“Yeah, sure. Go ahead.” She fluttered her hand in the direction of the kitchen phone, her arm fat jiggling.
“Thanks, Grandma.”
On television, Bruno Sammartino was beating the shit out of Gorilla Monsoon, smashing the heel of his hand into Monsoon’s face.
“So who’s winning?” he asked, nodding at the set.
“Huh?” She just noticed that the TV was on.
“I said, who’s winning.”
She squinted to see who was fighting, then flashed a smug smile when she recognized her favorite. “Sammartino,” she said. “Who else?”
They stared at the set together, him in the doorway, her on the sofa. Despite the racket of the jeering crowd on TV, her head drifted back and she fell fast asleep. Frank smiled. He knew she’d do that.
He stepped into the kitchen and listened for footsteps on the stairway. He’d lied to his grandmother about his mother using the phone. No one was using their phone, but it was on the desk in the alcove right off the living room, and Frank’s mother and sister were in there watching TV. If he used the phone upstairs, he wouldn’t have any privacy, and he wasn’t about to make this call with an audience. Rich kids had phones of their own in their bedrooms—they had phones all over the house—but not Frank. He’d wished on many occasions that they had another phone somewhere that wasn’t so public, but they didn’t, and getting one wasn’t even a topic for discussion with his parents. There were two phones in the whole house, one on each floor, and it was gonna stay that way.
He walked over to the black wall phone near the kitchen table and unfolded the page from The Scarlet Letter on which Annette had scribbled down her phone number. He stared at her rounded, even handwriting. Every number could have been the beginning of a roly-poly teddy bear sketch. He looked at the phone, and his heart started to thump.
What if he dialed and Mr. Trombetta answered?
He’d hang up, he decided.
What if he has all his phones tapped? What if he could trace the number?
Why would he do that?
Because he’s a mob boss and he can.
Frank laid his hand on the receiver but didn’t take it off the hook. He was gathering his nerve, mentally rehearsing his lines.
Hi, it’s Frank. Remember me?
Of course she remembers, numbnuts. How many guys does she let get their fingers into her twat? Well, almost into her twat.
I was wondering if you still wanted to go to the prom. With me.
Maybe I should say “my prom.” Or was it better to say “the St. A’s prom”? What the fuck difference does it make? She isn’t stupid. She’ll know what he’s talking about. She’s a prom-minded kind of girl.
Just get it over with, he told himself. Just say it. She’ll understand.
But she’s not the problem. What if someone else answers the phone? She said it was her own line, but these people are Italian. Her family had to be as intrusive as his. Frank did not want to talk to her parents or her brother. Johnny Trombetta was almost as scary as their father.
Maybe I should just forget about the whole thing.
Frank let go of the receiver.
But what about the landfill? And Yolanda?
He put his hand back on the receiver.
And what about maybe getting another shot at doing it with Annette? And maybe getting whacked for trying. He took his hand off the receiver. It was a definite possibility.
His breath was short. He wasn’t sure what he should do.
Do it, he told himself. Just do it. Not for me. For Yolanda. For her neighborhood. For the people down near the landfill. He frowned at his self-serving bullshit reasoning. Well, yeah, maybe for me, too. But he did care about the people who were getting sick. And the fact that the church and the mob were in cahoots poisoning people.
Tis a far far better thing I do…
Yeah, he thought. I’m like that guy in A Tale of Two Cities. But he couldn’t remember exactly why that guy agreed to go to the guillotine. But he knew it was a noble reason… whatever it was.
He snatched up the receiver and started to dial before he changed his mind. Problem was, his grandparents didn’t have a touch-tone phone. They had an old rotary phone, and it took longer to dial, time he shouldn’t have because he might think about it and back out. Frank looked at Annette’s phone number in his hand. There were a lot of 2s in it. Good. He could dial those fast.
He dialed all but the last number and paused. He listened for signs of eavesdroppers in the near vicinity, but all he heard was the Big Time Wrestling racket on TV. His grandmother was out like a light, he was sure of that. He sucked in his breath and stuck his finger in the hole in the rotary for the last number, which was a 5. Not long, not short. He spun the dial to the metal stopper, held his breath, and let go.
It started to ring. Once…
His heart was pounding hard.
Twice…
Just hang up, he told himself. Before someone answers.
Three times…
He could feel cold sweat in his armpits. There’s still time. Just hang up. Go ahead, do it.
On the fourth ring, someone picked up.
Frank’s body went stiff. He was a cartoon character in a haunted house seeing a ghost for the first time.
“Hello?” It was Mrs. Trombetta.
Fuck! he thought.
“Hello?” she said again.
Say something stupid.
“Hel-lo!” She sounded annoyed.
Frank cleared his throat. “Ah… hello. Is, ah, Annette there?”
“Who is this?”
“Ah…”
Hang up now, he thought. There’s still time.
“Ah,” he said. “This is Frank Grimaldi.”
“Frank Grimaldi?” She sounded puzzled. He knew why.
“The son,” he said.
“Oh, Frankie,” she said. “I thought it was your father. But the voice was different.”
“No, it’s me. Not him.” He felt stupid.
“You said you wanted to talk to Annette?” He could hear her lighting a cigarette, exhaling smoke into the phone.
“Yes. If she’s there.” He felt even stupider.
“Of course. Hold on.” She sounded too happy. Maybe she was high. Or more likely tipsy. He could hear her calling out to her daughter. “Annette? It’s for you.” She was definitely tipsy. Frank imagined her with a cocktail in her hand, the cigarette between her fingers.
“She’ll be right there,” Mrs. Trombetta said,
He heard her setting down the receiver a little too hard.
Frank’s armpits were sopping.
“Hello?” It was Annette.
“Hi,” Frank said.
Silence. “Who’s this?”
“Oh… it’s Frank. Sorry.”
“Oh, Frank. Hi.”
“Hi.”
Silence. Frank wasn’t sure how he should start.
“So what’s up?” she said.
I shouldn’t have called.
“Well, I was wondering if, you know, you still—“
Frank heard heavy footsteps. He looked up and saw his father breeze into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and rooted around like Yogi Bear in a picnic basket.
Shit, Frank thought. Potential humiliation toasted his face. He was sweating buckets.
“Frank?” Annette said. “Are you there? Did we get cut off?”
“Ah, no,” he muttered. He was standing right in the middle of the kitchen, but his father hadn’t noticed him. His head was deep inside the refrigerator.
Frank lowered his voice, hoping to get it out before his father realized he was there. He cupped his hand over the receiver and lowered his voice. “I was wondering if
you would—“
“I can barely hear you. Can you speak up?”
He raised his voice but just a little. “I was wondering if—“
“I still can’t hear you.”
His father’s butt was facing him. Frank could hear him pulling tin foil off something.
Frank spoke up and spoke fast. “I was wondering if you would, you know, if you would like to go… to the prom. My prom.”
Frank looked up, and his father was looking at him, a rolled-up slice of salami clamped between his first and second finger, a wedge of provolone cheese between his second and third. In his other hand he held a ragged hunk of Italian bread, chewing and grinning like a pig in shit. He gave Frank the thumbs up sign.
Fuck, Frank thought. He did not want anybody to know about this. Not yet.
“Really, Frank?” Annette said. “That would be so neat. The St. A’s proms are supposed to be the best.” She gushed all over the phone. Frank’s ear was already wet with sweat.
“Who’s that?” his father whispered.
Frank looked down and tried to ignore him.
“When is it?” Annette asked.
“May twenty-third. At the—“
“The Gazebo in Montclair.” She obviously knew all about it.
“So do you want to go?”
“Yes, yes. Of course I want to go.”
Frank glanced up. His father was right next to him, drinking from a quart bottle of White Rock black cherry soda. He gestured at Frank. “Who is she?” he whispered, grinning the way Dom would if he were here, grinning with horn-dog adolescent anticipation.
“So I’ll, like, get the tickets, okay?”
“Yes, get the tickets,” she said. “This is gonna be so neat.”
“Yeah,” he said, trying not to look at his father.
His father whispered loudly, “Who is she?”
“Look, I gotta go take care of something, but I’ll call you soon and we’ll figure out the details.” He wasn’t sure what details he was talking about, but he just had to get off the phone. He couldn’t talk to her with his father listening. It was too embarrassing. And he wasn’t ready for anyone to know that he had asked John Trombetta’s daughter to the prom.
“You promise to call me?” she said.
“Yeah, I’ll call you,” Frank itching to hang up.
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
“When?”
“As soon as I get the tickets.”
“When’s that?”
“This week.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, I gotta go now.”
“Right now?”
“Yeah. My grandmother’s calling me. She needs me to help her.”
“Help her do what?”
“Stuff. You know.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“You know, old people stuff. Stuff she can’t do.”
“Oh.”
“Okay, so I’ll call you. This week.”
“Okay. Don’t forget.”
“I won’t. I promise. So… bye.”
“Bye, Frank. This is gonna be neat.”
“Yeah, really. Bye.” He wished the fuck she’d just shut up and let him go.
“Good night, Frank.”
Frank frowned at the receiver before he hung up. “Good night” seemed like an odd thing to say. She should have just said “bye.”
“So who is she?” his father picking his teeth with a pinkie nail. “Do I know her?”
“No.” Frank started to leave.
“So aren’t you gonna tell me who she is?”
“Just some girl. You don’t know her.”
His father guzzled a little more soda. “You’re mother’s gonna be so happy. She was afraid you weren’t gonna go.”
Frank cringed. Fingernails on a blackboard.
“Grandma?” his grandmother called from the living room. “Who’s there? Frank?”
Frank’s father gnawed on a hunk of bread. They exchanged glances.
“She’s calling you,” Frank said. To his grandmother, he was Frankie, his father was Frank.
“Who’s there?” his grandmother called out. “Is that you, Frank? Talk.”
“Yeah, it’s me, Ma,” his father called out.
“You hungry? You want me to make something?”
Loud jeers and boos from the TV. The ka-boom of some wrestler being slammed into the mat.
Frank left the kitchen and headed upstairs to his room before his father could say anything else.
The next day after school Frank climbed the front steps to Dom’s porch, carrying his pickle-shaped guitar case. That was the one thing he didn’t like about his guitar, the case. Vox cases looked like big light-gray pickles. He stood the case on end and pressed the door bell.
The door opened, Dom standing on the other side of the screen. Johnny Trombetta was behind him.
Fuck! Frank had thought it was just going to be him and Dom.
Dom pushed the screen door open. He had a sour look on his face.
“How’s it going–” Frank started.
Dom threw a wild roundhouse and caught Frank’s jaw. Frank stumbled back and dropped his guitar. He held his face where he’d been hit.
“What the fuck was that for?” The punch was just a glancing blow, more stun than sting. Looking at his upside-down guitar case, he was more worried about the guitar than his face.
Dom huffed and puffed like a bull at a bullfight, standing with his feet planted and his fists clenched tight. “Asshole,” he snorted and charged at Frank.
Frank rushed down the porch steps and stood on the lawn. “What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
Dom stood on the steps like a vicious Doberman guarding the house. “Get the fuck outta here, Grimaldi.”
Frank just stared at him. Dom had never called him by his last name. “What’s your problem?”
“I don’t have a problem. You’re the problem.”
Dom was itching for a fight. It was in his posture. Frank sized him up. He was built like his old man—average height, barrel-chested and solid. He’d always been more aggressive than Frank, but Frank was taller and outweighed him. Frank figured if he could wrestle with Wilenski twice a week in gym class, he could handle Dom. But it made him sad that he was thinking this way. He never thought he would ever get into a fist fight with his best friend.
“I said get the fuck outta here, Grimaldi, before I kick your ass.”
Yeah, you and what army? was the first thing that popped into Frank’s head, but he thought better of saying it. He was ready to take Dom on, but Johnny had just stepped out onto the porch. Most guys would stand back if two other guys got into a fight, but there was something sneaky and underhanded about Johnny. He’d get involved, and Frank didn’t want to mix it up with the two of them. A kid like Johnny Trombetta might do anything—use a brick or a chain or a length of pipe. But if Frank hurt him, Christ, there’d be hell to pay.
“All right, I’m going,” Frank said. “Just gimme my guitar.”
Johnny walked over to Frank’s guitar, frowned down at it as if it were a pile of dog shit, and flipped it over with the pointy toe of his faggy black ankle boot.
Frank cringed. The jerk was gonna break it.
Johnny squatted over the case, opened the latches, and lifted the lid. He picked up Frank’s black-and-white Vox Phantom with its asymmetrical body. It looked fragile outdoors in the sun in Johnny’s hand. He held it by the neck as if it were a poisonous snake.
“What a piece of shit,” he said.
Frank’s arms trembled. He wanted his goddamn guitar back. If Johnny damaged it, he swore to God he’d kill him.
Johnny kicked the cas
e off the porch. It skidded past Dom, surfing over the steps and clattered onto the cement walk.
Frank stared at him. If he broke that guitar, Frank would never get another one. His mother would say they couldn’t afford it. Because Mr. Trombetta never paid for the work his father did. Not on time. Not all of it. Motherfucker.
Johnny moved to the top step and dangled the guitar over the edge. He held Frank’s gaze, smirking at him. “You gonna do something about it?”
Frank’s chest was heaving. All he wanted was his guitar back.
“Where the hell do you get off asking my sister to your prom?”
“Yeah,” Dom said, “who the hell do you think you are?” Dom’s voice was shaky as if he were holding back his emotions. Christ, he was jealous and hurt. Over Annette?
Frank played dumb. “I don’t get it. What’s the big deal? I just asked her to the prom, that’s all.”
“Yeah, that’s all,” Dom spitting fire.
Johnny swung the guitar slowly like pendulum.
The Pit and the Pendulum, Frank thought. He remembered the movie version, a giant pendulum with a razor-sharp blade swinging back and forth, back and forth, dropping a little bit with each swing, getting closer and closer to some bare-chested guy tied down to a table. That was him, Frank thought, the guy being tortured. But this was bullshit and he didn’t want any part of their game.
“Just give me my guitar and I’ll leave,” he said.
Dom blew up, “What’d you say? Huh?” He leapt off the stairs and charged Frank, grabbing him by the shirt and trying to wrestle him down.
Frank grabbed two fistfuls of Dom’s shirt and tried to do the same. He could feel the fabric tightening around his shoulders and hear one of their shirts starting to rip but he wasn’t sure whose it was.
“What fuck’s going on, Dom?” Frank breathed in his face. “How the hell was I supposed to know you liked Annette?”
As soon as Frank mentioned her name, Dom went berserk. He growled and grunted and yanked on Frank’s shirt. Buttons popped off. He tried to get his leg behind Frank’s to trip him, but Frank knew that move from gym class, and he held his position, surprising himself that he could keep Dom at bay. After tussling with Wilenski, Dom felt like a lightweight.
“I didn’t know you liked her,” Frank whispered so only Dom could hear. “You never said anything about her. I wouldn’t have asked her if I had know.”
The Temptations of St. Frank Page 24
