“Wanna sandwich? I’ll make you something. Come on up.”
“It’s okay. I can wait for dinner.”
Food was love in Frank’s house. His parents yelled and screamed about the most inane things in the world, but no one dared express a genuine emotion. True feelings were communicated through food—the offering of food, the savoring of food, the hostile presentation of food, the unappreciated devouring of food.
“Well, then come sit with me while I have coffee.”
“Okay, I’ll be right there. I just gotta go see what grandpa wants first.” Frank pointed at the side door.
“What for?”
“He just called me,” Frank lied. “Didn’t you hear him?”
His mother looked annoyed. “Go see what he wants. Then come upstairs.”
Frank’s mother didn’t have much to do with his grandfather even though they lived in the same house. He wasn’t the typical Italian immigrant patriarch who had to have everything his way. He was more like the troll under the bridge. A nice troll but not a very social troll. Frank’s grandfather was a gardener, too, with his own truck and his own small set of customers. He worked alone and liked it that way. When he wasn’t out working, he pretty much lived in the cellar, which Frank thought of as his private lair. He had an old armchair and standup lamp positioned near an old-fashioned, full-sized wood-burning stove. If he didn’t like what Frank’s grandmother made for dinner, he’d make something else for himself in the cellar, usually minestra—a soupy mixture of spinach, white beans, and potatoes. He loved to read, and he read all the time. Frank’s father bragged to the world that his father was a great intellect, a genius. Frank wouldn’t go that far, but he loved talking with his grandfather—when his grandfather was in the mood to talk. But Frank’s father was always a little nervous about what Antonio might be filling Frank’s head with. Antonio was staunchly anti-Church and probably hadn’t been in one since he’d gotten married. He was also an avowed socialist, though he would never hang anyone’s VOTE FOR ME banner on his property no matter how radical the candidate was.
Frank went through the side door and took the wooden steps down to the cellar. The warm glow of the reading lamp made an island of light in the gloom of the overcrowded storage space. Frank’s grandfather never threw anything out because he figured he might need it someday, so the cellar was a bric-a-brac museum of junk and potential treasure. Odd screws, bolts, nuts, and nails filled dozens of rusty Maxwell House and Chock Full o’ Nuts coffee cans on the workbench. Three tin-top kitchen tables and a platoon of mismatched chairs were jammed in a dark corner. A scratched Jenny Lind trunk was filled to the brim with antique tools. Cardboard boxes on top of steamer trunks were stacked to the ceiling in the old coal cellar, a separate room off the main cellar. Lengths of iron pipe, aluminum rain gutters, curtain rods, pine molding, rake handles, rolls of leftover wallpaper, and whatever else that was vaguely long and thin hung from the wood braces nailed to the exposed floor joists. Yellow-painted pegboard covered one entire wall, and anything that could be hung was on display like souvenirs from a robot war—coils of wire, bow saws, straight saws, picture frames, tin funnels, fly swatters, rug beaters, lawn mower blades, a hatchet, a rubber mallet, and on and on and on. Whenever Frank came down here looking for something, he was usually looking right at it and didn’t even realize it. He needed his grandfather to point it out.
Frank’s grandfather sat in his armchair, a tattered hardcover book in his lap. Tortoise-shell reading glasses hung from his nose.
“Hi, Grandpa,” Frank said.
The old man looked up from his book as if he’d just noticed his grandson’s presence, but Frank knew that when he was reading, he never acknowledged anyone unless they demanded his attention. He peered over his glasses and smiled up at Frank.
“Frank, you look for something?”
“No. Just came down to say hi. What’re you reading?”
Antonio raised the book so Frank could see the cover. The Bible. He was using an old envelope to jot down notes with the stub of a pencil. He read the Bible all the time, but not because he was getting old and thinking about going back to the church while he still had time to get a ticket to heaven. He knew the Bible better than most so-called religious people, and he loved it when Jehovah’s Witnesses knocked on the door.
“God so stupid,” he said, looking down at the page he’d been reading.
“How come?”
“He make people stupid, then he waste all his time with stupid people. For what? He not too smart.”
“You’ve got a point, Grandpa.” Most of the people Frank knew fell into the stupid category.
Frank’s grandfather went back to his reading, but Frank didn’t want to go upstairs, not yet. “Can I ask you something, Grandpa?”
“Why, sure.”
“The cross you made? In Italy? How old were you when you made it?”
He stuck out his lower lip and shrugged. “I dunno, sixteen when I start. Maybe fifteen”
“And it took you two years.”
“I don’t remember. About two years.”
“And it was big, right?”
“Pretty big. Big as the tree I cut.”
“And were you like a hero or something because you did that?”
His grandfather made a sour face. “The cross, the cross, forget the cross! Your father, he like that story. Me, I don’t care so much.”
“So why did you do it? Were you, like, religious back then?”
“I was stupid. I was a boy. What do you think?”
“But Dad says it was a big deal.”
“For him, it’s a big deal. He like stories.”
“But I don’t get it. Why did you make it?”
His grandfather set down the Bible and leaned forward. “You know the station of the cross. In my town all the stations outside on the road. Close to farm where I live was number ten, Christ die on the cross. But old cross was broken. Every day old ladies prop up with rocks, every night it fall down again. They come back, they cry. My aunt—I live with my aunt, my mother and father dead long time—my aunt see old ladies cry, she cry. Everybody cry every day. I say, okay, I make new cross. Everybody happy, they stop crying.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s all.”
“Oh…”
“What’sa matter? You don’t like that story? I tell my way. Your father, he tell his way. You like his way better?”
“No. You were there, he wasn’t. You know what happened.”
His grandfather grunted, confirming Frank’s point. He leaned over toward the stove and lifted the lid on a small pot. He was making minestra, stirring it with a fork. It didn’t smell great, but Frank always felt that his grandfather ate to live as opposed to the rest of his family who lived to eat. Maybe his grandfather’s disinterest in food was deliberate to piss off his wife who was an incredible cook and big as a house.
His grandfather replaced the lid and sat back in his chair. “Your father, he ever tell you his story?”
“He made a cross, too?”
The old man shook his head. He looked over his shoulder and pointed at the ceiling in the dimmest corner of the cellar. “Go look.”
“At what?”
“Up over there.” He kept pointing at the ceiling. “Turn on the light.”
Frank walked to the section of the cellar where the kitchen tables and chairs were pushed together. He reached over one of the tables and pulled the string on the ceiling light. A naked low-watt bulb threw creepy shadows into the piles of junk.
“What am I looking for, Grandpa?”
“Up, up. The case. “
Frank stared at the stuff hanging from the floor braces—two rusty sickles, a lot of white fence stakes, a collapsed TV antenna. He wedged himself between the tightly packed ch
airs and continued to search. Far in the corner he spotted three bamboo fishing poles and a warped pool cue, and deep in the shadows he saw an old brown violin case.
“The violin case?” he said. “Is that what you mean?”
“Yes. Go get. Open it.”
Frank had to climb up on one of the tables and crawl on his knees to get to the case. He tried to pull it down with one hand, but it was wedged in tight. He moved it side to side, working it out little by little. Pieces of the case’s imitation alligator exterior flaked off and rained down on his face. Blinking debris out of his eyes, he freed the case and crawled backwards, dragging it with him. He took it to the table under the light bulb. His hands were stained brown from the deteriorating case.
He flipped the rusty latches and glanced back at his grandfather, but he was engrossed in his reading. Frank opened the lid and saw the violin inside, his father’s no doubt. He knew that his father had studied classical violin when he was a kid back in the 1930s. A musty smell rose from the case, and Frank got the feeling that it hadn’t been opened in quite a while. Like a crypt. The rich whiskey color of the wood was dull but still beautiful. Moldy white blotches marred the ebony fingerboard. The tailpiece had broken off, and the strings were slack. The case was lined with crushed green velvet that had gone ratty. The bow was attached to the inside of the lid, held in place by two velvet-covered clips. Frank took the bow out and examined it. Loose horse hairs draped over his wrist. He ran the bow over his palm and realized that his father had used this bow when he was younger than Frank was now.
He put the bow back in its place and picked up the violin. The tailpiece hung loose from the strings and knocked against the body. Frank tipped the violin so that the tailpiece wouldn’t scratch the wood. He felt as if he were holding something sacred and forbidden. He’d never heard his father play, and it was something his father rarely talked about. When asked about it, his father would shrug and say the violin wasn’t a part of his life anymore, though he did noodle around on the piano from time to time. Frank couldn’t imagine ever giving up the guitar.
Newspaper clippings had been left under the violin. Over time they had become as fragile as pressed flowers. Frank picked them up carefully and stared at the grainy photograph in the top clipping. He held it to the light to get a better look. It was his father as a young man holding a violin, this violin, smiling into the camera and showing his teeth, a very posed studio photo. The headline said, “Young Violin Master Plays Paganini.”
Frank looked through the rest of the clippings, careful not to crumble the brittle paper. They were all about his father and concerts he had played. One of them featured a photo of his father as a teenager shaking hands with a tall, thin balding man who was also holding a violin. The caption said, “Sixteen-year-old Frank Grimaldi shares the stage with renowned violinist Yeheudi Menuin.”
Frank had heard of Yeheudi Menuin. The man was famous. Jesus, his father must’ve really been hot shit back then.
The next clipping was a short piece from the Newark News. “Local Violinist to Audition for New York Philharmonic.” Frank read the article.
“Local musician, Frank Grimaldi, 21, has been granted an audition with the New York Philharmonic. Grimaldi, who plays the violin, is currently concert master of the Newark Music Society’s symphony orchestra. He will be competing with dozens of other candidates for a coveted seat in the philharmonic’s string section. Auditions are scheduled to being in May.”
Frank was stunned. The New York fucking Philharmonic? Fuck! He never knew any of this about his father.
“Grandpa,” he said, “did Dad ever play for the New York Philharmonic?”
“Ehhh?” His grandfather was leaning over a bowl of minestra, slurping up a limp strand of spinach.
“Did my father ever get the job playing violin for the New York Philharmonic?”
The old man shrugged as he chewed. It was a don’t-ask-me shrug.
“He must have been pretty good,” Frank said.
Another shrug.
“So how come he decided to be—”
A gardener, Frank thought and rephrased his question, not wanting his grandfather to think he thought there was anything wrong with being a gardener.
“How come he didn’t stay with the violin if he was that good.”
His grandfather narrowed his eyes, a piece of spinach hanging out of the corner of his mouth. Frank couldn’t read his expression. It could have been a sly look or a mad look, Frank couldn’t tell. Frank stared at him, waiting for an answer. He was still holding the violin, and the tailpiece rattled against the body.
His grandfather stared back at him, chewing slowly. He slurped up another gob of spinach. “You ask him.”
Chapter 15
When Frank walked into the kitchen, he could hear the Yankees game on the radio in his parents’ bedroom. Their bedroom was right off the kitchen, and that radio played 24 hours a day—baseball, talk shows, and news. His parents couldn’t sleep without it.
His mother sat at the kitchen table, leaning over the newspaper, engrossed in the obituaries.
His sister Carol was in her seat against the wall, doing her homework. She didn’t lift her eyes from her work. Her expression was serious, her bangs as straight as a ruler. Rosary Bead Barbie was close at hand on the table next to Carol’s math book.
The coffee pot was perking on the stove, an Entenmann’s almond coffee ring on the table. Frank could see through the cellophane window that a piece was missing and a butter knife had been left inside.
“You want some coffee?” his mother asked. “I just made it.”
“No thanks.”
He looked around, hoping that his father had gotten home. He wanted to ask him about this violin business. Frank was hoping that if his father had almost had a career in music, then he understood Frank better than he let on, that he really wasn’t the blue-collar Fred Flintstone he appeared to be.
“Sit down,” his mother said. “Wanna piece of cake?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Come on, sit down. I want to hear about this girl.”
Carol’s big brown eyes popped open. “What girl?”
“I think Frank has a girlfriend,” his mother whispered.
“Frank has a girl-friend!” Carol chanted. “Frank has a girl-friend!”
Frank frowned. “She’s not my girlfriend.”
But Carol kept chanting. “Frank doesn’t have a girl-friend! Frank doesn’t have a girl-friend!”
“Shut up!”
“Frank! Be nice,” his mother said. “No reason to be mean to your sister.”
“Why? You guys are being mean to me.”
“We’re just curious about this girl you met.”
“Why? What’s the big deal?”
“Having a girlfriend is a big deal.”
Frank could feel his face getting red. Having Yolanda as a girlfriend, that might be a big deal, but Annette Trombetta was not the girlfriend of his dreams. She was just the girl he’d gotten the farthest with. But he couldn’t say that. Hey, Mom, guess what I did?
A hole in one, a voice in his head said. He stared at the coffee ring. It was talking, the missing piece its mouth. Frank didn’t see it moving, but he imagined that was where the voice had come from. The coffee ring was taunting him with its hole-iness. It was referring to the hole in one he didn’t make that morning with Annette. Frank stared at the hole, the white cardboard under the coffee ring, mesmerized by it. He was thinking about her, about having his hand down her bikini bottom, the tip of his middle finger on the edge of her twat. He was horny all over again, flying a full mast under his dirty jeans.
“Are you listening to me?” his mother said.
“Yeah, I’m listening”
But he wasn’t listening, not to her. He was waiting for th
e coffee ring to say something else. He was staring hard at it, thinking he could cut another piece and eat it, and the mouth would be bigger. The thought of eating made him hungry again. He’d had a big ham and mozzarella sub for lunch. And he’d eaten a Mr. Goodbar and a Milky Way from his father’s private stash in the glove compartment of the truck. I must still be having the munchies, he thought, because I still feel a little high. He’d heard about the munchies. This had to be that.
“Frank, you’re not listening,” his mother said. “You’re just like your father.”
He opened the box and picked up the knife. “Yes, I’m listening. And no, I’m not just like Dad.”
Unless he was a great violinist, a gifted artist, and a tortured soul prevented from realizing his dream.
The knife was dull. Frank pressed down hard, gritting his teeth as he tried to hack off a piece of coffee ring.
His mother reached for the knife. “Here, let me do it.”
“No, I got it.” Frank ripped the piece off with his fingers, leaving a ragged pastry wound. He lifted it to his mouth and took a big bite. Cinnamon and sugar made his mouth water. White frosting dotted the corners of his lips.
“Use a plate!” his mother nagged. “And here, take a napkin.” She snatched one out of the dispenser on the table and handed it to him.
But he didn’t take it. He didn’t even notice her holding it out to him because he was staring at the hole in the coffee ring as he chewed.
Hole in one, it said. The coffee ring was louder now that its mouth was bigger.
Shit, he thought. He should have gone for it when he’d had the chance. Annette was willing. Her mother wouldn’t have just walked into her room, would she? And so what if his father was down in the driveway, yelling his head off? Frank could have told him he was in the bathroom taking a dump. Frank could have actually had his first hole in one. But he missed his chance. Fuck! And who knows when he might get a chance like that again?
“Frank!”
He might never get that close again.
The Temptations of St. Frank Page 16
