was worrying about the English test. Peter worried about
every
test, even gym tests. English was the one subject Frank didn't worry about.

“I've finished the baseball section. And the golf section.” Peter stacked neat paper-clipped packets of typed copy and photographs, making a single neat pile. If anything, Peter was neat and organized. “And the tennis section. And the track section. Have you finished student life?”

“Not quite,” Frank said. “I've got one more page to fill.”

Truth was, he would have been done by now if he weren't so distracted. He was still trying to figure out how he was going to get into Mr. Trombetta's office and go through his files. He couldn't really do it the night of the prom. Sneak through the house in his rented tux, like 007? Her parents would probably be around to send them off, Mr. Trombetta warning him to drive safely and not drink and all that shit. No, he had to get Annette to invite him over again before the prom. When evil Johnny wasn't home. But when the hell was that gonna be?

Peter checked his watch for the millionth time. “Listen, I really have to study for this test. It's on
Paradise Lost.
There's a lot to go over.”

Frank could see the yellow and black cover of the
Paradise Lost
Cliff Notes in Peter's open book bag. He bought Cliff Notes for everything they read in English class. It wasn't that he didn't read the assigned books; he just wanted to make sure he knew every last little detail, like what color hat the main character wore in Chapter 6.

“All you have to know is that Satan is a tragic hero,” Frank said. “Just riff on that for the essay question. Compare it to the Stones' “Sympathy for the Devil.' Trust me. Mr. Dalton will like that.”

Peter looked dubious, and Frank was insulted. What? Did he think Frank's advice wasn't good enough, that it wasn't 4H quality?

A constipated look passed over Peter's face. “I really have to study for this.”

“Well, I'm not finished here,” Frank indicating the piles of photos in his lap and on the couch.

“How long do you think you'll be?”

Frank shrugged. “I dunno. Forty-five minutes. An hour. Maybe more.”

Peter grimaced as if he really did have stomach cramps. He checked his watch again. “How about this? You finish up and bring everything up to the monsignor for his approval.” Peter picked up his spring-sports pile and tamped it on the desktop even though it didn't need it.

Frank shrugged. “Sure, no problem.”

“Remember, you
have
to show it to the monsignor before we turn it in.”

Frank sighed. Peter was such a worry wart. “You sure you want me to handle this?”

Peter glanced at his watch again. “Yeah, sure. It's fine.”

“Okay. No problem. I'll take care of it.”

“Do you know where the monsignor's room is?”

Frank gave him a withering look. He'd only been going to school here for four years. The priests all lived downstairs on the third floor of Mahoney Hall—everybody knew that.

“It's Room 318.” Peter said. “At the end of the hall on the right.” He jotted the number down on a scrap of paper and tossed it to Frank. It fluttered onto the pile of photos on the couch. “Okay?”

“Fine.” Frank picked up the scrap of paper and stuffed it into his shirt pocket just to satisfy Peter.

“And try not to go too late,” Peter said as he climbed over the desk. “The monsignor doesn't like being disturbed after nine.”

“Soon as I finish up this page, I'll bring everything down to the monsignor.”

“Okay, good.” Peter picked up his book bag, but he still looked dubious.

Frank glared at him from under his eyebrows. “The sooner you get the hell out of here and let me work, the sooner I'll be done. Okay?”

“Yeah. Right. Okay.” He spun around, whipped the door open, and started to leave.

Frank called after him, “And remember what I said about Satan?”

Peter spun back around. “What? What about Satan?”

“
Paradise Lost.
Compare him to somebody contemporary, like Nixon, and you'll get an A.”

“You really think so?”

“Guaran-fucking-teed.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Peter rushed off to study, pulling the door behind him.

Frank went back to the pile of photos in his lap, knowing that Peter wouldn't take his advice.

Have fun with the Cliff Notes, he thought.

An hour later Frank took the steps down to the third floor, carrying the last sections of yearbook photos and copy, but he wasn't happy. He'd picked three photos for the last page of the Student Life section and captioned them, but they were lame. Worse than lame—they were tame.

One was a photo of Larry Vitale and Chestnut the monkey staring at one another through the bars of her cage with the caption, “Which twin has the Toni Home Perm?”

The second was a shot of the three hairnet women who worked in the cafeteria cracking up over something outrageous Molloy must have said just before he snapped the shutter. The best caption Frank could come up with was, “Wait'll they find out what we really put in the sloppy Joes.”

The last photo was a close-up of the purple rubber gorilla with a pen going through his head like an arrow. It was so ridiculous, Frank decided to leave it uncaptioned.

It bothered him that this was the best he could do. Usually he had no problem coming up with a funny line or clever quip. But tonight he was distracted. He couldn't stop thinking about getting into Annette's house, getting into the file cabinet in her father's office, finding a deed or a contract, something that linked the mob and the church to the fucking landfill. He wasn't even thinking of it in terms of impressing Yolanda anymore. Her grandfather had actually died from the poison smoke, a person he'd met. Now it was something he
had
to do.

He checked his watch as he rounded the landing on the third floor. It was almost quarter after nine. Monsignor Fitzgerald would be pissed, but that was too bad. Tomorrow was the deadline. The printer had warned them that if they didn't get the rest of the stuff in by tomorrow, the yearbook wouldn't be ready before graduation. So what if the monsignor was in his jammies? Frank didn't give a shit. Anyway, this stuff didn't need to be checked. It was fine the way it was.

The hallway where the priests' rooms were located was dimly lit with low-watt naked light bulbs spaced far apart. Every door led to a small room where a priest lived by himself. Frank had been in the rooms of some of his teachers in the past. They were like college dorm rooms—a single bed, a desk, a dresser, a closet, and lots of built-in bookshelves. But he wondered if Monsignor Fitzgerald had a better room. After all he was the big cheese, and he'd never impressed Frank as the hair-shirt holy-man type. Frank imagined a chamber with a Transylvanian motif—ebony coffin in the middle of the room, heavy wine-colored velvet drapes over the windows, a crystal ink pot and a Chinese vase of dead roses on a Victorian writing desk.

The crepe soles of his desert boots squeaked on the vinyl floor, so he slowed his pace to quiet them down. He imagined the priests behind those doors reading and grading papers. He could hear the faint sound of classical music coming from one of the rooms, piano music, maybe Bach, he wasn't sure. His seventh grade teacher at Perpetual Sorrow, Sister Lucille, was into the Beatles, but Frank was pretty sure these priests didn't rock'n'roll.

When he got to the end of the hallway, he had to squint in the dim light to make out the tarnished brass numbers screwed onto the dark green doors. Just as Peter had told him, 318 was at the very end on the right. Frank felt a little clutch in his stomach as he raised his hand to knock. It was after nine and Fitzgerald was a rules man. He might end up with jug for coming so late. Well, fuck it. He had no choice. This stuff had to be approved tonight.

Frank knocked lightly twice.

“Who's that?” he heard through the door. It sounded like a female voice.

“Ssshhh.” Another voice.

“Who is it?” The monsignor's voice, stern and pissed.

Shit, Frank thought.

“It's, ah, Frank Grimaldi, monsignor. I have the yearbook copy for you to look at.”

Silence.

“Peter Fong had to go home,” Frank added to justify his presence at the monsignor's door.

No response, but he could hear movement inside. The door opened just wide enough for Dracula's face. “It's late, you know, Mr. Grimaldi.”

“Sorry, Monsignor. This is the last of it. We were working late—“ Frank tried not to look inside, but his eye went to the mirror over the dresser. In the reflection he saw someone sitting on the bed. A girl. It was Tina, wearing her school uniform, her long legs stretched out on the bed, her shoes off, her head against the wall. She saw him looking at her and quickly turned away.

“Did Peter review this material?” the monsignor said.

“Ah, yeah.”

“All of it?”

“Yeah, most of—“

“Then I'm sure it's fine. Turn it in.”

The monsignor shut the door in Frank's face.

Frank stood there, stunned. The echoing slam of the door faded and was replaced by the faint sound of classical piano falling over him like a misty rain.

What the hell was she doing in there? Were they–? Holy shit! Frank couldn't imagine anyone doing anything with Monsignor Dracula. But Tina was in there. Bare foot. On his bed.

Frank's heart beat faster. He didn't know what to do. Half of him wanted to pound on the door and rescue her, but the other half felt like an intruder who should just slink away and mind his own business. If she wanted to be rescued, she would have said something, right? But she didn't. And when he'd caught her eye, she looked away. Shit!

The door two doors down opened, releasing the piano music. Light from inside lit the dim hallway. Father Corrigan, the religion teacher, stepped out. He was slight with wispy blond hair and wire-rim glasses, and he was always nervous. Frank had taken his class sophomore year.

“Oh!” He jumped with a start when he saw Frank standing there, laying his palm on his chest. “You scared me.”

“Sorry, father.”

“What're you doing here, Frank?” Father Corrigan was one teacher who always managed to remember students' names even when they weren't in his classes anymore.

Frank held up the bundles of photos and copy. “Yearbook stuff, Father.”

“Oh.”

Piano music filled the silence between them.

The priest lifted a small plastic bag. “I was just taking my trash out,” he said.

“Oh… okay.” Frank nodded. “Well, I have to get going.” He headed back the way he'd come, turning sideways to pass Father Corrigan.

“You have a good night, Frank.”

“Yeah, you too, Father.”

Frank glanced into his room as he passed to see if Father Corrigan had a girl, too, but it was sparse and empty.

“God bless,” the priest said.

Frank turned around and walked backward, no sure how to respond to that. He forced a smile. “Thanks.”

You'd better God bless Tina, he thought. She's gonna need it.

Frank's emotions churned as he walked to the stairway and climbed the steps back to the yearbook office. What the fuck was Tina thinking? Did she really want to be in there with Fitzgerald? Frank didn't get it. The world was all fucked up. First, the church is in cahoots with the mob, killing people with their toxic landfill, and now a monsignor, the headmaster of a Catholic school, is seducing a teenage girl. Fuck! This wasn't right. Somebody should say something. He, Frank, should say something. Yeah, but who's gonna listen to him? Nobody, that's who.