The Temptations of St. Frank

by Anthony Bruno

  Mr. Nunziato waved to Frank. “Hiya, Frankie.”

  His father noticed him on the porch. “O,” he said. “Whatta ya doin’?” He was smiling and seemed to be in a good mood.

  Great, Frank thought. He walked down the steps, not fast, not slow, trying to figure out how to approach this. Blurt it right out or hang back and wait for a good opening?

  His father and Mr. Nunziato huddled over the trunk as Frank joined them.

  “You need underwear?” his father said to him.

  “What?”

  “Hey, everybody needs underwear,” Mr. Nunziato said.

  Frank didn’t know what the hell they were talking about until he looked in the trunk. Four open cardboard boxes full of plastic-wrapped packages of underwear. White briefs, tee shirts, guinea tees, and women’s panties as well as black dress sox, white gym sox, panty hose, and nylons. Frank didn’t need to be told that this stuff had “fallen off the truck.”

  “Whatta ya need?” his father said.

  Mr. Nunziato pulled out a three-pack of white briefs. They were Shop-Well brand, the cheap stuff they sell at the supermarket. His mother had bought him Shop-Well tee shirts once. They were so scratchy they should have been labeled “hair shirts.”

  “I’m okay,” Frank said. “I don’t need anything.”

  “You sure?” Mr. Nunziato said. “Special price for you, Frankie.”

  His father reached into a box and pulled out a three-pack of women’s panties. Pastel pink, purple, and yellow, each one with a lacey waistband. The pink ones had little cherries printed all over them. Frank remembered the pink panties on the floor in Annette’s room. There was no way Annette Trombetta wore Shop-Well panties. Even if they did fall off the truck.

  “Your sister wear these kind?” his father asked.

  “How am I supposed to know?” They didn’t look like kid panties to Frank, but he wasn’t going to get into a discussion about women’s underwear with his father.

  “Take ‘em,” Mr. Nunziato said. “She’ll use ‘em eventually. When she gets bigger.”

  There was no mention of underwear for Frank’s mother. From what Frank could see, Mr. Nunziato’s stash didn’t include plus sizes.

  “What’s that?” his father looking at the acceptance letter in Frank’s hand, scowling at it. “Jesus H. Christ! Don’t tell me it’s another bill. Did your mother tell you to give that to me just to bust my balls?”

  His father’s temper flared the way it usually did, fast and hot. Not good, Frank thought. Maybe he shouldn’t tell him now.

  “So what is that?” his father said, his brows furrowed. “It looks like a bill to me.”

  “It’s not a bill,” Frank mumbled. “It’s something else.”

  “Well, what? Lemme see.” His father took it out of Frank’s hand, and for some reason Frank just let him. Maybe it would be better if he read it himself instead of Frank telling him. The letter looked official and impressive. That might help.

  His father unfolded the letter. Frank watched his eyes move left to right and back again as he read. Frank held his breath, waiting.

  “Aw, Jesus,” his father looking up for the letter. “I suppose this means you really want to go.” He handed the letter back to Frank as if he wanted to be rid of it.

  “Well, yeah. Why would I have applied if I didn’t want to go?”

  “Just to see if you could get in.”

  “Why would I do that? That’s a waste of money.”

  “College is a waste of money.”

  Frank rolled his eyes. Here we go.

  “Don’t roll your eyes. It’s true. College is a waste of money. Unless you’re gonna be a doctor or a lawyer. And you already said you don’t wanna be one of those things.”

  Frank didn’t want go over this again. They’d had this fight a million times already, and they all ended with his father bludgeoning him with volume and illogic, and Frank just throwing his hands up. But now it was different. He had an acceptance, a good one. He had to fight this fight.

  “How can you say an education is a waste of money?”

  “Because it is. You look at all these kids in college, what do they do? They grow their hair long, they take drugs, they protest against anything Nixon does, and they don’t respect anything.”

  “You learn stuff in college, valuable stuff.”

  “Valuable my ass. You know what they learn in college? How to be bums. That’s what they learn in college.”

  Frank’s hands were shaking he was so furious with his father’s deliberate ignorance. “You’re wrong. One hundred-percent wrong.”

  “Oh, yeah?” His father pointed at Mr. Nunziato. “Your buddy Dom’s not going to college. Now he’s smart.”

  Mr. Nunziato looked sad. “Dom didn’t apply anyplace. He doesn’t like school.”

  Frank knew that Mr. Nunziato wanted Dom to go to college. Dom had told Frank.

  “See?” Frank’s father said. “Dom didn’t even waste money on applications.” He tapped his temple with his index finger. “He’s thinking, that kid.”

  “But, Dad, BU is a good college. Not everybody gets in there.” Which was sort of a lie, but Frank was prepared to say anything to change his mind.

  “Bullshit. Don’t believe that. If you got the tuition money, they take you. It’s like everything else in the world. It’s all about money.” He looked to Mr. Nunziato. “Right?”

  Mr. Nunziato just shrugged. He didn’t want to get involved.

  “You can’t buy your way into Harvard,” Frank said.

  “You don’t think so? Then you’re stupid. How do you think President Kennedy got in? It was his old man’s bootlegging money.”

  Mr. Nunziato nodded with authority.

  “I don’t care about the Kennedys,” Frank said. “I care about me!”

  “And I care about you. That’s why I don’t want you to waste your time at some stupid college. Work with me for few years, then you can start your own business. I’ll give you some customers the way Grandpa gave me some of his when I started.” He was smiling as if he’d come up with a solution, a life plan. As if this were a good thing.

  Frank’s head was ready to explode. This was everything he didn’t want. His father made it sound like following in his footsteps was the best thing he could possibly do, but to Frank, he was presenting quick sand, a tar pit, a fucking life sentence.

  “Just do what I tell you,” his father said. “You’ll thank me one day.”

  “No, I won’t thank you. I’ll die! Living at home and working with you will frigging kill me! Don’t you get it?”

  His father’s face turned into a dark storm cloud. Frank braced himself for thunder and lightning. “You want any goddamn underwear or not?” he barked.

  “Forget about the underwear?” Frank shouted. “This is serious!”

  “You’re right,” he shouted back. “It is serious. And I’m telling you right now. You are not going away to Boston or anyplace else for college. If you wanna go to college, go to a state school. Nights, so you can work.”

  Frank’s father looked at Mr. Nunziato and smirked as if he’d just zinged one in and scored a point. Mr. Nunziato flashed a brief, half-hearted grin.

  Frank erupted like Vesuvius, spewing lava out of his mouth. “Hey, just because you gave up the violin, don’t take it out on me. I got my own life to lead.”

  His father looked like he’d been slapped. Fury and hurt swirled through his face. “You wanna go away to college? Fine. But I hope you got a full scholarship, my friend, ‘cause I don’t have a dime for that. And if I did, I wouldn’t give it to you.” His voice cracked he was so upset. He snatched up two packages of men’s underpants, threw a few dollars into the trunk, and stomped off toward the house, climbing the steps two at a time. The screen door slammed
behind him.

  Frank felt terrible. He’d wanted to finally have it out with his father, but he didn’t think it would go down like this. Shit. He didn’t want to go inside. He had no idea how to fix this. He wished he could take it back, but he didn’t want to apologize because he still felt he was right. College was where he belonged.

  Mr. Nunziato picked up the crumpled dollar bills and smoothed them out. “Frankie, can I tell you something?”

  “What?”

  “Promise you won’t tell your father I told you?”

  Frank shrugged. What did it matter? His father was pissed at him already. Maybe pissed for life.

  “Your old man and me have been friends since we were little kids. Close friends. I remember back when he started playing violin. All the kids made fun of him, called him a sissy, called him this, called him that. He got into a lot of fights carrying that violin to his lessons. A lot of times I went with him and we both got into fights. He loved playing that violin. Loved it. And he was good. He was gonna go professional.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Yeah, but what you probably don’t know is that you’re father had a problem. Stage fright. Big time. He was okay playing at home, but whenever he had to play a concert, he was a friggin’ mess. A bundle of nerves. Shaking, throwing up, everything. Doctors gave him pills and shit, but nothing really worked. He tried out for the big orchestra in New York, but they told him straight out. ‘You gotta get over this stage fright thing or we can’t hire you. Nobody will hire you.’ He tried, but…” Mr. Nunziato shrugged.

  Frank was stunned. He had never heard anything about his father having stage fright. But he couldn’t imagine his father getting nervous about anything. He was always loud and opinionated and never afraid to tell people to go to hell. Frank felt worse than ever. He must have really hit a nerve with that violin comment.

  “Hey, don’t get all bent out of shape,” Mr. Nunziato said. “It’s not the end of the world. You’re gonna go far, Frankie. I got a feeling. You got what it takes. But remember one thing. No matter what you do, you always gotta do the right thing. That’s the hard part.”

  “The right thing,” Frank repeated. He didn’t exactly know what Mr. Nunziato meant by that. It seemed like odd advice coming from a guy selling stolen underwear from the trunk of his car.

  “You’re gonna be a big success, kid. Mark my word. Just do what you know is right, what you know in your gut and your heart and your head. “ He pointed at these areas of Frank’s anatomy. “When all three things are in agreement, that’s when you know you’re doing the right thing.”

  Frank just looked at him. He swore to God the man was high. Or more profound than Frank had ever expected.

  “Here,” Mr. Nunziato said. “On me.” He handed Frank a two-pack of white guinea tees. Size L.

  Chapter 19

  “Okay, boys, you’re gonna love this one.” Mr. Savitz, Frank’s World History teacher, pulled an LP out of its sleeve, holding it by the edges. He was short and round and was sort of built like a snowman, his head the same shape as his upper and lower body, just smaller. His eyes were small and dark, like lumps of coal, but his lips were thick and pouty, outlined by a thin dark moustache. He wore a double-breasted navy blue blazer with gold buttons and a red-silver-and-black regimental striped tie. His clothes were always impeccable; he looked more like a British diplomat or a spymaster from a 007 novel than a high-school teacher. He was a little weird, but he was a good teacher, and Frank liked this class. Savitz wiped the record with a lint-free cloth, carefully circling the entire surface.

  Frank and Molloy sat next to one another toward the back of the room. Molloy held up his notebook for Frank to see. Estonia was scrawled on an otherwise blank page.

  Frank showed Molloy his notebook. Frank had written Tasmania in the top margin.

  They had a running bet going. Twice a week Mr. Savitz started class by playing some foreign country’s national anthem. He loved national anthems, collected them, and claimed that he had recordings of every national anthem in the world as well as many historical ones. His little eyes got misty and his moustache twitched with joy whenever he played one. Frank and Molloy had been betting each other two bucks a pop that they could guess what country the anthem came from before Savitz announced it. They’d been doing this since October, and no one had won yet. The kitty was up to $94. Frank kept a running tally at the back of his notebook. Enough to get him to Boston but not nearly enough for tuition. He’d been trying to figure out how he could get the money for college ever since he’d had it out with his father. His old man was sticking to his guns, and his mother hadn’t intervened so far. It didn’t look good.

  Mr. Savitz positioned the record on his portable stereo. He picked up the arm and carefully lowered the needle onto the record. The sound of the needle dragging along the grooves filled the room. Suddenly the music started, horns blaring, drums pounding, piccolos fluttering like startled birds. A thundering intro led to a rousing melody. Frank imagined legions of soldiers marching to war. Thanks to Mr. Savitz, Frank had learned that in general the more bombastic the anthem, the smaller the country. This one was kind of medium-to-heavy bombastic. He glanced at Molloy who didn’t look hopeful. The anthem wasn’t ridiculous enough for Estonia. But Frank couldn’t figure out if it was right for Tasmania. They probably didn’t have much of a population, so they couldn’t have legions of soldiers. If they had an army at all. The anthems of countries with small armies were usually very militaristic. Yeah, Tasmania could still be in the running, he thought.

  Ninety-four bucks. He might need that money. If he couldn’t go away to college, he might as well bypass Boston and go straight to Canada. He wouldn’t have a student deferment if he didn’t go to college.

  As usual, Mr. Savitz let the anthem play all the way to the end. This one finished with a clamoring flourish. Then the sound of the needle scraping empty vinyl. Mr. Savitz lifted the arm and turned off the stereo.

  “Well, what do you think?” A smile of deep satisfaction spread across his chubby face. He wanted his classes to love these anthems as much as he did.

  Frank crossed his fingers, hoping for Tasmania even though he doubted that Molloy would really pay up if Frank won. Frank had no idea how he’d pay Molloy if he ever won.

  “Anyone want to guess?”

  “Macau,” Curtis called out.

  “Romania,” Paldino said.

  “Rhode Island,” Vitale said.

  Savitz gave him a wry look but didn’t reprimand him. “Panama,” he said.

  Frank looked at Molloy. Oh, well. The pot just got bigger.

  “Okay, boys,” Mr. Savitz said. “Today I want to talk about the Treaty of Versailles, the conditions in Germany after World War I, and the events that led to the rise of Adolph Hitler and the Nazi Party.” Mr. Savitz wrote “Treaty of Versailles” on the blackboard. “This treaty was designed to keep Germany from threatening the peace in Europe ever again. But its terms were so harsh and oppressive, it did just the opposite…”

  Mr. Savitz kept talking, but Frank zoned out. Savitz was a pretty interesting teacher, and this rise of the Nazis stuff was pretty cool, but Frank had too much else on his mind. Going to BU. His father. Yolanda. Annette. The landfill. He knew these concerns were separate items, but in his mind they were all interconnected. He had a feeling—a hope—that if he could deal with one, the others would fall into place.

  Maybe.

  He caught Molloy’s eye and scribbled in notebook, PROM WHO? He tipped the page so that Molloy could see.

  Molloy shrugged, a puzzled look on his face. He didn’t know what Frank was asking.

  Frank wrote, YOLANDA? ANNETTE?

  Molloy’s expression showed that he understood now. He yanked the cap off his Bic with his teeth and scrawled in his notebook, then held it up so Frank could see. ANNETTE.
r />   Frank made a face. He wrote HOW ABOUT TINA?

  Molloy made a face. He circled ANNETTE and pointed with his pen.

  WHY? Frank wrote.

  PROOF, Molloy wrote.

  Frank shrugged. He didn’t understand.

  Molloy wrote, EVIDENCE IN HOUSE.

  Frank had already told him about what had happened at Annette’s house and that she was bugging him to take her to the prom. Molloy wanted Frank to date her so that he could get back into the Trombettas’ house and snoop for landfill evidence. He was really into this, devising Mission: Impossible schemes and finding spy tools in catalogues. He wanted to be Q to Frank’s 007.

  But maybe Molloy was right: Annette was the answer. Dating her for a while and taking her to the prom would get him back into her house and back into that office with the file cabinet. His mother would be overjoyed that he was going to the prom, proving that he wasn’t queer. And his father might even soften up if he started dating the great John Trombetta’s daughter because his father thought his rich customers were royalty. Yeah, Annette just might be the solution to everything.

  Molloy stared at him, waiting for an answer.

  But Mr. Savitz distracted Frank. He was marching in front of the blackboard, flailing his arms, doing what he did best, turning history into drama.

  “The Treaty of Versailles devastated Germany. The treaty blamed them for World War I. It took lands from Germany. It wrecked their economy. It humiliated the German people.”

  Molloy held up his notebook for Frank to see, pointing at the message to get Frank’s attention. WHICH ONE?

  But Savitz was on a roll. “And these, gentleman, were the conditions that led to the rise of the Nazi party and Adolf Hitler and ultimately World War II!”

  Molloy was still waiting for an answer. Which one? he mouthed.

  “Any questions?” Mr. Savitz said.

  Frank picked up his pen and drew a swastika. Then encased it in a heart.

  The next morning Frank sat behind the desk in the yearbook office, nestled into the “cockpit.” As usual it was before eight when he shouldn’t be there, but he didn’t care. He had bigger things on his mind than the stupid fucking school rules. The door was closed and locked, but he was keeping an ear out for anyone in the hallway. In his left hand he kneaded the purple rubber gorilla with a machine-like rhythm. He held a pen in his other hand, not writing, just looking at what he’d just written on the last page of his binder where he kept his wish lists camouflaged in elaborate doodles. He’d just added three teeny-tiny, almost imperceptible letters in a vertical list.