“Frankie! Frankie! Did you forget our date?”
Estelle Prince, laden with shopping bags full of brochures and samples, is chasing him, teetering on her skyscraper stiletto heels.
“Should we take one car or two?” she wheezes.
It’s likely the most exercise she’s had in years and left her short of breath. Thankfully, she doesn’t object when he suggests they drive separately. He considers losing her in traffic, but fortifying his resolve with a liberal dosage of alcohol isn’t a bad idea. Estelle insists the local outpost of a national chain of “authentic Italian bistros” has a decent wine list. A lone salesman is nursing a bottle of beer at the bar and two well-heeled blue-haired old ladies are lingering in a booth. The hostess seats the latest arrivals, offering menus, which Estelle refuses, saying they’re just having a drink.
“We have a nice selection of wines by the glass,” the young lady offers.
“We need more than a glass. You don’t have anywhere you have to be, do you, Frankie? Let’s share a bottle. Red or white?”
Frankie shrugs and says he’ll be happy with whatever Estelle chooses.
“Chardonnay,” she predictably instructs the server. “The one from the Central Coast. Not one of those ridiculously expensive bottles from Sonoma.”
“Bring us the Cakebread Cellars. My treat, Estelle.”
His last glass of wine should be a good one.
Estelle’s not about to argue with his generosity. Frankie waves away the cork and tells the server to pour. He’s sure it’s fine.
“What are we celebrating?” Estelle asks, proposing a toast.
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“We have to celebrate something! Let’s toast your new look then. Oh, sweetie, the color takes ten years off your age. I hope you’re ready for all the young men who are going to be running after you!”
She’s far too self-absorbed to question Frankie’s insistence on quickly changing the topic to her favorite subject—herself. All he’s called upon to do is occasionally nod his head in agreement to encourage her to keep the one-sided conversation going. He settles back and lets his mind wander, allowing her to vent about her philandering soon-to-be-ex-husband and the crushing legal fees she’s paying her attorneys to punish him in the divorce settlement.
“We’ll have another bottle,” he tells the server as she approaches the table.
“Are you planning to get me drunk so you can take advantage of me?” Estelle teases.
He laughs mirthlessly and swallows a mouthful of wine. When the time comes to settle the bill, he’ll be as ready as he’ll ever be. He remembers a line in a song about finding courage in the bottle, but doesn’t recall who sang it. Estelle says she’s getting light-headed and places her hand over her glass when he offers a refill. More for me, he thinks. The alcohol doesn’t exactly transform fear into courage like the song promised, but it’s loosening his grip on any remaining doubts about stepping on to the railroad tracks. He needs to finish the job before the effects of the wine wear off and cowardice and misgivings weaken his resolve.
“Are you sure you’re okay to drive?” Estelle asks as they walk to their cars.
He brushes off her concerns. He’s not stumbling or slurring his words, but he’s clearly under the influence, which, of course, is exactly where he needs to be.
“Don’t worry. I’ll stop for a coffee at the Wawa before I get on the expressway. I promise.”
It’s a few minutes past five, according to the digital clock on his dashboard. The evening rush hour is building to full force and traffic is at a near standstill. At least he doesn’t have to worry about drifting between lanes at sixty-five miles an hour. He squints and peers over the steering wheel, not trusting his ability to accurately gauge the distance between his front bumper and the brake lights of the car ahead. He’s confused by the jumble of directional signs overhead. South to West Chester. The Pennsylvania Turnpike to Harrisburg and points west. East to Center City Philadelphia and the Philadelphia International Airport. That’s the direction he needs to travel. Distracted and anxious, he nearly misses the access road to the interstate and makes a sharp right. In his confusion, he’s misread the road signs and doesn’t realize he’s trying to enter the expressway on the one-way exit ramp until he hears the siren and sees the flashing blue dome light in his rearview mirror.
MICHAEL (EVENING AND INTO THE NIGHT)
“You know, I could just put you out in Norristown and let them press charges, if that’s what you want.”
News travels fast and bad news flies at the speed of sound. The Upper Merion Township police had contacted the young on-call prosecutor of the Office of the District Attorney for Montgomery County, who then called her supervisor for guidance after Frankie had disclosed his brother, Michael, was Chief Deputy District Attorney in the neighboring county. After a brief phone conversation between Michael and his peer, the officer in charge told his partner to tear up the report he’d begun to write and released Frankie from custody. Michael made arrangements to pick up Frankie’s car in the morning. He’d assumed Frankie was too embarrassed to face Michael’s wife and son (a nine-year-old asks a lot of questions) when he’d refused the offer to spend the night in their guest room in Wayne. He’d pleaded to be dropped at the nearest station so he could take a train back to the city. He’d only agreed under protest to allow Michael to drive him home and has been sullen and hostile the entire ride.
“So I take it you’re not talking to me. Fine. I won’t ask again what happened to your face. Last month you tripped. Now you tell me your taxi ran a red light. If you ask me, I’d say someone’s put the maliocch’ on you.”
Michael’s sarcasm fails to get a rise out of his brother.
“Jesus, how long have we been sitting here? At this rate I won’t get home until midnight.”
He’s staring at a seemingly endless ribbon of red taillights on the road ahead, waiting for the traffic update on news radio. The headlines of the day are the same as yesterday’s and the day before that. Natural disasters. Military skirmishes in distant lands with unpronounceable names. Domestic tragedies. Children killed in crossfire between street gangs. Hillary. Obama. The Dow Jones. The five-day weather forecast for the Delaware Valley.
Somewhere in that mash-up between the important and the inconsequential, all stories read in a comforting monotone, he’s startled to hear a sound bite of his own voice. Was it only this morning he’d spoken to the press on behalf of the District Attorney, announcing the decision “. . . to not seek a retrial of the first-degree murder charge of Tommy Corcoran, whose capital conviction on that count was recently overturned by a federal court. Corcoran continues to serve a life sentence without parole on the remaining charges. Now on to traffic and transit. Eastbound traffic is experiencing forty- to fifty-minute delays from 202 to the Vine Street underpass due to an overturned tractor trailer.”
What began as a trying day is ending on a bad note. Michael’s unhappy about being forced to suffer this endurance test on the expressway. It would have been perfectly reasonable, not to mention convenient, for Frankie to stay the night in Wayne. There’s only one explanation for Frankie’s anxiety about rushing back to the city. He’s worried that goddamn little Mexican illegal is pouting in front of the television, feeling neglected and abandoned. It astounds Michael that his brother trusts the kid with the key to his house and thinks nothing about leaving him there alone.
“We could sit here for hours,” Michael grumbles. “Call him and tell him you’ll be back as soon as you can.”
“He isn’t there.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s gone.”
“I hope you told him not to come back. That little shit. I knew this was going to happen. How long did he smack you around before you gave him what he wanted? How much money did he squeeze out of you before saying adiós?”
He immediately regrets his angry, aggressive tone. He’d intended to give Frankie time to recover from the shock
of being arrested before resuming the interrogation about this fresh set of bruises and split lip. He feels as if he’s kicking a wounded puppy.
“It doesn’t matter. He’s gone. He’s gone and he won’t be coming back,” Frankie says wearily.
“He’ll be back when he needs a quick cash infusion or a roof over his head. And when he shows up again, I’ll call the authorities myself. I mean it, Frankie,” Michael swears as traffic begins to move, a crawl to be sure for the next mile or two, then slowly gathering steam as they pass the accident site.
Michael and his wife need to start throwing age-appropriate gentlemen with steady incomes at Frankie until one finally sticks. Looking back, he should have appreciated the fifteen years of relative peace and quiet when Frankie was involved with that pompous alcoholic high school teacher. He should have been less critical, more welcoming, of the harmless old fool. Sometimes he thinks Frankie believes he’s never really accepted his lifestyle. But Michael stopped resenting his brother’s sexuality years ago, though he still isn’t going to be marching in any parades to celebrate it. It’s Frankie’s poor choices and naïveté that make Michael uncomfortable. He wouldn’t take the odds against Frankie running into his own Tommy Corcoran someday and ending up like the ill-fated Carmine Torino. His worst fear is that this Mariano is just a test drive for a more lethal liaison yet to come.
“I don’t know how you do this every day,” he complains, growing more frustrated by the minute.
He’s circling the block where he and Frankie grew up, searching for that elusive place to park within walking distance of Eighth and Carpenter and the house where they lived as boys. Years of suburban living have dulled his parallel-parking skills, but he manages to squeeze the car into a tight space, much to the horn-blaring frustration of the driver trying to pass him on the narrow street. He hasn’t eaten yet, having gotten the call from his colleague in the Montgomery County office before dinner, and insists they stop for a slice. Standing at the register, his stomach rumbles and he orders an entire pie, large, half sausage, for him, half mushroom, for his brother.
“What are you doing?” Frankie frets as the girl at the cash register counts out Michael’s change.
“I thought we’d go back to the house and share it. Do you have any cold beer? I’d settle for a Bud Light. For me. You’ve had enough booze for one day.”
“You don’t need to come back with me. I just want to go to bed,” Frankie insists. “It’s been a terrible day and I want it to be over.”
He seems a bit too despondent to Michael for the circumstances. He’s assured Frankie no DUI charges will be filed. No report will be made. The arrest never happened. There won’t be any points on his license or need to attend a mandatory alcohol-counseling class. No one will ever mention it again. He wonders if Frankie’s on some medication that’s causing him to act strange. He realizes he has to piss too badly to wait until they’re back at his brother’s house.
Frankie’s gone when he emerges from the men’s room. Something feels out of kilter, ominous even, and he wonders if it’s safe for Frankie to be alone. He grows antsy during the interminable wait before the counter girl announces his order is ready. He opens the box and practically swallows two slices whole as he walks back to the house. He tries slipping his house key into the locked door of the private entrance in the alley on Carpenter Street, but the blade resists sliding into the keyhole. The shop key doesn’t open the Eighth Street entrance, Frankie must have changed the locks after the kid took off and forgotten he hasn’t given Michael the new keys. He sets the pizza box on the sidewalk and dials his brother’s number on his cell, but Frankie doesn’t answer. So he stands in the middle of Eighth Street and shouts his name. The lights are burning on the upper floors so he knows Frankie’s in there.
He’s surprised some neighbor trying to sleep isn’t shouting profanities through a bedroom window. A strange, cold fist grips his heart. He tries calling Frankie’s cell one last time, then calmly, purposefully, walks around the side of the building and kicks in the back door. He runs up the stairs, taking two and three steps at time, until he reaches the bathroom off the master bedroom on the highest floor, where he finds his brother slumped on the commode, cradling his head in his hands. The ceramic lid of the toilet tank is lying on the floor, near the tub. Frankie looks so pitiful and helpless sitting there, needing comfort and reassurance, and all Michael has offered is an unpleasant harangue and criticism.
Frankie barely resists as Michael walks him to his bed. He doesn’t protest when his younger brother unbuttons his shirt, unzips his pants, and takes off his shoes. He’s lying in bed, his eyes wide-open, when Michael turns off the light and urges him to try to sleep. He calls his wife with the good news that the parasite is gone. The bad news, though, is Frankie’s acting odd and Michael doesn’t want to leave him alone overnight. Something doesn’t feel right. I think he colored his hair. No, I didn’t ask him about it. He cut it too. It’s shorter than he usually wears it. He doesn’t look like himself and he sure as hell isn’t acting like himself. He asks if his son is disappointed. Michael had promised him a trip to the mall after dinner to buy a new pair of sneakers. The Nikes Danny’s been wearing have fallen out of style. Tell him we’ll go tomorrow night. I love you, too. Talk to you in the morning. He hopes there’s beer in the fridge and he’ll finish off that pizza if some street dog hasn’t run off with it. But first he needs to secure the back door. The tools and nails are in the basement, likely untouched since the last time he did a minor repair.
Everything down here is just as he remembers. The damp moisture of the earthen floor. The metal storage shelves, odd pieces of furniture and broken lamps, the wide, deep freezer chest, an ancient Frigidaire model, antediluvian, but still serviceable. His eyes are slow to adjust to the harsh light of the bare ceiling bulb and he slips in a puddle underfoot, noticing an odd smell, fetid but not overpowering, the distinct scent of meat beginning to rot. There are two trash bags on the floor, not full but securely tied. He opens one and finds chicken breasts and cuts of beef soaking in water and blood. The freezer must be broken, despite its gently purring motor.
“What the fuck are you doing down there, Mikey?” Frankie shouts from the top of the stairs, his voice shrill and twisted in his throat as he races down the steps, sweating and gasping for breath.
“You need to replace this goddamn freezer.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the freezer,” Frankie insists, grabbing the trash bag from his brother’s hand. “Go upstairs and I’ll clean up this mess.”
“Let’s put this shit back before it stinks up the entire fucking house,” Michael says, opening the lid before Frankie can stop him. A blast of arctic air slaps his face and he blinks and jumps back, confused, staring at Frankie in disbelief, not trusting his eyes, needing a moment to gather his wits before confirming that, yes, Frankie’s little Mexican is lying in the freezer, shrouded in frost, his twisted and contorted remains a snug and cozy fit.
BOOK ONE
parenti serpenti
1920–2007
PAPA AND HIS WIVES, 1920–2001
“Please, Boo. Please!”
“Tonight. Just for one night. You’re getting too old for this,” Frankie said, finally relenting and lifting the covers so Michael could slip into his bed. Michael’s thoughts were racing too quickly for his older brother to keep pace. He’d been spinning in circles since the service and funeral lunch for the stepmother he’d become deeply attached to. He should have been exhausted, but he was too agitated for sleep and began peppering Frankie with questions.
“Do you think Papa hates us?”
He was never Dad, certainly not Daddy. A father who allowed his brats to call him Pa or Pop wasn’t worthy of his children’s respect. He was Papa, as the man who had sired him had been. His children’s few words of Italian were awkward, barely recognizable to a man who had never heard, let alone spoken, English until he was almost nine years old. His boys understood enough of the dia
lect of Calabria to get the gist of his outbursts whenever he relapsed into the language of his childhood, but always responded in their own native tongue. Michael, always the more willful and bolder of his two sons, would grow up to be a resentful teenager who referred to his father in the hated American vernacular as his old man, drawing empty threats of banishment with no possibility of ever returning. Michael was defiant, unbowed. He complained that none of his friends had to live in a dark apartment above a barbershop, with holy pictures on the walls and plaster saints on every table. Michael would live with Sal Pinto if Papa didn’t want him around. And once he was gone he would never come back.
Michael’s grandfather would have thrown his son into the streets if he’d ever dared to challenge his unquestioned authority. This country had made Papa weak, a man who allowed his children to run wild and treat him with contempt. His naturalization papers, granted after his service in the war, had made him a citizen, but Luigi Rocco Gagliano only finally, truly, became an American the day Michael turned his back on him and walked away, suffering no consequences for calling his father an embarrassment, a stupid old wop with an accent, who should go back to Italy if he hated the medigan’ so much.
The Boys from Eighth and Carpenter Page 2
