The Temptations of St. Frank (6 page)

Gdowski cracked up, leaning on Vitale for support. Frank's face caught fire, remembering his interrupted session with himself earlier that day. Molloy must have opened his big fat mouth and told everybody. That son of a bitch! He was supposed to be Frank's friend!

Vitale, who looked like a monkey anyway, started to mimic pulling his own pud. He belonged in a fucking zoo. Gdowski, too. The fat-boy ape and the little monkey jerk-off.

Frank stared down at the floor and tried to ignore them. Fuck! he thought. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! He kept his eyes on the floor, not wanting to deal with anyone.

But after a while he looked up. Whalley was still on the phone, the bastard, and Vitale and Gdowski were gone. Frank looked at his watch. It was almost quarter after three. Shit! He'd been sitting there for almost half an hour. Whalley was doing this on purpose, the fucker.

Frank turned toward the window that looked out on the front lawn and the statue of St. Anselm. Guys were wandering down the long blacktop driveway, heading toward the village to catch public buses home. That's where
he
should have been.

But then he noticed someone coming up the drive, going against the flow, a girl in a Mother of Peace uniform. He squinted to make out who it was. When she got within fifty yards he was pretty sure it was Yolanda. She carried her books over her chest, schoolgirl-style, her pleated skirt well above the knee. Amazingly she was alone. He'd never seen her without her buddy Tina.

What was she doing here now? There was probably some kind of physics thing up in the lab, he guessed.

He watched her walk, expecting her to come up the front steps and into the building. But she didn't do that. She stayed on the driveway and headed around Mulvaney Hall. Where the hell was she going?

Then it dawned on him. She was headed for the playing fields. . She was going to the baseball game.

But why? Nobody went to baseball games, especially the ones they played during the week after school. Not unless you knew someone on the team.

Or were going out with someone on the team.

FUCK! he shouted in his head.

Who? Who was she dating? Maybe she wasn't dating someone, but maybe there was someone she
wanted
to be dating. A jock? She was a nerd girl, what did she want with a jock? And why would a jock want a nerd girl? She definitely wasn't their type. But maybe she
was
their type and he just didn't know it because he'd hardly ever talked to her and didn't really know her that well. Maybe she was into jocks and beer blasts and going to games and all that shit. Fuck! Who could it be? The whole baseball team was a bunch of dumb-ass shits. He couldn't see her with any one of them. But maybe it was some guy from St. Bernard's. Aw, fuck!

He watched her stroll across the lawn and leaned back on the Bench of Shame, pressing his head up against the wall so he could see her for as long as he could until she disappeared out of view. He looked at his watch—it was three-thirty. The game was starting. Whoever the guy was, he was in that game, and she was all alone, no girlfriends. The guy could make his move. Frank had to get out there and make his move on Yolanda while the players were still on the field. Fucking Whalley! Get off the fucking phone! Give me my punishment, jug for life, splinters under my fingernails, hair shirt, iron maiden, the rack, whatever. Just get it over with and let me go before the game ends!

But Whalley kept chatting away on the phone, keeping his eye on Frank, like a cat watching a mouse, daring him to bolt.

Come on! Please! I may never get this opportunity again. This may not even be an opportunity, but I'll never know unless you let me go, asshole.

Finally at 3:42, the Walrus King got off the phone, hauled his fat ass off his seat, and waddled out of his office. He stood right in front of Frank and looked down at him. The man's gut was blubberacious.

“Well, Mr. Grimaldi, have you had enough time to think about things?”

Frank just looked at him, sure that there was a bear trap hidden in that statement. “Yes,” he said cautiously. “I was thinking about things.”

Just not the things
you
think I should be thinking about.

“Shove over,” he said and sat down next to Frank who recoiled when their elbows touched.

What the hell was this? Frank thought. He was gonna get chummy now? Fuck no!

“Your little friend Tina stopped by after first period this morning. She explained that she went into the yearbook office and lay on the couch— suggestively—and that you didn't invite her in.”

“Yeah… I was gonna tell you that.”

“But that does not excuse the fact that you were in the building before eight o'clock in violation of clearly stated school rules.”

Frank held his tongue, though he was dying to tell Whalley what he could do with his school rules.

“So for that I'll see you at jug tomorrow,” Whalley said.

“What about Tina? Does she get jug, too?”

“I spoke to the disciplinarian at her school this morning. They'll handle it their way.”

Frank frowned. He didn't want her to get punished, even though it was all her fault.

“Do you know what you're problem is, Mr. Grimaldi? No school spirit. You're a classic two-forty-fiver.”

Frank's jaw dropped open. “What do you mean? That's not true. I'm a yearbook editor, I write for the literary magazine, I'm in the theater club—“

“You don't play on any of the teams, I can't remember ever seeing you at any of the games, and you're one of those boys who's more interested in rock'n'roll than current events. And your commitment to your faith seems begrudging.”

Well, yeah, Frank thought. That's everybody—everybody worth considering.

“You were a promising wrestler when you were a sophomore. But you dropped out. And you're a big guy. We could have used you in that weight class.”

Frank bit his tongue. The wrestling team was a Nazi boot camp. He'd hated every minute he'd spent on the team. The only reason he'd stuck it out as long as he did was because his buddy Dom was doing it at his school and he was always getting Frank into wrestling holds on the rug in his basement and Frank had to learn some moves just to keep from being totally humiliated.

“The problem with your generation, Mr. Grimaldi, is that all you're concerned about is you.”

Not true, Frank thought. All I'm concerned about is getting the fuck away from you and finding Yolanda.

“Pulling together for a group effort is anathema to people like you, Mr. Grimaldi.”

Wrong again, Whalley. Playing in a band? That's something I really want to do, and that's a group effort.

“I have serious doubts about people like you, Mr. Grimaldi. To be frank, I don't think you're the kind of person who can succeed in college. Can you really get yourself organized enough to maintain your studies
and
your obligations to the Church?”

I'm not maintaining my obligations to the Church now, Frank thought. He hadn't been to Sunday Mass since Thanksgiving. Every Sunday he left the house as if he were going to church but went over to Dom's house instead, and together they went out for breakfast. They joked that their new parish was Our Lady of Dunkin' Donuts. But sometimes they went to St. Friendly's for a change of pace.

“Have you received any acceptances yet?” Whalley said. He made it sound like Frank getting into college was the longest shot in the world.

“I got in at two places. Rutgers and Montclair State.”

The Walrus King grimaced. “And are you waiting to hear from any schools?”

“BU and American.”

His grimace bent into a scowl. “No Catholic schools?”

Here we go, Frank thought.

“Oh, that's right. You didn't apply to any Catholic schools. You might have gotten into Holy Cross. If you had applied. Maybe even Boston College. You're not Georgetown material, but those others would have been good for you.”

Fuck you, asshole! Not Georgetown material? Georgetown is just for the 4H kids. That's what you mean. Shove it up your ass.

Frank grit his teeth to contain his emotions. He tipped his wrist just enough so that he could see his watch. It was almost four. Fuck! He was gonna miss his chance. Yolanda would be with some numb-nuts jock by the time he got there. Frank would never get to talk to her.

Whalley kept silent. He held his pipe in his mouth, and Frank could hear the stem clicking against his teeth. Was this supposed to be Whalley's version of water torture? Frank glanced at his watch again.

“Am I keeping you from an important appointment, Mr. Grimaldi?”

Frank was tempted to say something nasty, say what he really felt, but he decided to go the other way.

“Well, no, Mr. Whalley, I don't
have
to be anyplace. I was just hoping I could get over to the baseball game before it ended. That's all.”

His walrus eyes narrowed. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. I've been writing about the teams for the yearbook, so I kind of cover the games. You know, like a reporter.”

“But not as a fan.”

“I root for our guys, of course. I've gotten into it.”

It was pure up-to-your-eyeballs bullshit, but Frank said it with a straight face.

Whalley ran his pipe stem along his molars like a xylophone.

“All right,” he finally said. “Get on your way. And don't forget about jug tomorrow. Unless you want walking jug the day after.”

“No, I won't forget.” Frank stood up to go, thinking about Yolanda, Yolanda by herself.

“Oh, by the way, Grimaldi,” the Walrus King said, “who's on the mound today?”

Frank turned around. “You mean for us?”

“Yes.” There was a cunning glint in his beady eyes.

Frank's answer just poured out of him without thinking. “It doesn't matter, Mr. Whalley. All the guys on our pitching staff are top shelf.”

Whalley just looked at him, slowly clacking his pipe against his teeth.

Frank turned and walked out. He didn't dare look back.

Frank shaded his eyes and scanned the bleachers for Yolanda as he walked around the outfield fence. The St. A's Owls in their white uniforms and powder-blue caps were up at bat. The sudden crack of a bat caught his attention. He looked toward the infield, outfielders converging on the second baseman, all of them looking up, gloves poised for a pop fly. St. Bernard's centerfielder called for it and caught it, making it look easy, trotting like a thoroughbred with the ball in his glove. Was this the kind of guy Yolanda liked? Was he her boyfriend? Were any of these doofusses dating her? How in the hell could she ever be attracted to these dumbo meatbags?

As Frank approached the bleachers, he noticed Molloy standing by the fence, wearing a black trench coat in the bright sunshine, his camera hanging around his neck.

“Who're you supposed to be? Maxwell Smart?” Frank asked. “What's with the rain coat? It's not gonna rain.” Fluffy white clouds drifted across a sunny blue sky.

Molloy opened one side of his coat just wide enough for Frank to see as he spoke out the side of his mouth. “I'm taking yearbook photos.” He gave Frank a wink. Hanging from a string inside his coat was the electronic ear disk.

“Get the fuck away from me with that thing. You look like a freaking child molester.”

Molloy chuckled with evil glee. “I'm getting some great stuff. For the ‘yearbook.'” Another knowing wink.

Frank had no time for him right now. He had to find Yolanda. “Later,” he said and kept walking.

He scanned the bleachers, trying to be cool and not make it look too obvious. If he saw her, he was going to just happen to run into her. Casual. Like it was no big deal. Just in case she looked at him as if he were a dog turd. And if she did, so what? No skin off his nose. He wasn't looking for her in the first place. Not really.

The bleachers were pretty full. Not surprising since St. A's and St. Bernard's had been archrivals since Jesus was on the cross. Frank saw a lot of dorky underclassmen horsing around, not watching the game at all. And some girls from Mother of Peace and Our Lady of Mercy, St. Bernard's sister school. A whole lot of short pleated skirts up there. Some pretty nice legs, too. Long hippie hair and cute faces. All very nice, but it was Yolanda he was looking for.

He kept walking and looking, but as he approached the end of the bleachers, he started to think she wasn't there anymore, which pissed him off all over again. If fucking Whalley hadn't kept him so long… But as he passed the section closest to home plate, something caught his eye and made him forget about Yolanda for a second. An unholy trinity if there ever was one, he thought.

Sitting together in the middle of the bleachers were the mayor of Jersey City, Louis Palmeri, whose son, Lou Jr., pitched for St. A's; Monsignor Fitzgerald, St. A's headmaster and head vampire; and alleged mob boss John Trombetta. Frank wondered why Trombetta was here. His son was a junior at St. Bernard's, but as far as Frank knew, he didn't play baseball. His daughter went to Our Lady of Mercy, and maybe she had a boyfriend on one of the teams. But what kind of father goes to a high-school baseball game to root for his daughter's boyfriend? No one does that.

Frank focused on Trombetta—compact build, square head, and too tanned for the season in his gray sharkskin suit, silver cuff links as big as half-dollars glinting in the sun. Frank knew a little bit about him because his father took care of his lawn and Dom's father worked for him. Doing what, Frank didn't exactly know.

Trombetta squinted at the mayor as he sucked on a cigarette. The mayor, a roly-poly man with a shiny bald head, gestured with his hands as he talked as if he were shaking an invisible basketball, desperately trying to pass it to someone else. It was just taken for granted that he was corrupt and in bed with people like John Trombetta. Palmeri was in his third term as mayor of a city that was seventy percent black and at least ninety-five percent pissed off. But this was north Jersey, and white guys always seemed to win no matter what color their constituents were.

Monsignor Fitzgerald sat between the two Italians but two steps higher than them. He was tall and broad-shouldered with perfectly combed light brown hair. He wore dark Ray-Bans, a black suit and a black priest shirt with a stiff white Roman collar. He kept his hands clasped in his lap as he surveyed the baseball diamond, hovering over the other two men like God the Father.

Frank wondered what these three had to talk about. Confessing their sins to the Monsignor? Then who does he confess to?

As Frank passed by, he got a cold, creepy feeling that Monsignor Fitzgerald was watching him. Frank couldn't see the headmaster's eyes through his dark glasses, and Frank didn't want to look right at him, but he could swear Fitzgerald was giving him that disdainful fish-eyed stare of his.

Frank kept walking, picking up his pace so that it looked like he knew where he was going. He walked all the way around to the rear of the bleachers where small groups of guys and girls were hanging out in the cool shade, some smoking cigarettes, the boys acting goofy and lascivious because they all had the same thing on their minds: they wanted to get into some girl's pants. But what girls wanted was much harder to figure out, at least for Frank it was. Some of them looked hot to trot, like they wanted it as much as the boys did, but when it came down to put-up-or-shut-up, most girls—no, just about
all
girls—backed off and sent the guys packing. It was like they really didn't want sex—ever. And yet they looked like they wanted sex and they acted like they wanted it, but when it was right in front of them for the taking, they didn't take it. They wanted something else, or they wanted it presented some other way, or they were holding out for somebody better. Frank just couldn't figure it out.

Larry Vitale was in the middle of this group of kids, making an ass out of himself in front of two Lady of Mercy girls—a dirty blonde and a brunette, both of them with long flips, the Nancy Sinatra, these-boots-are-made-for-walkin' look. Larry jumped and mugged and shook like a wet dog for them, even managed to do pretty decent James Brown foot shuffle on the dead grass. He thought he was being cool, but he really looked like an organ grinder's monkey. The girls laughed at his antics, but they weren't amused in an I-think-you're-so-cute-I-want-you-to-fuck-me way. Their laughter was sharp and metallic, a you're-so-pathetic-you're-funny laugh. At least Frank knew enough not to act like that.

He wandered a bit, seeing more kids hanging out farther down. He searched for Yolanda's face, even though he didn't think he'd find her back here. She wasn't an under-the-bleachers type. At least he didn't think she was. He didn't want her to be an under-the-bleachers type. Unless she was an under-the-bleachers type
with him.
That would be different.

He started to feel self-conscious being there by himself with all this flirting going on, so he stepped toward the sunlight, intending to take the long way back to Mulvaney Hall so that he wouldn't have to pass by Monsignor Fitzgerald again. But then he heard a voice from above, like the times when God spoke to some poor shmuck in the Bible. It was right above his head. He recognized the voice right away. It was the headmaster's deep monotone. Frank looked up and saw the heels of his shoes.

“I would think that would be the case,” the monsignor said. “If fault cannot be pinpointed, there is no liability.”

“Exactly! That's exactly how I read it.”

Frank peered around the footboard when he heard the second voice. It was Mayor Palmeri, his big belly blocking Frank's view of the sky. Frank was standing right under the unholy trinity.

“I don't care what anybody says.” John Trombetta's voice was gruff and raspy. The pointy toes of his leather shoes peeked over the edge of the board. “We're not paying for it. No way.”

Paying for what? Frank thought. As far as Frank knew, John Trombetta never paid for anything. People paid
him
. Frank's father mowed his lawn, put down fertilizer, took care of his flower beds, trimmed his hedges, the whole deal, and he never dared to ask Mr. Trombetta for money. He always waited for Mr. Trombetta to think of it, and Trombetta didn't think of it all that often. Frank's father was like that with a lot of his customers, particularly the really rich ones. He never billed them. It seemed like every other night his parents fought about the screwy way his father ran his business.

“Like I said,” the mayor said, “you could always go in on it together. Not half and half necessarily, but you know, figure out the percentages the way it's laid out.”

“Forget about it,” Trombetta said.

“I don't know all the details,” the monsignor said in his slow, low, I-know-everything tone, “but it's my understanding that the diocese's involvement is minimal as compared to yours.”

“Forget about it,” Trombetta said. “It's not even worth talking about.”

Frank looked up at the soles of their shoes. What's not worth talking about?

“I don't want to sound like a broken record here,” the mayor said, “but the feds are making noise about this. If
something
doesn't get done, they will definitely get involved. And if that happens, there's only so much I can do.”

“How come?” Trombetta snapped.

“Now don't get hot, John,” the mayor said. “Please.”

“Don't tell me not to get hot.”

“State and local—I can take care of it, no problem. But the federal agencies are something else. I only have so much sway.”

“So use what you got.”

“It's not that easy, John. Nixon. They're all Republicans now. Not our kind of people, if you know what I mean.”

“Fuck that!” Trombetta said. An awkward pause. “Sorry, Monsignor,” he said, but he didn't sound sorry.

Frank expected Monsignor Fitzgerald to tell Trombetta to go to Confession and cleanse his soul of his foul-mouthed sin, but he didn't. He didn't say anything.

Frank heard the crack of a bat, and the fans in the bleachers erupted, cheering so loudly he couldn't hear the unholy trinity. He looked up and saw that they were on their feet. Somebody must have hit a homer, somebody on St. A's. Monsignor Fitzgerald wouldn't stand up if the other guys got a homer. Frank peered through the slats, but he could only see pants and shoes. He didn't give a shit about the game, he just wanted the noise to die down so that he could hear what they were saying about Tricky Dick. He wanted to know why they were talking about the president.

The under-the-bleachers kids crowded around Frank and peered through the boards to see what all the cheering was about. He didn't like having them so close because he didn't want anyone to notice that he was eavesdropping. Especially bigmouth Vitale.

Frank looked around to see where Vitale was, afraid that the unholy trinity would clam up if they knew there were people right under them. But then he saw her—Yolanda. His stomach clenched, and his mouth went dry. She was standing six feet away from him, trying to look through the bleachers.

Jesus! he thought. There she is, and she's standing all by herself, standing on her toes and craning her neck to see what was going on with the game. He stared at her, studying her part by part—the legs, the navy blue knee socks, the short pleated skirt, the thighs, the hips, the bare skin of her upper arms, the high cheekbones in profile, the long brown hair. He liked her more than ever, but he was nervous as hell. What should he say to her? How could he start a conversation without sounding like a lame-o? Cold sweat gathered in his armpits. His feet sprouted roots and held him to the ground. He couldn't move, and he couldn't take his eyes off her.

Don't be a dope, he told himself. She's by herself. You might never get this chance again. Say something. Say hello. She knows who you are. She's seen you in the yearbook office. Ask her how she likes taking physics at St. A's. Ask her if she's bummed out because the Beatles broke up. Ask her where Tina is. No, scratch that. Bad idea. Maybe ask her if she knows somebody at her school who he knows, but he was drawing a blank—he couldn't think of anyone. Shit! Just fucking ask her what time it is, numbnuts. Ask her anything!

And then as if she'd just heard him yelling in his head, she turned and looked right at him, her sapphire eyes intense in the slanting afternoon light. He managed a lame-ass smile and forced his legs to move, absolutely terrified that he was going to blow this, that she would think he was just another jerk and just walk away, that he would become non-existent in her mind and she would never acknowledge his presence. He'd be a screaming, howling ghost, condemned to walk the earth for all time, unable to be seen or heard by mortals, most importantly by her.

But then she talked to him.

“Hi,” she said. And she smiled. At him. A bashful little smile, and she immediately looked down, her dark eyelashes on her cheeks like resting butterflies.

Hi, he said. But it was in his head. He couldn't get it out of his mouth.

She didn't look up. She was waiting for him to say something.

He cleared his throat and tried it again, but the sound that came out was like a frog burping. It wasn't even a word.

She was still looking down but not smiling anymore. God, what a pathetic piece of shit he was! She had to be thinking he was an asshole, that he was snubbing her. Fuck!

He tried again. “Hi,” he said. It sounded more like speech, but it also sounded like a talking frog. Shit!

She looked up, and the little smile was back on her lips.

Quick! he thought. Say something else, frog boy! Keep the conversation going!

“There's this famous painting,” he said. “One of the Impressionists, I think. A bunch of people under a porch in the shade. Ladies in long dresses. This kind of reminds me of that.”

“What reminds you of that?” She wrinkled her nose and looked so fucking cute his knees almost buckled.