“Shit on a stick,” Dean said, staring stupidly at the four tickets, then back up at the attendant at the turnstile, a humorless woman in an orange-and-blue smock. “You’re not serious.
Fake
?” Frank’s attention had been drawn by the sight of a girl behind him, standing with her mother and father. She was maybe twelve years old, and she had a pugnacious Florida Gator painted daintily on each cheek, an explosion of orange-and-blue ribbons clasping a high ponytail of white blond hair. She saw Frank staring at her and smiled, just a little. But when he heard the ticket-taker’s stern voice he turned back toward Dean. The girl’s father sighed loudly.
“I know fake when I see it,” the woman at the turnstile said. She tapped a long acrylic fingernail on the stack of tickets and glared at Dean. “Phony.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Dean said. He turned and looked at his three sons. He pursed his lips and Frank saw a tendon in his father’s neck tighten.
“So we can’t go in?” Will said. “So we ain’t gonna see the game?” He didn’t sound particularly surprised. Just resigned.
“You’re lucky I don’t turn you in to the po-lice,” the woman said. “I’m going easy on account of you got the three boys there.” She gave Dean a final dismissive stare, then turned to the blond-haired girl’s family, who presented their
not
-fake tickets and walked up over the concrete ramp and down into the stadium. The girl turned and gave Frank a last bald look and then disappeared over the crest of concrete in a blinding swath of sunlight.
Frank’s face burned and he dared a quick glance at Carson and then turned away. His older brother’s face was closed, locked. They walked away from the ticket booth.
“God-damned Paulie,” Dean said. “I’m going to kick his God-damned butt.”
He stood in the harsh sunlight, crossed his arms over his chest, and gazed at the sky. His face was lined, drawn, and although Frank was well accustomed to disappointment, to denial, here in the harsh bright light of Florida Field, with the Gators prepping in a locker room on the other side of a sixty-foot concrete wall, he was so ashamed of Dean’s latest failure that he felt he might be sick. He looked away from his father, but not before catching his eye for one hard, small moment.
Dean made a quick noise, somewhere between a sigh and a gasp. Then he threw the four fake tickets into a trashcan. He squared his shoulders and regarded his sons.
“Boys,” he said. “We are going to see this mother-fucking football game.”
They walked to the opposite side of the stadium and staked out a set of turnstiles where the attendant was a gangly young man who was taking tickets robotically while keeping up an animated conversation with another attendant—a chesty girl wearing a tight T-shirt and Gator kneesocks—standing immediately to his right.
“We just gonna buddy up with some folks here, that’s all,” Dean said. They waited in the shade of a Port-O-Let until the first likely family came by, a rowdy group with a passel of dark-headed boys of about Frank’s own age pushing and shoving their way to the gate.
“Carson,” Dean said. “You.”
Carson bolted forward and slid himself in among the group of boys, who barely noticed him. The father handed the teenaged attendant a stack of tickets and gestured to his family, and the boy tore the tickets in half, handed the father the stubs, and turned back to the girl. Carson strolled casually through the turnstile, walked over the concrete ramp without looking back.
“Hooo-doggy!” Dean said, gleeful. He slapped Frank on the shoulder. “One down!”
They waited again for another group, this one a smaller family with two young girls and a mother carrying a baby in a front carrier with straps handing down by her hips. This family was preceded through the turnstile by a group of rowdy Ole Miss fans, and the boy at the turnstile had joined everyone else in the vicinity with jeering the Rebels when Dean shoved Will forward and Frank watched, amazed, as his little brother bolted forward and walked through the turnstile with the little family, blending seamlessly in with their shuffling, bumbling progress through the gate, even holding on to the strap of the baby’s sling!
The mother had no idea. My God, Will was a bold little shit. Dean was almost beside himself.
“Oh, my boy,” he said, proud. “Did you see that?” He cackled, a bit maniacally, Frank thought, but he himself was amazed at Will’s moxie. Six years old!
They waited for one more family.
“When you find the others, meet me at the top on our side, at the fifty-yard line,” Dean said. He turned and grinned at Frank.
“But how are
you
going to get in?” Frank said. It had suddenly occurred to him that his father was not likely to have any luck trying to hitchhike along with another family.
“Oh, I’ll get in,” Dean said. He smiled again. “I can get my butt in and out of an old boiler fifty times a week, I can get it into this old sinkhole of a stadium. Now go!” He shoved Frank roughly as what looked like a group of uncles and cousins jostled by, sweaty and loud, and Frank threw himself into the mix, not daring to look anyone in the eye, and one of the boys elbowed him and said “Hey!” but Frank held his ground and marched forward. One of the men handed over a pile of tickets at the turnstile and the attendant didn’t even give him a second look. And then he was running up the concrete ramp and over the top and looking into the glory of the sun and the blazing, blinding sheets of color—Orange! Blue! Orange! Blue! Everywhere! And he was IN! Florida Field! Game time! All around him people were on their feet atop the metal benches, stomping, pounding, clapping, screaming. It’s great!—
bom bom
—to be!—
bom bom
—a Flo-ri-da Gator, I say it’s great!
bom bom
—to be!—
bom bom
—a Flo-ri-da
Gator
!
He had no idea how long he was frozen at the top of the ramp, but then Carson ran over to him, clutching Will by the hand. “Come on, Frank!” he screamed. “Come on!” The crowd was deafening; the band was going berserk; the colors were so intense they were painful; the Gators were about to take the field, and Frank did not think he had ever seen such joy in his brother’s eyes. He felt he might pass out, but instead he grabbed Will by the other hand and they ran up, up, up the rows of concrete steps to the highest platform, and then they made a beeline over to the fifty-yard line and jostled their way past a row of drunken Delta Chis to claim seats on the scorching metal bench.
“Where is he?” Carson yelled.
“I don’t know!” Frank said. They stood up on the metal bench with everyone else and stamped their feet and hollered and clapped and hooted for what seemed like an eternity. Frank hadn’t thought it could possibly be any louder in the stadium, but then the noise level suddenly rose again, and the entire stadium turned and screamed and pointed toward the tunnel at the south end, where the team was taking the field.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” screamed the announcer. “Heeeeeeeeeerrre come the Gators!” There they were! They were tearing out of the tunnel, running and jumping and thrusting their chests into the air, pumping their fists in a victory they already knew they had.
“Look!” Will said, pointing. He jumped on the bench and cheered. “Here comes Dad!!” And then there was Dean, panting and soaked with sweat, his orange cap pulled low over his eyes, his arms full of hot dogs and popcorn and his pants bulging with what Frank knew was a hefty flask of Southern Comfort. Dean stumbled once, righted himself, then tipped his head way back to be able to see under the brim of his skewed cap, and when he saw his three boys at the top of the fifty his face broke into a broad grin. He clambered up to them, huffing like a racehorse. He stood with them on the metal bench and handed out the hot dogs. “Hot shit!” he said, laughing. “We did it!” He pounded Carson on the back, pulled Will into a hot, sweaty hug. Then he looked at Frank, beaming, and said, “Now what are
you
crying about, junior?”
It wasn’t until much later, years later, that it occurred to Frank: the happiest moment he and his brothers had ever shared with their father was one in which they’d all pretended to belong to other families. But he smiled, even today, at the memory. It had been worth it.
Frank locked the restaurant and drove home through the darkness of Monroe Road, the night sky like ink above the trees. When he passed the long driveway to Aberdeen he looked to the right and saw the light on in Arla’s bedroom on the second floor. He knew she was sitting up, a tumbler of wine at her elbow, staring into the darkness. It was like this every night, her bedroom light shining like a beacon through the pines. He looked at the clock on the dashboard: 2:17
A.M
., and for some reason, though he’d never done this before, not at this hour, he picked up his cell phone and called the house. It took Arla more than five rings to answer. He counted. Sofia was sleeping, no doubt.
“Hello?” Arla said, finally.
“Are you okay?” he said.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “I’m all right, Frank.” He heard her sit down on the bed. “Why are you calling so late?” Her voice was a bit thick, the wine, no doubt, but other than that she sounded completely herself.
“Just checking in,” he said, and he felt a bit foolish, suddenly, with no ready answer. Why
was
he calling, anyway?
“How was the restaurant tonight?” she said.
“Busy,” he said. “Crazy busy.”
“Who came in? Anyone?”
“Tony Cerro. George and Mac, of course.”
“Of course. How’s Tony?”
“Busy. He says he needs help in the salon.”
“Huh,” she said. “All these new people around here with their fancy hairdos, I guess.”
“I guess,” Frank said. “Did Biaggio move the piano?”
“Oh, my God, don’t get me started. She won’t let him. I can’t even think about it, Frank.” She sighed. “For the love of Moses.”
The night was damp, and beads of moisture had begun to glisten on the windshield. Frank turned on the wipers.
“Have you talked to your brother?” Arla said.
“Not in a few days. Why?”
“Oh,” Arla said, and he heard something in her voice, something she knew but wasn’t telling him. “No reason.” He didn’t bite. He didn’t have the energy.
“Mom,” he said. “What are we going to do about this offer on the house? And the restaurant? This guy Cryder has called me four times.”
She sighed. “Oh, Frankie,” she said. “I don’t know. I just don’t think I can even talk about it.”
“At some point we need to.”
“I suppose.”
He turned left off Monroe Road, made his way down Cooksey Lane toward his own house, the darkness growing even deeper, more complete, as he moved away from the water and farther into the piney woods surrounding his road.
“Are you worried about Sofia?” he said. “If she had to move?”
“Of course I’m worried about Sofia. But it’s not only that, Frank.”
“Then what?”
She sighed, irritated. “Well, it’s just that maybe
I
don’t want to move. Maybe these horrible people can’t just come in here and tell everybody what to do.”
“They’re talking about a lot of money.”
“What do I care about money, Frank?” she said, honest confusion in her voice. “What in the world is money going to do for me?”
He turned into his own driveway, turned off his headlights, and sat there in the truck. It was true. What was money going to do for Arla? It wouldn’t change things—make Sofia better, bring Will back. He thought again of Arla’s bedroom light shining through the trees a mile or so to the west. It seemed to Frank, sometimes, that it was Arla’s light, all these years, that had been telling him what he needed to do. How to atone. And now this offer on the house. Maybe big money, big changes. But he wasn’t sure at all how he would proceed if that light wasn’t there.
“Who was driving the boat?” he asked suddenly. He couldn’t believe he’d never asked her that before. His heart pounded and he waited for his mother to speak.
“What?” she said.
“The boat,” he said. “Your foot. The accident. Were there other people in the boat? Who was driving?”
“Oh, Frank,” she said, and she laughed sadly. “Well
he
was, of course.”
Frank realized, then, that he’d probably known this all along, though he’d never wanted to face it. Dean. Dean cut off her foot. And after what they did to Will, he and Carson cut out her heart.
Aren’t we something, we Bravo boys?
Aren’t we just the shit?
AUGUST
E
IGHT
Though peopled with residents wrought from the same backwoods genetic stew as their neighbors immediately to the north, South Utina, in many ways, was different from the thick woods and sprawling properties of North Utina. In South Utina the streets were narrow, close, the avenues of the laborers and the tenuously middle class, with humble turn-of-the-century homes sporting awkward add-ons and incongruous porches, the result being a neighborhood that more closely resembled a rummage sale than a community.