The Temptations of St. Frank

by Anthony Bruno

  FUCK! he thought.

  She pulled away from him. Her lids were half-closed, her sly teasing grin a sickle moon. She was thinking about it. It. The big IT. Unlike him, she wasn’t thinking about anything else.

  “Hey,” she said in a smoky voice. “I gotta pee first.” Her eyes rolled toward the empty Pepsi cans on the night table.

  It took him a second to process this. He wasn’t expecting this level of intimacy.

  “It’ll just take a second,” she said. She pulled herself away from him and headed for the bathroom in her room, raising her index finger to indicate that she’d be right back.

  “Me too,” he blurted. It was his brain talking. “I’ll go downstairs.”

  “Use the one in Johnny’s room,” she said. “It’s closer.”

  And it’s right across the hall from your father’s office, he thought. If he was quick, he could do it. If the key to the cabinet was in the top drawer of the desk where he suspected it would be, he could get into the cabinet, rifle through the files, and if was lucky, he might find something. Just look for legal documents, like deeds, or anything that mentioned property in Jersey City. It would take him more than a minute, but what was Annette gonna do? Question him for taking so long? He didn’t have to go at all, but he could tell her he’d thought he had to do #1 and it turned out he had to do #2. If she asked. And she would never ask.

  Her bathroom door closed, and he rushed out into the hallway, making a beeline for Mr. Trombetta’s office, passing several small oil paintings of flowers and fruit. On the right, the office door was closed. On the left the door to Johnny’s room was open. Frank peeked in and saw the bathroom—the toilet, the sink, the tub. Frank went toward the office door, reaching out for the knob.

  “That was nice. You’re not half bad.”

  Frank’s eyes shot open. He knew that voice. It was Mrs. Trombetta, and it was coming from the end of the hallway. From the Trombettas’ bedroom. Frank heard a lower voice answering her. A man. He was mumbling, and Frank couldn’t make out the words.

  Frank froze. Shit! Mr. Trombetta’s home! Fuck!

  But then he heard the man’s voice again, and even though he still couldn’t make out the words, it didn’t sound like Mr. Trombetta. His voice was low but sharp, his delivery all stabs and jabs. This voice was a little more relaxed and hoarse.

  Fuck! Frank thought. It’s my father! He’s in Mrs. Trombetta’s bedroom with Mrs. Trombetta and the door is closed. Holy fucking shit! That’s why her wishes were his command when it came to mowing her grass and making the yard look perfect. That’s why he did everything for her and didn’t insist on getting paid. He was taking it out in nooky. Jesus Christ!

  He heard Mrs. Trombetta through the door. “You don’t have to go right away, do you?”

  Frank didn’t hear a reply. He didn’t want to believe that it was his father in there. His father would never do something this dumb. Mr. Trombetta would kill anyone who touched his wife. Frank carefully opened the office door, glanced at the file cabinet, and peered out the window. The driveway was empty. No sign of his father’s truck.

  Still, there was a path through the woods behind the house that led to the next street. His father could’ve parked there and walked through the woods. Frank knew that path very well. There was a clearing back there where they dumped grass clippings and leaves.

  Frank refused to believe it, but part of him could believe it. His mother wasn’t exactly sexy and Mrs. Trombetta was. Really sexy. He had never really thought about his parents doing it, but his mother was so religious and up tight, he couldn’t imagine that she would ever agree to have sex. Getting pregnant with his sister was probably the last time she did it. So he couldn’t exactly blame his father. But why with Mrs. Trombetta of all people? His mother hated her. And her husband would chop him up into little pieces if he ever found out.

  Frank stepped back into the hallway and took slow, careful steps toward the Trombettas’ bedroom. He had to know for sure. If he could hear the man’s voice better, he’d know. He hoped to God it wasn’t his father, but in his gut he had a bad feeling that it was him.

  Frank tiptoed closer to the door. He didn’t hear anything. Neither one of them was talking now. Were they kissing? He glanced to his left at a picture on the wall, a studio photograph of Johnny and Annette when they were little kids, Johnny in a plaid sports jacket and a red bow tie, pre-school Annette in a puffy pink party dress sitting on his lap. Johnny was scowling into the camera, the exact same way he scowled now. Annette looked like she was about to cry.

  Frank glanced to the right at another photograph of little Annette in her first Holy Communion outfit. Her little hands in white gloves were pressed together in prayer, a tiara was on her head. The photo was basically black and white but her eyes, lips and cheeks had been lightly colored in.

  Frank turned his ear toward the door. He still didn’t hear anything. He leaned in and put his ear right on it. His skin clung to the glossy white paint.

  Frank heard the man say, “So long, hon’,” loud and clear, and suddenly the door pulled away from Frank’s ear. It was opening.

  Frank leapt back in a panic. He was standing in the middle of the hallway, his feet frozen, not knowing where to go, what he should do.

  But when the door swung open. It wasn’t his father or Mr. Trombetta. It was Mr. Nunziato, Dom’s father, buckling his white belt as he walked.

  Startled, Mr. Nunziato looked up at Frank. Crazy mad blue eyes caught in the headlights.

  “Bye-bye, baby,” Mrs. Trombetta said sweetly from inside the bedroom. Frank saw her in nothing but her panties and a tight-fitting lime-green tee shirt, walking barefoot into the bathroom.

  Mr. Nunziato lunged at Frank and grabbed him by the throat. His madman expression was frightening. Frank had never seen him like this. He shoved Frank into Johnny’s room.

  “What the fuck you doin’ here, kid?”

  Frank could feel Mr. Nunziato’s hot breath spewing out of bull nostrils.

  “I’m hanging out with Annette,” Frank jerking his thumb toward her room. “We’re kinda going out now.”

  Mr. Nunziato’s eyes rolled up to the ceiling as he digested this piece of information. His grip on Frank’s throat loosened. The sound of a running shower made them both look toward the Trombettas’ bedroom.

  Mr. Nunziato smiled his usual nice-guy smile as he smoothed Frank’s shirt. “You startled me, Frankie. I didn’t think anybody was home.” He checked his wristwatch. “Oh, madonn’, it’s later than I thought.” He glanced out the window. “Anybody else here besides the daughter?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Mr. Nunziato nodded. “Okay… good.” He paused and listened to the shower. He was still nodding as he reached into his pants pocket.

  Frank’s heart jumped into his mouth. He’s gonna fucking shoot me.

  But instead of a gun, Mr. Nunziato pulled out a wad of cash. He peeled off the top bill—a hundred-dollar bill—snatched Frank’s hand and pressed the money into his palm. “Here,” he said. “Show your girl a good time.”

  Frank stared at the money. “No, Mr. Nunziato, I can’t—“

  “Ssshhh.” He put his finger to his lips and whispered. “Yes, you can. Take it. Have a good time.”

  “But—“

  “But nothing. I only ask that you do one thing for me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Do the right thing. You know what I’m talking about?”

  “Yeah… I guess.”

  “You know what I’m talking about, Frankie. You did not see me here. You understand? You never ever saw me here.”

  Frank nodded. “I understand.” Mr. Nunziato was fucking Annette’s mother. Mr. Trombetta’s wife. His boss’s wife.

  “Don’t even tell Dom. I know you two talk, but this is betwe
en you and me. I know him. He’ll tell his mother, and she won’t understand.”

  “I understand.” Not that he and Dom were confiding in each other anymore.

  “Okay.” Mr. Nunziato pointed to the hundred-dollar bill in Frank’s hand. “Now put that in your pocket before you lose it. I’ll see you around, kid.” He cupped his hand around the back of Frank’s neck and let it slide to the side of his face, smiling like a kind father. “Be good,” he said and slipped out of the room.

  Frank waited a few moments before he stuck his head out into the hallway. It was empty. He could hear the shower coming from one side of the hallway. From the other side he heard Cream playing “White Room” on Annette’s stereo. Clapton’s killer solo.

  He went to the window and saw Mr. Nunziato walking fast across the lawn and into the woods behind the house, taking the path that led to the next street. Frank was surprised that he wasn’t running hunched over like a burglar after a heist. The man was screwing his boss’s wife, but he walked away with his head high and his usual happy-go-lucky strut. He had balls.

  “Hey! Who’s home?”

  Fuck! Frank jumped. He recognized the gruff voice. It was Mr. Trombetta. The front door slammed.

  “I’m home, Daddy,” Annette called from her room. She poked her head out into the hallway and saw Frank poking his head out of Johnny’s room.

  “What the hell,” she whispered. “Did you fall in?”

  The clomp of her father’s heavy footsteps on the carpeted stairs.

  Annette motioned for him to come out of Johnny’s room. He rushed out and made it to her doorway just as Mr. Trombetta appeared at the end of the hallway. He scowled as soon as he saw Frank.

  “What’re you two doing up here?” he said.

  “Just listening to records, Daddy,” Annette running out of her room and giving her father a big hug.

  Mr. Trombetta stared at Frank over his daughter’s shoulder. Frank tried to smile, but he had a feeling he wasn’t succeeding.

  Trombetta let go of Annette, walked to the doorway of her room, and looked in. The bed was still made, thank God. Frank’s heart was pounding in double time, competing with Ginger Baker who played with little mallets instead of drumsticks, Frank had read somewhere. Little mallets doing a crazy tom-tom inside Frank’s chest.

  “Hi, Mr. Trombetta,” Frank said, clearing his throat so his voice didn’t crack.

  Annette’s father stared hard at Frank. “Hello,” he said in the most unfriendly way possible

  “White Room” ended and the next cut started. “Sitting On Top of the World.”

  “We were just getting ready for the prom,” Annette said. “Practicing our dancing.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah,” Annette said. “That’s all.”

  Mr. Trombetta stared at Frank, accusation blasting out his eyes like death rays.

  The $100 bill in Frank’s pocket burned like a red-hot coal. Like Kryptonite. Like a tell-tale Sacred Heart. It was evidence.

  Mr. Trombetta walked past Frank without another word and headed for the master bedroom. Frank swallowed hard on a dry throat and listened for the shower, but all he heard was Cream.

  Chapter 24

  I swear to God, Frank thought, I will never ever in a million years dress like this again.

  He frowned at his reflection in the men’s room mirror as he rinsed his hands in the sink. He hated the rented tux he was wearing. He hated the satin bowtie and the curly lasagna-edge shirt, and more than anything he hated the pleated cummerbund around his waist. He looked like an asshole.

  He turned off the faucets, and the attendant, an old black man wearing a red short-waisted jacket and a black tie, handed him a paper towel. Frank looked at it and looked at the bowl on the counter that contained several coins and a couple of dollar bills. The tip bowl. Frank didn’t see why he had to tip the guy just for handing him a paper towel. He could get his own goddamn paper towel.

  But Frank didn’t know the protocol for fancy events at swanky places like the Pavilion, so he took the paper towel from the man. It was softer than your average paper towel. He dried his hands and noticed the line of bottles on the counter behind the tip bowl.

  “Cologne, sir?” the attendant asked.

  “No thanks.” His mother had bought a bottle of Canoe last week, special for the prom. He never wore cologne, but he’d put some on to keep her happy. He had enough on his mind—he didn’t need his mother getting into another snit and crying in her bedroom on his prom night.

  Frank looked for a waste basket for his paper towel, but the attendant took it from him and tossed it in a basket in the corner where he was standing and no one else could get to it. He waved his hand over his selection of offerings like a genie out of the bottle—colognes, breath mints, hair tonics. It was a smorgasbord for old guys. Guys like Mr. Trombetta and Mr. Nunziato and his father.

  Frank just wanted to get out of there, but the tip bowl bothered him. He didn’t want to leave a tip, but he figured he should. It was what you were supposed to do. And the guy was black. He didn’t want the man to think he was a racist. He looked at the money in the bowl. A dollar was definitely too much, but was a quarter enough? He had some change in his pocket and he also had a twenty dollar bill in his wallet, which his father had given him before he left the house that night with grave instructions: “Treat that girl like your sister.” His sister Carol, holding Rosary Bead Barbie, stared at him poker-faced from the porch as got in the Cadillac and backed out of the driveway, her dead-straight bangs covering her brows and masking whatever she was thinking.

  Frank also had the hundred-dollar bill Mr. Nunziato had given him tucked in the back of his wallet with his Social Security card. “Show your girl a good time,” Mr. Nunziato had said when he’d given it to Frank. So what did that mean? He had twenty bucks to treat Annette like his sister, but a hundred to go wild, Rat Pack-style.

  Greg Wilenski pounded through the bathroom door and sailed in like a clipper ship, his white dinner jacket as big as a sail.

  “Nice tux, Grimaldi.”

  “Yeah, fuck you too, Wilenski.”

  They were both grumpy and sarcastic, but Frank thought nothing of it. Grumpy and sarcastic was the standard attitude for guys at St. A’s, and since there were girls on the premises, the men’s’ room would be the only place where unfettered grumpy and sarcastic would be appropriate. And given those restrictions, guys would probably be grumpier and more sarcastic tonight. Frank wondered what the attendant would make of this, but it was hard to tell because his blandly pleasant expression hadn’t changed since Frank first came in and Frank had a feeling it wouldn’t.

  Frank dug out the change in his pocket and inspected the coins in his palm. He had three quarters, three nickels, and a dime. He picked out a quarter and put it in the tip bowl. He glanced at Wilenski standing at a urinal. Wilenski was looking over his shoulder, looking at the bowl. Frank put another quarter in. He didn’t want anyone to think he was a cheap-prick racist.

  “Thank you, sir,” the attendant said as Frank pushed through the door. He could hear the band playing in the ballroom. He was having second thoughts about putting that second quarter in the bowl. Well, too late now.

  The soles of his black leather shoes slid on the plush blue carpeting. He walked carefully, not wanting to slip and look ridiculous. Some couples were just arriving. Girls in gowns and fancy hairdos, corsages pinned to their shoulders or strapped to their wrists. All of them giddy and grinning. Most of the guys looked awkward and out of place, like gorillas in people clothes. Only the guys who had steady girlfriends looked vaguely human. They knew how to behave around girls.

  Mr. Pomeroy, Frank’s math teacher, stood by the front doors, observing the couples as they came in. He was one of the faculty chaperones for the night, and he wore a dark green-and-black plaid tuxedo ja
cket with a maroon tie, his pipe clenched in his teeth. He had suffered no repercussions from the starter’s pistol incident and had returned to teach his classes the very next day. Larry Vitale’s parents had complained to Monsignor Fitzgerald, but he passed it off as an extreme but acceptable technique used to motivate extremely unmotivated students, like their son. Vitale’s parents bought that load, and for all Frank knew, Pomeroy was still packing heat. Unbelievable.

  Pomeroy caught Frank’s eye, flashed his Jolly Roger grin. “Where’s your date, Grimaldi?”

  “Inside.” Frank nodded toward the ballroom.

  “Are you in the running?”

  “Excuse me?” Frank didn’t know what he was talking about.

  “The award.”

  “What award?”

  “Follow me, my boy.” Pomeroy walked to a deserted end of the hallway where the empty coat-check room was located. It was late spring and no one was wearing a coat. Pomeroy cocked a lascivious eyebrow as he opened the half door and let himself in. On the floor in a corner was a paper grocery bag, the top folded closed. Pomeroy picked it up and opened the top. He crooked his bony finger and pointed inside the bag, inviting Frank to take a look.

  Frank was wary. What the hell was this? Starter pistols weren’t enough? Had he graduated to bombs?

  Frank peeked in. In the dim light it took him a second to figure out what he was looking at. Six cans of dog food bound together with pink ribbon like a six pack. Bows and plastic flowers decorated the can tops.

  “The Alpo Award,” Pomeroy said, keeping his voice down. “It’s a school tradition. The student who brings the ugliest girl to the prom wins the award. You’re not in the running, are you, Grimaldi?” He wiggled his eyebrows.

  Frank shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m not, Mr. Pomeroy.”

  Get me the fuck out of here, he thought.

  “Oh, that’s what all the boys say.” Pomeroy chuckled, his teeth clacking against the pipe stem. “But I’ll be the judge of that.” He closed the bag and put it back in the shadows on the floor.