Night Work
Page 19
"I can't do this anymore."
Sandy glanced across the table at him and picked at a pile of peas with her fork. "You can't do what anymore?"
"Live like this," he said quietly. "I wish you'd get mad, cry - something."
"Am I the only one capable of such things?"
Frank stared at the table. "I feel like we're roommates."
"Yeah, well I'm not in the mood for introspection, okay? Just eat your dinner and go watch TV like you always do."
"I'm not hungry."
Sandy stood up, took both plates from the table and emptied them into the trash beneath the kitchen sink. "Neither am I." She slammed the dishes onto the counter, grabbed a pack of cigarettes and her purse from the bedroom and headed for the door.
"Where the hell are you going?"
"Out."
In springing to his feet Frank caught his chair with the backs of his legs. It tipped over onto the floor with a loud crash. "Sandy, goddamn it, wait a minute!"
His outburst had startled her, and she hesitated in the open doorway, not bothering to turn around. "What is it?"
"Close the door."
"Please, Frank," she said, nearly whispering. "I've got to get out of here for a while. Just a quick drive around the block."
"We need to talk." Frank reached down for his chair and carefully placed it against the table. "Now."
Sandy closed the door and let the wall support her. "I don't have anything to say, Frank."
He went to the cupboard and poured himself some vodka. "Some bad things happened," he said, looking into the glass. "We can work through it."
"Do you honestly think things can ever be the same? Jesus, are you that far gone?"
Frank put the glass down without drinking from it, and opened his arms as if to hug her. "I'm right here."
"I can't," she said, struggling to light a cigarette with shaking hands. "For months you've acted like I wasn't even here. I can't remember the last time you tried to touch me."
"We've both been distant."
Sandy exhaled a stream of smoke into the center of the room. "I'm not like you. I can't just shrug things off."
"Does it look like I've shrugged this off?" He finally sipped his drink. "My whole goddamn life is falling apart. You're the only decent thing left in it."
"There's nothing decent left in your life."
"Some bad things happened - "
"Stop saying that." She walked back to the table and sank into her chair. "I always thought I could trust you."
"Of course you can trust me."
She looked up at him, eyes moist. "You brought me there knowing full well what would happen."
"Nothing happened until you decided it would."
"The fantasy of me playing the whore turned you on," she said, voice trembling. "You wanted it, I gave it to you, and you couldn't handle it."
"Neither could you."
"I was drunk, I was flying on coke."
"You were horny."
Sandy glared at him. "Do you think I enjoyed being mauled?"
"You weren't raped, Sandy," he said. "I was there. Granted, you got in over your head with the drugs and the booze but you didn't have to go along with all the rest. That was a decision you made, nobody else."
"I don't know what you want from me," she said, wiping the tears away. "What else am I supposed to do to make you happy?"
"To make me happy?"
She put her elbow on the table and let her forehead rest in the palm of her hand. "I went through with it for you."
"Bullshit," he said. "You were trying to punish me."
"Maybe myself," she admitted wearily.
"I didn't make you go to that party," Frank told her. "You wanted to go."
Her hand slammed against the table. "Don't you do that to me, you sonofabitch. Don't you dare do that to me!"
Frank turned away and swallowed the remainder of his drink. "You'll never see any of those people again."
"Unfortunately, I still have to live with myself."
He looked at her dejectedly. "I don't want to lose you."
She smoked her cigarette desperately, as if only allotted a certain amount of time in which to do so. "You left me a long time ago, Frank."
The phone began to ring, and when it became apparent that Sandy had no intention of answering it, Frank did so himself. His face immediately registered concern. "What - just tell me what's wrong." He listened intently, then squeezed shut his eyes and nearly lost his grip on the phone.
"What's the matter?" Sandy asked.
Frank slowly brought the phone back to his ear. "Where are you…? No you - you stay right there. We're leaving now." He hung up and stared at the floor.
"Frank, what is it?"
"It's my father," he said softly. "He's dead."
CHAPTER 12
The freshly packed soil over the grave served to illustrate a disturbing characteristic that distinguished Joseph Ponte's plot from all the others. A small plant sat to the right of the headstone, and most of the flowers placed in front of it had already begun to wither.
Connie stood clutching per purse with both hands; her back leaned against Frank's car. Her clothes had not been ironed, her hair needed to be brushed, and a blank expression did little to mask her true feelings of devastation.
In the week since her husband's sudden heart attack, the stark finality of death had been a gradual realization, and she was only just beginning to force herself to acknowledge the loss. She had been amazingly strong throughout the entire funereal process, and hadn't broken down until after all the arrangements had been made and she was alone in the newfound silence of her home.
The funeral itself had been a wonderful testament to the degree of popularity Joseph had enjoyed in life. Many of the students and faculty from his school had attended, as had several members of the community in which he and Connie had lived for so many years.
The lack of response from the wrestling world was not unexpected. Only Charlie Rain had bothered to call with his condolences.
Gino Fratenzza and Michael Santangelo both sent enormous, unnecessarily extravagant displays of flowers, and Vincent, Gus and Benny had remained faithfully by Frank's side throughout.
"It's a beautiful headstone," Connie said softly.
Frank thought it a ridiculous statement, but let it pass. Because a good percentage of the insurance money had gone to cover the outrageous funeral expenses, Frank had insisted that his mother allow him to purchase the headstone. Looking at it under gray skies, it made Frank uncomfortable to see his mother's name and birth date already etched alongside his father's, as if in eager anticipation. The bitter winter air chilled him despite his heavy coat. He gathered the dead flowers and carried them silently to a large trash barrel at the end of the row.
"Why do we try so hard to convince ourselves that death will never touch us?" she asked. "Maybe if we spent as much time preparing for it…"
Frank stood by the rear of the car. He had never before seen his mother in this condition, and found himself unsure of how to respond. Humor had always been her way - even in stressful or sullen situations - but now it seemed a trait better assigned to someone else.
"At least he didn't suffer," Connie said.
"Was he proud of me?"
She looked at him, dark rings encircling both eyes. "Of course he was proud of you. You're his son."
Frank knew his mother was lying, and wondered why he'd asked the question in the first place. He and his father had never been close, and that struck Frank as an even greater tragedy than death itself. So much time had been wasted in insignificant debate - bloodying themselves over minor points - that the opportunity to truly come to know and understand each other eluded them. Frank's tears had already been shed, but the guilt of never measuring up to his father's lofty expectations was something he knew he would carry with him forever. Perhaps, Frank thought, it was better that way.
"I know you didn't want to come here," Connie said hesitantly
, "but there's something I need to discuss with you."
"Do you need money?" Frank reached for his wallet. "Just tell me how much you need, it's not a problem."
Connie made no attempt to conceal her disappointment with his response. "No, Frank, I don't need money. That may be the only reason you get out of bed in the morning, but then, we aren't all alike, are we?"
"I just thought - "
"That's an awfully nice suit," she interrupted. "Italian silk, isn't it? Your father shopped at Sears so I've no idea what a suit like that costs, but I'll bet it set you back seven or eight hundred dollars. That diamond on your pinky must be worth at least two or three thousand. Your coat had to be about five hundred, and I'm sure those shoes weren't something you picked up on sale at Wal-Mart."
Frank looked at her. "What's your point?"
"Did you think I didn't see those hideous flowers Michael Santangelo and that other piece of scum sent to my husband's wake? Have you convinced yourself that I was too distraught to notice you and Vincent at the funeral?" she asked. "The two of you behave like a couple of gangsters. If nothing else, you certainly dress for the part."
"I'm sorry if my success offends you," he said evenly.
"Success? Is that what they call it these days?"
"I'm a legitimate businessman, mother."
"That depends on one's definition of legitimate."
"I'm not going to discuss this right now."
Connie gazed at the headstone. "I'm sorry," she said in a hushed voice. "I asked you to come here because there's something we need to discuss. Something I want you to know about my past."
"I'm not sure I can handle anything else at this point."
"Then I suggest you pull yourself together."
Frank nervously lit a cigarette. "I'm listening."
"Long before you were born, and a few years before I met your father," she said in a detached tone, "I was married to a man named Arthur Bertalia."
Her admission genuinely surprised Frank but seemed unworthy of such dramatics. "Were there any children?"
"Thankfully, no."
He shrugged. "Then it's no big deal."
"I was very young." Connie put her purse on the hood of Frank's car and crossed her arms. "I made a poor choice. We lived in Vermont and were together less than a year. The man I thought I'd fallen in love with and the man I married turned out to be two completely different people. He was a heavy drinker, horribly jealous - a very possessive man. He wouldn't let me work, and a few weeks after we were married I learned he'd lied about wanting children. By the time our second-month anniversary rolled around he started to beat me."
Frank felt a surge of anger. He was tempted to interrupt her, to ask the series of questions flooding his mind, but held his tongue.
"The beatings became more frequent," she continued, "but I convinced myself to believe him when he swore each time would be the last. Another poor choice. One day I'd been out shopping, and when I got home he was waiting for me. He was wearing a peculiar pair of black gloves, and it wasn't until he'd hit me that I realized they were lined with lead. He nearly killed me, Frank. I spent two months in the hospital. The day I was discharged I left him. We were divorced and I relocated to Massachusetts. A few years later I met your father."
Frank lit a cigarette. "Why didn't you tell me about this before?"
"Your father never wanted me to."
"Why not?"
Connie shrugged. "He was afraid you might think less of me."
"That's ridiculous," Frank snapped. "Maybe he was afraid I might think less of him."
"Believe me, we had more than one or two arguments about it, but he made me promise I wouldn't tell you until after his death."
"I wish you'd told me sooner."
"I wanted to, but you know how your father could be at times. He had this idea in his head that we were supposed to be flawless, the perfect American family."
Frank looked out over the sea of graves. "Whatever happened to this Arthur Bertalia?"
"I haven't a clue. After the divorce I never saw or heard from him again."
Frank hugged her, pulling her in tight against his chest. She felt so small and defenseless; he found it inconceivable that anyone could ever raise a hand in anger against her. "I'm sorry you had to go through that," he said quietly, "but I want you to know that if anything, it makes me love you more."
"It took us so many years to have you," she sobbed. "I was convinced the beatings had left me unable to have children."
"It's all right," he told her. "I'm here."
Connie kissed his cheek. "I'm so worried about you."
"Never mind me," Frank said. "Are you going to be okay?"
"I hope so," she whispered. "I haven't been alone in a very long time."
"You're not alone." Frank stroked the side of her face and felt himself smile for the first time in months.
***
The night of his father's death, Sandy had finally ventured from her side of the bed to Frank's, and he'd fallen asleep in her arms like a child suffering nightmares. Although their union seemed a step in the right direction, the comfort both received in revisiting a familiar physical tenderness was short-lived.
Since that time Frank had done his best to submerge himself in work, usually staying at the office long after everyone else had gone home.
He leaned back in his chair, watched the streetlights turn on through the open blinds in his office, and casually checked his watch. Having run out of things to do, he decided to call it a night. Hopefully Sandy would be waiting for him, but his wife's continued presence was something he could no longer view with certainty.
The phone interrupted his thoughts. He had no plan to answer it until he realized it was his private line blinking. "Hello?"
"Frank," Vincent's voice said through the line. "What the hell are you still doing at the office?"
"I was just going over some contracts."
"We got a problem."
"My life's nothing but," he sighed. "What's up?"
"Where's Sandy?"
Frank hesitated. "Home, I think."
"You need to get her out of there. Get her somewhere safe."
"What the hell's going on?"
"I don't want to get into it over the phone," Vincent said irritably. "Just do what I tell you. Get her out of there and meet me at the rest area outside of town in one hour. And keep your eyes open, understand?"
Without bothering to set the alarm, Frank locked the doors to the office and hesitated at the edge of the parking lot. His eyes scanned the area and the surrounding block, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He bolted to his car and drove to the apartment as fast as his car would allow, parking on the street, a few doors down from their building.
Sandy was sitting at the kitchen table having a cigarette when he burst through the door. His entrance startled her, and she reared back as if expecting him to run right past her. "What's the matter?"
"Pack some things," he said, still trying to catch his breath. "Enough for a couple days. Hurry."
His instructions didn't seem to register, and she stared at him blankly. "What?"
"Just do it. Please."
Sandy butted her cigarette and stood up, the color draining from her face. "Tell me what's happening."
"We don't have time." He peered through the only window that faced the parking lot. "Do what I said. Now."
Sandy ran to the bedroom, pulled a small suitcase from the closet shelf and quickly began to pack.
"Did anyone call tonight?" Frank asked.
"No."
"Anyone stop by looking for me?"
"No."
"Was there any peculiar mail?"
"No."
Frank glanced over his shoulder and saw Sandy standing in the bedroom doorway holding a blouse with trembling hands. He went to her quickly and kissed her forehead. "It'll be all right if you just hurry," he told her. "I'm going to take you to your parents' house. I'll explain on the way."
"I'm ready," Sandy said.
"Turn off the light."
"Frank, what - "
"Turn it off!"
In darkness the strange car came into clearer focus. Frank could make out two forms in the front seat, but not much else.
"What should I do?" Sandy asked, standing in the center of the room, suitcase at her feet.
"Stay quiet," he whispered.
The car pulled to the far end of the lot, backed into a space, and the headlights were extinguished.
"We'll go out the back," Frank said. Grabbing her by the arm he led her through the living room to the door. "I parked a little ways up the street. Don't make a sound and do exactly what I say, understand?"
She nodded quickly, and Frank pulled open the door. The rear hallway was seldom used, but he stepped out first and looked around anyway. A small staircase led to the end of the parking lot closest to the street. Just beyond the exit was a floodlight, but once they'd made it around the side of the building and into a row of thick shrubs, Frank felt confident they could reach the street undetected. Holding hands, they ran through a neighbor's yard and crossed onto the curb.
Once they were both in the car, Frank started it and pulled away quickly, not turning on his lights until he'd put a safe distance between themselves and the apartment.
Twenty minutes later he pulled onto a quiet side street and parked in front of Sandy's parents' house in the nearby town of Torlington. Satisfied that they hadn't been followed, Frank let his head rest back against the seat and took a deep breath. Neither of them had spoken during the ride and both found themselves at a loss for what to say next.
"Am I just supposed to show up on my parents' doorstep unannounced and with no explanation?" Sandy finally asked.
"Tell them we had a fight," Frank said. "They shouldn't have any trouble believing that."
"I need to know what's happening."
Frank rubbed his eyes. "I'm not exactly sure myself. I'll call you as soon as I know anything."