“Fuck!” he whispered. He wanted to scream.
He hung his head between his knees and stared at the floor, rubbing his sore hand, feeling like shit. He let his eyes go out of focus, letting his anger catch fire and spread. He wanted to be mad. He deserved to be mad! But what good was being mad if you didn’t do something? He felt reckless. If he had a gun, he’d pull the trigger. Pull it again and again until he was out of bullets, then throw it like a rock at the Monsignor’s head.
He was breathing heavily, his heart pounding, his stomach in a knot.
Then he thought of something.
He sat back and stared at the file cabinet, zeroing in on the second drawer. Then he glanced at the packets of material that would be going to the printer tomorrow.
Ka-boom! Ka-boom! Ka-boom! the gun going off in his head.
Chapter 22
Frank sat on the sofa in the Summit office, reading the newspaper, steam swirling from a paper coffee cup on the desk. College students all over the country were protesting after the Ohio National Guard shot and killed four kids at Kent State University who were protesting Nixon’s invasion into Cambodia and Nixon, that fucker, basically said they got what they deserved. The Lakers beat the Knicks in Game 6 of the NBA championship, tying the series three all. Knicks center Willis Reed sat out the game with a leg injury, and Wilt Chamberlain scored 45 points. Frank wasn’t much of a sports fan but he liked the Knicks. Frank flipped the page and looked at the door. It had been almost two weeks since he’d been here in the morning. He’d been avoiding Tina because he didn’t exactly know what to say to her.
Hi, Tina. You been sleeping with Monsignor Fitzgerald? How’s that going?
Hi, Tina. Has he made you a vampire yet? Can I see the marks on your neck? Neat.
Hey, Tina. Is the Mons as big a prick with you as he is with everyone else?
What Frank really wanted to do was shake her silly and scream in her face, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? She was a good person, and he cared about her. She shouldn’t be involved with the monsignor, and she definitely shouldn’t be alone with him in his room. But as riled up as Frank was about the whole situation, he’d avoided confronting her. He was afraid that she might say she was in love with the bastard and thought he was just wonderful, that he shit ice cream and spat nickels. Then what?
He wondered why Yolanda hadn’t talked some sense into her. They were best friends for chrissake. Tina must have told Yolanda something about what she was doing with Fitzgerald. Yolanda should have given her a smack in the back of the head and told her to wise up. Every time Frank thought about it, he got angrier and angrier at Yolanda. He wanted to give her a piece of his mind. He wasn’t sure how he would start that conversation, especially if she was with Tina, but he’d figure something out. That’s why he’d finally decided to come up here. He wanted to run into Yolanda.
He went back to the newspaper and spotted the horoscopes. He started reading his, Virgo. “With Mercury still in retrograde, you may experience some rough going. Big decisions in finance and romance should be put off. Your health will—“
He stopped reading when he heard voices out in the hallway. He cocked his head to listen. Girl voices. Shoes scraping against the steps as they climbed the stairs. Frank climbed over the desk and carried the straightback chair to the door so he could look through the transom. Three heads rounded the landing below and started up the last flight to the fourth floor. Yolanda’s long light brown hair, Tina’s short dirty blond hair, and—who? The third one had kind of a Tina hairdo but greasy. Frank didn’t think it was one of the other Mother of Peace nerd girls—they all had longer hair. As they came closer, Frank saw that the third person was wearing a brown St. A’s blazer. And gray slacks. And black horn-rimmed glasses. Fuck! It wasn’t a nerd girl. It was Michael Vasily, the fucking Vaz! What the hell was he doing with them?
Frank could hear the Vaz talking: “You won’t have to worry about us getting there. I’ll have my father’s Buick. It’s a big car. Very safe. And I’ve had my license for almost a year now. I’m one of the oldest kids in my class.”
Frank didn’t like what he was hearing. Vaseline Boy was as pompous as ever but there was something else in his tone, a sweetness that Frank had never heard before. It wasn’t until the three of them reached the fourth floor and he saw the Vaz’s face that Frank figured it out. The Vaz was looking at Yolanda and just Yolanda with the most pathetic, love-struck puppy-dog eyes Frank had ever seen. Alfalfa looking at Darla. That little bag of shit had a crush on Yolanda. And what the fuck was he talking about, his father’s Buick?
“Oh, and what about the corsage?” the Vaz said. “An orchid, of course, but one to pin on your dress or one for your wrist? Or would you prefer a nosegay?”
“A nosegay… I think.” Yolanda looked at Tina for confirmation.
Tina nodded. “Nosegays are good.”
“Okay, good.” The Vaz pulled a pen out of his pocket and made a note on the cover of one of spiral notebooks he was carrying.
Frank felt faint. He couldn’t fucking believe this. Michael fucking Vasily, Vaseline Boy, greasy-haired nerd of all nerds, had asked Yolanda—his Yolanda—to the prom? And she said yes? It couldn’t be. But what else could they be talking about that involved corsages and fucking nosegays. Frank wasn’t even sure what a fucking nosegay was other than it was some kind of flower thing. But why else would the Vaz be up here before eight o’clock? He was the goodiest goodie there ever was, the kind of kid who would never dream of doing anything that could even remotely get him sentenced to jug. But here he was committing a blatantly jug-worthy offense. And why? Because he has a hard-on for Yolanda! Same as Frank!
The thought of it made Frank want to throw up. On the fucking Vaz’s greasy head!
Frank stepped down off the chair. He didn’t know what to do about this short of throwing the Vaz out a fucking window. But he wasn’t about to hide out in the yearbook office and stew over it. He had to show Yolanda what a truly limp dick her prom date really was.
Frank whipped open the door and stared at Yolanda and Vaseline Boy as if he’d caught them doing something wrong.
The Vaz stared back, haughty and indignant. “What are you doing in the building, Grimaldi? It’s against the rules.”
“What are you doing here?” Frank shot back.
The Vaz didn’t answer. He just arched his eyebrows as if that explained everything—his privileged status, his superior intellect, his mastery of all things brainy.
Frank shook his head. “Only the girls can be up here before the bell. Not boys, not even big brains like you. I ought to turn you in to Whalley.”
Fear passed over the Vaz’s face. This must have been the first time he’d ever broken a rule in his four years at St. A’s, and the possibility that he could break his perfect disciplinary record must have suddenly crossed his mind. But his snotty attitude quickly bounced back like a rubber paddle ball on an elastic string. “You’d have to turn yourself in as well, Grimaldi. How else would you know that I was here if you weren’t up here, too?”
“Oh, touché, asshole.”
The Vaz smiled with smug satisfaction and slid his greasy gaze toward Yolanda. Frank wanted to smack him. Instead he reached out and grabbed the Vaz by the lapel. “Come on. Let’s turn each other in. I don’t care. I’ve done jug before. But it’ll be something new for you.”
Vaseline Boy squirmed and recoiled, horrified by the thought of being sent to jug. 4H guys almost never got jug, and if he got caught in a squeaker GPA race for valedictorian, a jug could count against him. He swiped at Frank’s grip on his jacket, but it was a weak effort, and Frank had no intention of letting go.
Tina stepped between them and laid her hand on Frank’s. His grip melted like an ice cube under a steam iron. She lowered her chin and looked him in the eye. “I have to talk to you,” her tone dead serious.
She moved her hand to his shoulder and led him down the hallway. Frank glared at the Vaz over his shoulder as he walked away. Yolanda looked upset. Probably because she had agreed to go to the prom with a giant slug, Frank thought.
When they were out of earshot, Tina gripped his wrist, her expression ultra serious. “It’s not what you think.”
“What’s not what I think?” He knew she was talking about her and the monsignor, but he played dumb.
“I’m writing a paper on Aethelflaed, Queen of the Mercians, and he was helping me.”
“Who? Vaseline Boy?”
She gritted her teeth and hissed. “You know who I’m talking about. The Monsignor.”
“Yeah…” He nodded. “I know.”
“He used to teach history. Medieval history is his specialty.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Well, it’s true. My history teacher at Mother of Peace said I should talk to him.”
“So why was he helping you at night? In his room.”
“You have a goddamn filthy mind, Frank. That’s the only time he has free.” She was fighting back tears.
“If I have a filthy mind, why are shaking?” Frank felt a little shaky, too, seeing a her so upset.
“Because I’m pissed, that’s why.”
“Because I saw you in Fitzgerald’s room?”
“Because of what you’re thinking.”
“How do you know what I’m thinking?”
“It’s not what you think. Nothing happened.”
“Okay, fine,” he said. “Nothing happened.”
“But you don’t believe it.”
“I believe it. If you say nothing happened, then nothing happened.”
Christ, he thought, how could anyone do anything with that creep?
“Monsignor Fitzgerald’s not a bad person. Not as bad as you think.”
“He’s not your headmaster,” Frank said, pissed that she was defending him. “So how did your paper come out? Was his help any good?”
“I haven’t finished it yet.”
Frank waited for her to say that the Monsignor was still helping her. In his room. At night. But she didn’t say any more, which, to Frank, said plenty.
They stared each other down, her on the verge of tears, him with a jittery knot in the pit of his stomach. He was worried about her and wanted to help her, but he had no idea what he could possibly do. He wasn’t used to dealing with raw emotions like this, and it scared him.
Bbbrrrrgggg! The eight o’clock bell.
“I gotta go,” she said and started walking away.
He threw his hand out and grabbed her shoulder. “Wait.”
She turned and looked at him, her eyes begging him not to meddle. “What?” She sounded tired and worn out.
His throat constricted. “Don’t—“ he cleared his throat. “Don’t let him– Just don’t.”
A flock of nerds, male and female, ran up the stairs and clamored into the physics lab followed by Mr. Dunleavy, the egghead physics teacher.
Tina frowned. “I gotta get to class.” She turned away and rushed past Yolanda and the Vaz, squeezing through the crush to escape into the lab.
Vaseline Boy hightailed it down the stairs when he saw Frank coming.
Yolanda glared at him. “What’s the matter with Tina? What did you say to her?”
“Nothing. We were just talking.” Frank didn’t know if Tina had told her about the monsignor.
Yolanda got in his face. “She’s upset. What did you say to her?” She was standing right in front of him, nose to nose, and even though she was on the verge of being really mad at him, he felt closer to her than he ever had. His yearning for her seeped through him like water through soil and fertilized a boner in his pants.
The clock was ticking. They both had to be in class before the 8:05 bell rang. But he didn’t care. He was with her, and he wanted to stay with her.
“What did you say to Tina that made her so upset?” she demanded. “I want to know.”
“You think she’s upset?” Frank said. “No, I’m the one who’s upset.”
“About what?”
“You. And him.” He pointed down the staircase.
“What’re you talking about?”
“You’re going to the prom with Vaseline Boy? What’s wrong with you?”
“That’s none of your goddamn business.”
“Do you know anything about him? Do you?” Frank was feeling crazy reckless.
“I have to go to class,” she said and started to go.
“He has syphilis,” Frank blurted. “And some other venereal disease. Something worse. I forget the name of it. But you don’t even have to have sex to get it. You just hang out with him long enough, and you’ll get it. You can get it from dancing!”
She glared at him. “You are out of your mind. What’s wrong with you?”
YOU’RE what’s wrong with me, he thought. I have a terminal case of YOU.
“I’m telling you for your own good,” he said. “Don’t go to the prom with him.”
Go with ME, he thought. But he couldn’t say that because of Annette. He’d already asked her. She’d kill him if he backed out. Her old man would absolutely kill him.
“You’re crazy,” Yolanda said and stomped off toward the lab. But just before she went inside, she turned back for a split second and looked at him, looked him in the eye, and her expression was drenched in sympathy, compassion… maybe even love. The lump in his stomach exploded and sent shrapnel through his limbs and into his head.
Bbrrrnnngggg!
The 8:05 bell rang. He was late for class. He could get jug. But he really didn’t care. He just stood there, staring at the empty space where Yolanda had been a second ago. Nothing mattered anymore. But everything mattered. The important things mattered, not the petty bullshit. The world was all fucked up—pollution, priests, criminals, parents, grade point averages. But he was doing something about it. And he was gonna do a lot more.
He went into the Summit office, picked up his books, and headed for French class, locking the door behind him.
“If Mr. Brown isn’t here, is there someone else I can talk to?” Frank stood in front of the receptionist’s desk on the ground floor of the offices of the Newark Herald. He’d taken the bus right after school.
“I’ve called to the city desk, sweetheart. They’re trying to track him down.” The receptionist was a woman in her fifties with torpedo breasts, a helmet of jet-black hair, raccoon mascara, and so many bracelets and bangles on her wrists, she clacked and jingled with even the slightest movement. She held her iridescent pink fingernails poised over a beige Selectric typewriter. Her eyes never left her typing, even when she was talking to Frank. He knew her type very well. There were at least three women in his family on his father’s side just like her. They were so similar for all he knew this woman could actually be one of his relatives.
Frank looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to five. He’d asked to talk to Arthur Brown, and she’d told him to have a seat on the avocado-green couch in the waiting area, but he’d been waiting for almost an hour, and the office would probably be closing soon.
“Did you tell them it’s kind of an important story?” Frank asked. “I think they’ll be interested.”
She nodded like Mr. Ed as she typed, not missing a beat.
“It’s getting kind of late. Do you think–?”
“Hold on,” she said, thrusting her palm up to silence him. “Mr. Brown?” she called out.
A tall skinny black man had just walked into the lobby. He wore his hair in a short ‘fro, and his charcoal gray suit flapped around him as he walked. A Robert Hall special, Frank guessed. His mother had taken him to Robert Hall when he was in seventh grade for h
is Confirmation suit. That suit had looked as bad on him as this one did on this guy. As Mr. Brown approached the reception desk, Frank saw that he was young, like right-out-of-college young.
“Mr. Brown,” the receptionist said, “this young man has been waiting for you. He says he has a big scoop.” She peered at him over her cat-eye glasses.
Mr. Brown sized Frank up. He did not look like a friendly person, but in Frank’s experience, black men rarely looked friendly around white people, at least not on first meeting. Frank wished he had taken off his St. A’s blazer. He didn’t want Brown to think of him as some privileged white kid from the suburbs.
“So what’s the story?” the reporter said, not bothering to say hello.
“My name is Frank Grimaldi.” Frank held out his hand. He was determined to start off on the right foot and not let the usual racial bullshit get in the way.
Brown stared at Frank’s hand for a moment before he shook it. He had unusually long slender fingers. “Arthur Brown,” he said. “So what’s your story?” He seemed impatient, as if he had to be somewhere.
Frank glanced at the receptionist. He’d pegged her as a devout Catholic from her dark Italian looks and the gold cross around her neck, and he didn’t think it would be wise to start talking about the Church being in bed with the Mafia in front of her. “Can we talk somewhere else?”
Arthur Brown looked annoyed. “Look, man, I cover fires in the ghetto, and when I’m not doing that, they have me writing obituaries. If it ain’t a fire or a dead person, your story means nothing to me.”
Frank lowered his voice. “This is a fire. The burning landfill in the Ukrainian section of Jersey City? The one you wrote about?”
Brown tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. He seemed curious. “What about it?”
“I know some stuff about it,” Frank said. “Stuff the paper should be covering. Hang on.” He unzipped his bookbag and pulled out one of the photos Molloy had taken of the unholy trio. “You know who these guys are?”
The Temptations of St. Frank Page 26
