by Mary Campisi
“Nina—”
“Just keep it between the two of us, okay?”
“Sure.” I have thought about it.
“We keep good secrets, don’t we, Sara? We keep pretending everything is fine. Normal. Pretending normal.” She pauses, then says, “I guess that’s our job, right?”
“I think our job is to get through it. That’s all, just get through it.”
Chapter 23
A single white envelope arrives late Saturday morning addressed to Francis Eugene Polokovich in bold type; Beechmont Paper Mill is stamped in black ink in the upper left corner. The envelope is thin and flat, stuffed between the TV Guide, Classic Car Magazine, and another brochure from U Penn. Just the edge of crisp whiteness is poking out from under the TV Guide and it is this that catches my eye. I pull it out, hold it up and try to see what’s inside, hoping it’s his paycheck because that will make him happy.
These last three days have become routine. I go to school, come home, cook and we eat together, then he disappears into the garage with T-Rex, sits with his Chevy and finishes off his bottle. I do homework, watch Bewitched or Hogan’s Heroes and go to bed. Same as before, minus Kay, but now, when we eat together, he actually tries to have a conversation, even if the words are jumbled most of the time. At least he’s not hitting anybody, like Nina’s father.
How twisted is that, me making excuses for him?
Maybe this letter will get him thinking about going back to work. Dr. Blantenbush said he could go back to the mill in a week. Frank thinks he’ll need longer. Why? It’s just a broken arm, it’s not like he’s working heavy machinery and he won’t be operating the forklift again. But, now pride and embarrassment are his disabilities.
I head into the kitchen where he’s drinking a cup of black coffee and reading the Norwood Gazette.
“You got a letter from the mill,” I say, holding the thin envelope out to him.
A slow grin spreads over his stubbled face. “I knew they couldn’t make it a week without me,” he says. “Probably begging me to come back on Monday.”
If they wanted him back Monday, wouldn’t they have called him since it’s already Friday? “Maybe it’s your paycheck.”
“Could be.” He rips open the envelope, pulls out the letter, flicks it with his right hand and reads out loud:
“‘Dear Frank:
Your employment will be terminated as of Friday, October twenty-second. Three of the four employees involved in the recent accident you caused are considering lawsuits of reckless endangerment against the company. Because of your thirty-three years of service, your Blue Cross Insurance coverage will continue through the end of the year.
Should you have any questions, please contact our legal—’”
“Jesus”—he slams the letter on the table. “Jesus.”
A ten second time warp thrusts him into a shriveled, uncertain victim before he collects himself, runs a hand over his face and spits out in a low voice, “Bastards.”
This is more like the old Frank. “What are you going to do?”
“Do? I’ll fight the bastards, that’s what I’ll do. Nobody treats Frank Polokovich like this.” He pounds a fist on the table, anger sliding into rage. “They think they can get rid of me after thirty-three years of grunting and slaving in that shit hole? They think they can do that? Hah! I’ll make them wish they’d never heard my name.”
He pushes back his chair, snatches the phone off the hook. “Fired,” he mutters under his breath, punching out numbers with sausage-size fingers. “Jack Orandell,” he says into the receiver. “Frank Polokovich.” There is a short pause before he says into the phone, “Jack. Good. Better than ever.” Then, “I got a letter today, what the hell’s that about, Jack?” Jack Orandell’s been Plant Manager for twelve years, but he’s been with the mill for thirty. He and Frank used to fish together and I guess you could say they are friends.
“What? That’s bullshit, you know that. It was an accident. I told you, I told everybody; I blacked out, low blood sugar. What? What? You’re fucking kidding me, right?” His nostrils flare, his knuckles turning white against the black receiver. “Jack, it’s me. Talk to them, tell them the truth. What?” Pause. “Fuck you, Jack, fuck you and fuck the goddamn mill!” He slams down the receiver, blows out a few short breaths and meets my gaze. “They fired me.”
Frank disappears into the garage and I only call him once for dinner. When he doesn’t answer, I spoon my sloppy joe onto a bun, scoop green beans on my plate, and eat by myself. At 7:30, I can’t wait any longer, and I go to the garage, where I find him passed out in the back seat of the Chevy, the empty Smirnoff bottle resting by the rear tire, T-Rex beside it.
I have to tell someone, but who? Nina can’t help. Aunt Irene won’t. But Ms. O’Grady will. I run inside and scratch out a note in case he wakes up and then I’m off, running to one thirteen Beech Street.
Patricia O’Grady answers the door dressed in a navy housecoat and matching slippers. Her face is scrubbed clean, even her eyebrows, which she pencils in each day.
“I’m sorry to bother you so late, Ms. O’Grady,” I say when she stands there blocking the door. “I need to talk to your sister.”
“Evelyn’s in her room. She retires every night after the six o’clock news.”
“It’s kind of important. Could I talk to her, please?”
Her dark eyes narrow on my belly. “Did you get yourself into some kind of boy trouble?”
“No, nothing like that. I really need to talk to her.” And then, because I think she might slam the door in my face, add, “Please?”
She huffs like I’ve asked her to donate a kidney. “I suppose. Wait here.”
After what seems like forever, I hear footsteps rushing down the stairs and there she is—Ms. O’Grady—my Ms. O’Grady. “Sara? What’s wrong?”
The softness in her voice, the concern in her brown eyes makes my own eyes burn and my throat clog. “It’s him,” I whisper. “He lost his job today.”
“Oh, good Lord.” She pulls me into her arms. “Poor thing.”
“I don’t know what to do,” I murmur against her shirt.
“Tell me what—”
“Evelyn!” Patricia O’Grady blinds us with the hallway light. “I’m trying to read. Tell Sara to come back in the morning.”
Ms. O’Grady ignores her. “Come with me,” she says, and leads me toward the basement door. We pass the living room and there sits Mr. O’Grady in his Barcolounger with his right foot sticking out like a mutated piece of oozing flesh tucked in a lamb’s wool mitt. Red, swollen, smelly.
“Nobody will bother us down here,” she says, flicking on the basement light. The area boasts weeks of effort—boxes packed and stacked, shelves emptied, trash trashed, floor swept. She pulls down two plastic lawn chairs, sets them next to each other and perches on the edge of one. “Now talk.”
“He got a letter from the mill today. They fired him.”
“I’m sure he didn’t take it well.”
“He thought they were writing to beg him to come back Monday. What am I going to do?”
“He’s home now?”
I nod. “Passed out in the back seat of that damn car.”
“I’m sorry, Sara.”
“And that’s not all. My Aunt Irene hired a lawyer to take Kay and me away. I was supposed to talk to him on the phone the day Frank got in the accident.” I drag my eyes to hers. “I didn’t tell you before, because, I don’t know why, I guess I didn’t want you to get involved.”
“Your father has no idea?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know what to do.”
She reaches out and clasps my hand in hers. “You can’t always run away, Sara. Sometimes, you have to stay and fight.”
“How can you say that? I stayed! I’m stuck with him and now what? Spend the next two years of my life eating alone while he gets wasted in the garage?”
“Of course not, but you have to know why you’re leaving, if you choose t
o do that.” She strokes my hand, says in a soft voice, “I ran away once, because I was desperate to escape what I thought was a horrible life, and look what happened, I ended up back here, trapped. I don’t want that for you. Even if you leave your father, he will always be your father. You have to accept that. And it’s the same with Norwood. You can run a thousand miles away to the fanciest college in the country, but Norwood will always be in your blood.”
Chapter 24
Anthony Andolotti disappears on a sweltering Thursday two weeks after school starts. No one is worried at first, because after all he’s twelve and where would he go and secondly, the only dangerous thing that can happen in Norwood is death from boredom intoxication.
But when he doesn’t show up for dinner, which in the Andolotti household is a religious 5:15, the family becomes worried. Mr. Andolotti phones Jerry’s dad even though Mr. Jedinski’s a highway patrolman, and he tells him in broken Italian that his son went to the rectory to rake Father Torrence’s leaves right after school let out and never came home. And yes, he called Father Torrence but the priest said Anthony left well before dinnertime.
A slow buzz starts through our street, weaves its way to the A&P, through Mini-Mart and down to Ms. O’Grady’s house. By dusk, everyone is searching for Anthony Andolotti. Conchetta, Nina and I have checked the dugouts of Norwood High where he is bat boy for the Norwood Varsity Wildcats, the bowling alley where he spends his Saturday afternoons, and St. Augustine’s Cemetery. Because we are desperate.
But he is nowhere.
“Something horrible has happened to him.” Conchetta tries to squelch her tears with the back of her hand.
“He’s probably holed up somewhere, playing a joke on all of us.” Nina’s voice is soft but I don’t miss the thread of uncertainty in it.
“Anthony doesn’t play jokes.”
“He’ll show up,” I say, because I can think of no other words, and because this is Norwood.
“Will you come back to my house with me?” This from Conchetta.
No one is ever invited to the Andolotti home except Father Torrence and Sister Alice Joan. Rumor has it there’s a giant crucifix mounted in the living room with real dried blood on Jesus’ wounds, and smaller crucifixes in the kitchen, bedrooms, and tiny bathroom. And the furniture is covered in plastic.
“Sure,” I manage, wondering if the plastic on the couch will stick to my legs and if I’ll be expected to genuflect in front of the giant crucifix.
“Of course, we will,” Nina says, catching my eye and shrugging.
Conchetta’s house is dark except for the faint sway of light in the front window. “Let’s go around back,” she whispers.
“Is anybody home?” Nina asks.
“They’re home, saying the rosary and lighting candles for Anthony’s safe return.”
We sneak in the screen door and ease through the kitchen, past the living room, careful not to disturb Conchetta’a parents, who are kneeling with bent heads on braided rugs before the crucifix and praying the Our Father. Umberto Andolotti is slight built and wiry with a shock of black hair and a pencil mustache. His wife is soft and round, stuffed into a dress and apron like rising bread. Conchetta pulls us into one of the tiny rooms and closes the door. We blink when she flicks on the light, perhaps to adjust our eyes or perhaps because of what we see.
Paintings smear the walls, rainbows of color spreading in orange-red-yellow-blue brilliance, displayed in simple, black frames. There are watercolors of moonlight, sunsets, wildflowers, fields of hay, ice-tipped evergreens.
“Who did these?” Nina walks up to a painting of a purple iris, its dark beard stark against a white background.
“I did.”
“They’re beautiful,” I murmur, mesmerized by the print behind Conchetta, a delicate yellow rosebush twisting its thorny limbs skyward along a white trellis.
“There must be at least thirty here,” Nina says, counting.
“Thirty-two.”
“But you’re not even in Art class.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“My parents say it’s foolish to take a class that has no value.”
“And Physics has value?” Nina says.
Conchetta shrugs.
“Parents are such screw-ups.” Nina fingers a print of virgin snow-covered railroad tracks. “Why can’t they leave us alone to live our own lives and make our own mistakes? At least that way, they’d be our mistakes, not theirs.”
***
“So, what do you think about the Andolotti kid?”
Jerry Jedinski tracks me down as I am dragging a garbage can from the curb. “I can’t believe something like this could happen here,” I say.
“Yeah.” H scratches his pimply chin. “Pretty psycho, huh?”
“They’ve got to find him soon.”
“What are you talking about? The kid was hiding in his basement behind an old washing machine.”
“What?”
“Like I said, psycho. The whole town’s looking for him and he’s right there the whole time.” His bony shoulders jerk up and down in a shrug. “Dad says the Andolotti’s will be lucky if the city doesn’t send them a bill for the extra manpower involved in the search.”
“I can’t believe it. Nina and I were at their house last night.”
“You went inside the freak house? Are there really cloves of garlic hanging in the rooms? And blood on the crucifix? Did you see it?”
“No, we didn’t see anything.” But I wouldn’t tell him if Jesus himself was standing in their living room.
“You must have seen something.”
“We saw Conchetta’s watercolor paintings. They’re beautiful.”
“But what about the garlic and the bloody crucifix?”
“Give it up, okay?” I leave him standing by the back door gaping after me. Something bad has happened and I have to get to Conchetta.
I find her crouched under the blackberry bush in the corner of my backyard, sifting handfuls of dirt over her black pants in slow, pained movements.
“Conchetta?”
She jerks her head up and looks straight at me, but I don’t think she sees me.
“Conchetta?”
“Sara.”
“I heard about Anthony.”
Her eyes drift close. “Anthony.”
“What happened?”
She shakes her head, slumps forward, curling into herself.
“It’s okay.” I lean next to her, take her hand, “It’s okay.” We both crouch in the sun-streaked haze of late morning, saying nothing, conveying everything.
“Conchetta! Conchetta!” Mrs. Andolotti’s wail bursts through the silence. “Come here, now!”
But Conchetta makes no move to rise or speak. After three more shouts, her mother’s voice shrinks and disappears. “They won’t listen. He tried to tell them, but they won’t listen.”
“What? Tell me so I can help you.”
“This life”—she flings a hand in the air—“he hates it. He’s not allowed to have friends to the house, or go to theirs unless they’re Catholic. Anthony told them his best friend is Lutheran. That’s why they sent him to Father Torrence’s, for penance, not to rake leaves.”
“I’m sorry.” It is all I can think to say.
“Father Torrence is at the house now. When I saw his car pull up, I ran.”
“Where’s Anthony?”
“Where they’ll never find him,” she says, jerking her head toward a gnarled oak tree several yards away. And there, sitting on the highest limb, is Anthony Andolotti, swinging his scrawny legs and smiling.
***
Kay and I have just returned from Mass where I have spent the past hour studying Father Torrence, the man who will be a saint in my eyes forever.
Actually, he should be canonized for what he went through at the Andolotti house yesterday. Nina and I heard all about it from Conchetta who was so giddy she couldn’t finish a full sentence without laughing and crying.
Who would have thought a priest would stick up for a kid?
According to Conchetta, Father Torrence convinced her parents that Anthony needed friends, even those who weren’t Catholic. Way to go, Father Torrence! So, a very loose interpretation of a few, select scripture readings having to do with loving the least of my brothers and judge not lest ye be judged, spoken in fluent Italian, thanks to St. Michael’s Seminary, along with a blessing of the house and its inhabitants with holy water, was really all it took for Mr. and Mrs. Andolotti to agree to let Anthony invite his best friend, the Lutheran, Maxwell Anderson, to Sunday dinner.
It also got Anthony out of the oak tree.
And Conchetta’s parents have given their blessing for her to attend Allenwood Community College twenty-two miles away after graduation, as long as she stays with her Aunt Rosarina in the evenings and cooks her meals. Mrs. Andolotti has even ordered Conchetta three new shirts from the Sears and Roebuck catalog; one pink, one green, and one yellow stripe!
Like I said, Father Torrence should be up for sainthood. Maybe I should see if he can visit my house and work his prayers on the people around here, namely, one person.
Chapter 25
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Some place fun.” Nina points her flashlight to the narrow back road behind the high school. “Some place we shouldn’t be.”
Conchetta throws back her head and laughs. Since Father Torrence’s visit, she’s been laughing a lot, or maybe it’s the pink bra Nina bought her that’s got her so happy. Speaking of bras, Nina’s is powder blue with a pink satin bow in the middle and enough padding to make a pillow.
“Where’s some place we shouldn’t be?” I ask, slicing the night with my flashlight.
“Juniper Hill.”
“Isn’t that the make-out place?” Conchetta asks.
“Sure is.”
“What are we going to do up there?” If Peter’s Chevelle is parked at Juniper Hill, I will suffocate in my own misery.
“Spy.”
“I am not going to spy, Nina. This is ridiculous.”
