Vincenzo apologized for Big Vinny’s behavior and offered to clean up the vomit and to pay for the broken pane of glass. The principal thanked him, but politely refused.
Then there was the trip to Tucci’s the following spring, after Sal’s remains came home in a coffin, after the funeral, after Big Vinny’s first arrest. It was early spring, and Big Vinny loved the waterfall’s force. He was quieter and calmer than Lenny had ever seen him. He said that he understood the water’s anger. He mentioned his father and how they barely spoke to each other, and that one night he heard his parents talking through the bedroom wall. Giacomo said that he had read in the newspaper that nine American boys and two American girls were killed in Vietnam that day and that on the news they showed a Cambodian woman in rags carrying her dead daughter — the girls’ arms looked like breadsticks. Rosa cried and said that at least that mother got to hold her child. After Big Vinny told Lenny all this he stared at the falls for the longest time and finally said: “So much for being the good son.”
Things only got worse for Big Vinny — more problems with the police, arrests, and though he didn’t have a job, he always had money. Eventually Lenny no longer sought common ground to keep the two of them connected. There was none. They had history but nothing else.
Lenny scraped the remaining greens into the garbage and rinsed his bowl and fork. He poured another glass of wine and sat at the table. Big Vinny has always been full of shit, Lenny thought. Always turning reasons into excuses. Sure, his brother was killed in Vietnam. And my father died when I was a kid. Shit happens. Lenny tore a small chunk of bread from the loaf and dunked it in his wine. “Better than blood,” he said sarcastically and popped the wine-soaked bread into his mouth. He fretted over the thought of Frankie being questioned. Whatever Frankie saw, dozens of others also saw, he thought. But he didn’t know that Frankie had seen Gennaro write the cabdriver’s license plate number on his arm.
16
Gennaro surprised Frankie by suggesting that they drive to the Rockaways. Lately, anytime Frankie suggested that they do something other than stare at the television in the DiCico basement, Gennaro snapped or grunted. It was November and cool but sunny, and Frankie hoped that a walk on the beach might lift Gennaro’s spirits.
He had stopped accusing Gennaro of having sent Lenny’s email to Vi, which Gennaro denied anyway and told Frankie to grow up or fuck off whenever he mentioned it, although these words were Gennaro’s response to most anything since Big Vinny got out of jail.
Elderly, sun-shriveled couples dressed for a blizzard strolled along the boardwalk, and an occasional cyclist rolled by, while kids with droopy jeans and gaudy bling shot hoops on a basketball court adjacent the boardwalk. Except for irritable seagulls scavenging bits of hotdog and pizza crust, the beach was deserted. No packs of teenagers poured from trains and buses to find their way to patchworks of towels and beach blankets where they would talk, text, watch YouTube, and occasionally swim. The off-season whispers of summer friendships and romances ebbed and flowed with the tide as the boys sat on the bottom step, which led down from the boardwalk to the sand and removed their sneakers and socks.
“Damn, I forgot the fucking Frisbee in the car,” Gennaro grumbled.
“That’s okay. I feel like jogging anyway,” Frankie said, stuffing his socks into his sneakers and hiding them behind the steps under the boardwalk where lines of light streaked the dark sand. They raced to the shoreline and then slowed to a jog. Seagulls scattered. Their squawking was softened by the sound of the breaking surf. The sounds of the gulls, the surf, even of Gennaro’s voice were distant-like memories.
“I’m glad we’re here.” Gennaro spoke between breaths. “I’m sick of watching my old man grow mold in front of the fucking television while he stares at stupid game shows and reality shows ... It’s like he brought prison home with him ... All he needs is an orange jumpsuit and ankle cuffs shackling him to the fucking recliner.”
Lately, Frankie felt the same way about Gennaro. His whining blended with the seagulls’ squawking like some irritating but inconsequential noise. Frankie dismissed the noise and focused on the rhythmic breaths of the ocean lapping at the sand until the cool salty air turned hot, and the boardwalk and basketball courts gave way to rocky seaside cliffs of Taormina, Sicily — the setting of the cartoline postale that Frankie had googled obsessively, reading everything he could about Taormina, including Mt. Etna, the bay of Naxos, and Taormina’s Greek-Roman theater, which had been the backdrop for many of von Gloeden’s photographs. And when Frankie became overwhelmed by worry, he withdrew to the hot Sicilian coastline, as if Taormina and its bordering cliffs and beaches existed within him rather than an ocean away, like an oasis at the center of his being.
In bursts, Gennaro muttered despairingly about Big Vinny, but his complaints were no more than ambient noise. Maybe half an hour had passed when they slowed their pace, and high on endorphins and salty air, Frankie waded in the Ionian Sea with its picturesque bays, rocky coves, and pebbled beaches. He paused and looked at Gennaro who stood several yards away from him, ankle deep in surf, with his jacket tied around his waist and baggy jeans rolled up to below his knees. No wreath in his hair or blossom dangling from his lips, but his beauty rivaled Ganymede’s, and had von Gloeden been there with his camera, Gennaro would have been his star subject.
“I hate him,” Gennaro said.
Von Gloeden? Frankie thought, but then remembered they were at the Rockaways, wading in the Atlantic, not the Ionian Sea. Gennaro tilted his head and gave Frankie an odd look, but Frankie dared not mention what he had been thinking. Gennaro had no patience for his musings about their great-grandfathers and Taormina. The last time that Frankie mentioned the cartoline postale and that their great-grandfathers might have been more than friends, Gennaro exploded.
“Here we go again. Who the fuck cares if our great-grandfathers posed for those pictures? It looks like half the teenage boys in Taormina posed in the buff. Were they all in love with each other? They were dirt poor. They probably would have sucked that German pansy’s cock for a plate of spaghetti.”
“But why did those pictures appear now? And right after we were ... well you know,” Frankie argued.
And Gennaro snapped. “They didn’t just appear. We were looking in the fucking safe. They didn’t just jump out at us. They were on the floor with wills. Does that mean we’re dead. And deeds. Does that make me a house? Everything has to have some big meaning to you. I liked it better when you went to church. At least you got this crap out of your system, praying and lighting candles and babbling novenas like an old lady. You should go back to church with that other nut job, Tootsie. She probably thinks she’s fucking Mary Magdalene. You two make a good pair.”
Gennaro’s tirade ended with him slamming his foot down on the brakes and telling Frankie to get the fuck out of the car. Fortunately they were only about a half-mile from 104th Street. Given that the Rockaways were a lot further, Frankie didn’t want to risk another argument, so he simply walked towards Gennaro and draped his arm around his shoulder.
Despite the cool air, they were hot and sweaty from running. Gennaro kissed Frankie full on the mouth and took Frankie’s hand and casually turned around to walk back as if kissing and walking handin-hand in public was the way they always behaved. Since the night of the arrest, Gennaro had softened to the idea that Frankie and he were lovers. He no longer shut down after sex, and he was much more affectionate afterwards. In fact, it was when they were alone in the basement, making love or just embracing that Gennaro was not irritable, but a kiss and holding hands in public shocked Frankie. However, Frankie played along. As usual, the DiCicos called the shots.
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since my old man came home,” Gennaro said. “I don’t know how to explain this, but I’m feeling like I’ve got to do something, like I can’t sit around and watch my old man turn into ... I don’t even know how to say it. I just know if I don’t do something I might explode. I’m n
ot like Lena. She’s so damn sure — like my old man and brothers are being framed, and they’re going to get out of this. Like they’re some kind of dago folk heroes. I’m not so sure. There are things I can’t say. Things I’ve known, but didn’t know. It’s like I can’t pretend anymore. Remember that fairy tale your father used to read to us when we were kids? You know, the one about the emperor not having any clothes. It’s like I’ve always known stuff about my old man and brothers, but I didn’t admit that I knew it. I’m probably not making sense.”
Gennaro’s rambling reminded Frankie of the many times that Lenny spoke in circles when talking about Big Vinny. As far back as Frankie could remember, Lenny had spun cryptic warnings about the DiCicos, as if he were simultaneously warning Frankie not to get too involved, while trying to protect him from knowing why. Until now, Gennaro had been either tight lipped or he outright denied rumors about his family as gossip and nonsense. Gennaro’s attempt at honesty made Frankie think of his own silence about having seen him write on his arm what Frankie thought was the cabdriver’s license plate number.
“I’m dropping out of school,” Gennaro said.
This didn’t surprise Frankie. Gennaro hadn’t gone back to school since the arrests. He should have graduated two years earlier, but, like all the DiCicos, except for Lena, Gennaro had a long history of spending more time in the principal’s office than the classroom. Big Vinny and his sons just couldn’t sit in a classroom long enough to listen to someone else. It was as if they were constantly distracted. Lena was as tough as her father and brothers, much more than Gennaro, but she already had the patience and cunning that it took Big Vinny years to acquire.
“I’ll turn 20 in a few weeks,” Gennaro said. “I never thought about my future. It was like things would just work out.”
“And things will work out better without a high school diploma?” Frankie said, sounding very much like Lenny.
“School’s your road, Francesco, not mine. I’m gonna enlist. Maybe the Marines, if they’ll take.”
Frankie thought, Without a high school diploma? But he didn’t mention this to Gennaro. They paused, leaning into each other to watch the sunset. A white orb slipped from the ashen sky into the slate-colored ocean while the incoming tide erased their footsteps.
“I warned you not to expect too much from me,” Gennaro said. “I love you, Francesco, but I’ll never be who you want me to be. I’m not gay.”
“You could have fooled me.” Frankie was sick of this tired silly argument.
“You know what I mean. I’m not like those kids in school with their rainbow pins and their protests. I don’t even know what GLBTQI ... LMNOP stand for, and I don’t give a shit.”
“You’re willing to blow yourself up in some desert to prove you’re not gay?” Frankie flexed his biceps. “Mr. Tough DiCico.”
“You got it all wrong,” Gennaro said. “The last thing I want is to prove I’m a DiCico.” Gennaro spit as if he were trying to expel something sour. He shrugged his shoulders and sighed. “Anyway, you’re the first to know.”
They resumed walking. The sand felt cooler.
“When are you going to tell your parents?” Frankie thought the whole conversation was ridiculous, given that Gennaro didn’t have a diploma or a GED and wouldn’t be accepted, especially not in the marines, but he knew that if he mentioned this Gennaro would tell him that he didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about, and Frankie might lose his ride home.
“I figure, at some point my mother will get tired of asking me about school. My old man’s too busy doing nothing to notice. As far as enlisting, I’ll tell them when I tell them — after I enlist. So you need to keep this all quiet.”
They reached the section of boardwalk where they had left their sneakers and socks. They were damp, but they put them on anyway. Maybe it was because Frankie was tired of secrets and of DiCico drama, or maybe he was sick of Gennaro always having all the power, but he finally sucked in his breath and said: “Did you give your brothers the cabdriver’s license plate number?”
They were alone on the boardwalk. It was dark and the silhouette that was Gennaro seemed to swell. Frankie expected the usual DiCico rage like the night of the Feast of the Assumption when Big Vinny took a swing at Lenny, but Gennaro just took Frankie’s hand.
“It’s getting late, Francesco. Let’s walk back to the car,” was all Gennaro said.
They drove home in silence, and when Gennaro parked in front of Frankie’s house, Frankie told him that he would keep his secret. Gennaro stared ahead as if he were seeing something that Frankie couldn’t. “Which one?” Gennaro asked. But before Frankie had a chance to answer, Gennaro leaned over, kissed Frankie on the cheek, and pressed his finger against Frankie’s lips. “Goodnight Francesco,” he said, and Frankie got out of the car.
17
Frankie hadn’t been to Mass since Filomena’s funeral, but musing about the cartoline postale and long-ago Taormina ceased to be enough of a distraction to stop him from worrying about Gennaro’s potential involvement in the cabdriver’s murder. He returned to church.
As Father de la Roza lifted the chalice and said: “... This is the cup of my blood, the blood of the new and everlasting covenant,” Frankie also heard: “Psst, Frankie ... Pssst.”
An old woman kneeling in the row before Frankie turned around — her head barely cleared the top of the pew — and pressed an arthritic finger to her puckered lips. “Shhhh!”
Frankie followed her glare and spotted Tootsie a few rows behind him, waving as if she were fighting off killer bees.
“Wait for me,” she mouthed, pointing to the doors.
Given what Gennaro and Frankie had been up to, Frankie stayed put during communion. Tootsie on the other hand, floated up to the altar as if she were Mother Teresa.
After Mass, they met at one of the marble holy water founts adjacent the main entrance to the church. Tootsie dipped her fingertips in the water and made an abbreviated sign of the cross and a half-hearted attempt to genuflect. Frankie laughed and was struck by how much he had missed her.
“So does Tyrone have a sister or brother?” Frankie said.
Tootsie flashed a broad smile and embraced him. “How are you, honey? It’s been forever. I figured the devil had got you in his clutches.”
If by devil you mean Gennaro, Frankie thought, but again he just laughed. The old woman with the arthritic fingers inched past them and glared at Tootsie, reminding Frankie of the nun cleaning the altar when he first met Tootsie and Tyrone. As usual, Tootsie seemed oblivious to critical attention. She opened the heavy church door for the old woman and, as the woman left, she kept eyeing Tootsie as if she expected her to push her down the church steps. Finally her pinched frown turned into a smile and Tootsie said: “Now you have a nice day, honey.”
Frankie couldn’t tell if Tootsie was being sarcastic, but she sounded sincere. Again, he asked her if Tyrone had a baby sister or brother.
“It was a little girl, but never mind that,” Tootsie said. “I want to hear all about you. How about breakfast? Tyrone’s in school and I don’t have to be in work until 11:00. Imagine ... I’m working in a bakery again. And my doctor wants me to lose weight. Of course, he’s fatter than me, and he smokes like a chimney, but that don’t count ‘cause he’s a doctor.”
Nut job or not — Gennaro’s opinion of Tootsie, she was fun to be with, and since Big Vinny’s arrest, Gennaro had been anything but fun. Frankie’s first class would begin in 15 minutes, but given that he was a senior, and he had never cut a class in his life — something Gennaro constantly ribbed him about, he figured he was long overdue for cutting at least one class before graduation, and he needed to smile.
“Sure! Breakfast sounds great,” Frankie said.
It was a cold morning so they walked quickly, postponing conversation until they sat across from each other in a booth with red vinyl seats on either side of a white Formica table that smelled of bleach. A waitress stood over them pressing the stu
b of a pencil against a pad. Her swollen ankles tested the elastic in her shoes. “Do you two need a menu or do you know what you want?”
Tootsie took a few moments to catch her breath. “I’m fine ... Do you know what you want, honey?”
Frankie nodded, and Tootsie looked back at the waitress.
“I’ll have a frittata ... Make sure the potatoes are well done ... And Italian toast with just a thimble full of butter ... and coffee.” Tootsie fingered the packets of sugar in a small white bowl. “I think you’re out of artificial sweeteners, honey. Can you bring me some?”
Frankie waited for the waitress to finish writing. “I’ll just have a large glass of orange juice, thank you.”
“No wonder you’re so skinny. Don’t Lenny feed you none? You gotta eat something or I’ll feel like a pig eating in front of you.”
Tootsie reached for the waitress who had just turned to leave. “Bring me another plate, honey. He’ll eat some of my eggs.”
“So how’s Gennaro?” Tootsie asked.
Frankie remained silent for a few moments, and then finally shrugged his shoulders. “He’s okay.”
“Any scars? Ya know, from the explosion.”
“No, he was lucky. Just little ones under his arms and on his chest.” Frankie felt the heat rise in his neck and wondered if Tootsie had ulterior motives for asking this question — as if she had surmised why he would be familiar with Gennaro’s scars. He jumped to the sound of silverware hitting the floor behind him.
“Well he’s lucky, but those DiCicos have a way of falling in shit and coming up smelling like roses. Although maybe their luck is running a little thin after all. I heard about the arrests — saw it on television. Big Vinny got out on bail, but last I heard his sons are still in jail. Murder charges. We’ll see how they get out of this mess.”
The waitress brought their drinks and Tootsie emptied three packets of sweetener and two packets of artificial creamer into her coffee while Frankie sipped his orange juice and thought of ways to change the subject. “How’s Tyrone?”
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