Authors: Steven Parlato
“Can you remember anything else?”
“I wish I could forget. I said that was nice and then … ”
She won’t look at me. Her hands flutter near her collar, seeking out the tiny crucifix at her throat. Lips moving silently, she twirls the silver cross. I realize she’s praying.
“Gran, what else do you remember?”
“His eyes got so wide, and he said, ‘It’s not a sin if Father loves me.’ ”
Shaking, she coils the phone cord around one wrist, no longer aware of me. I approach slowly, afraid to startle her. Kneeling, I untangle the cord and take her hand. She pulls away, as if I’ve burned her, starts to rise from the chair, reconsiders.
“I said maybe I should have a talk with Father, but he begged me not to.” She barks out a wet sob, and I rock her in my arms, noticing her sharp angles, her doughy smell. I try to pull back, but she won’t let me; she speaks into my shoulder. “He said, ‘Without Father, the demon will take me.’ ”
“What did you do?”
“I couldn’t face it. God forgive me, I told him to stop talking nonsense and go back to bed.” She brings my face close, her eyes pleading.
“Did you tell anyone about this?” I already know the answer. I try not to hate her for it.
“I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“So many reasons. Your grandfather might’ve done anything. Everybody loved Father Fran, me included. I was afraid to know. Maybe it was just a dream. That last one — I needed to believe that, Evan. And I honestly thought it was best if he did, too.”
Her lip quivers. I try to see past the gray fold of chin, her sour breath.
This question’s the hardest; still I need to ask. “But if you suspected something, why?” I hold her gaze. “Why did you let him keep going with Father Fran?”
She’s quiet for a long time; tears plink in her lap. “The next morning when he woke up — it was Sunday, he was scheduled for 9:15 Mass — I told him I didn’t think he should serve anymore. That maybe he needed a break from Father Fran.”
“What did he say?”
“It was the strangest thing. He seemed to have no memory of the night before. And he was so upset at the thought of not seeing Father. He said, ‘Father Fran is helping me be holy.’ ”
“So you let him go?”
“I let him go,” she studies her hands, “and I prayed for it to not be true. It was all I could do.”
“It wasn’t enough.”
Rushing to the refrigerator, she takes down a magnet frame with a picture of Dad and me at Disney. She holds it out like an offering. Or a shield.
“Remember this? He said he already had his own Mouske-ears.”
I ignore her diversion. “Did he ever talk about it again?”
She doesn’t answer. Her arm hovers before dropping to her side.
“Gran, did he?” My voice breaks.
Slapping the frame back, she speaks to the freezer door. “Only once, just before he died. I think he was trying to bring it up. He said, ‘Don’t blame yourself for what happened when I was a kid.’ ”
“What did you do?”
“I did the only thing I knew. I pretended not to know what he was talking about. And, God bless him, he let me.”
We stand voiceless for a long time, not sure whose move it is, or what to say. I want so much to love her like I did an hour ago, but I don’t know if I can. Finally, I whisper, “I’m sorry.”
“What for, honey?”
“For making you face it.”
“Well, it looks like letting the dragon out of the cave hasn’t killed me after all.”
“No, but I wanted to ask a couple more questions.”
She folds her arms. “Are you
trying
to put me in a pine box?”
“I’m sure Gramp’ll spring for the heavy gauge steel.”
She raises one eyebrow. “Okay, listen. If we’re going to continue the twenty questions, I’ve got to piddle first. Remember, I’m an old lady.”
When she returns, she goes straight to the hutch and pulls down the owl jar. “Cookies?”
“Just one.”
“I guess you mean business.”
I take a pecan sandie, wolf it in one bite. The dry lump tastes like authentic sand. Back in the living room, we take our places: Gran on the La-Z-Boy, me on the couch.
“Fire away.”
I’m not sure where to start now that subterfuge is no longer necessary. “Uh, Dad’s relationship with Father Fran went on through high school, right?”
“Yes.”
“And he was, like, this amazing artist?”
“That he was.” A short answer steeped in regret.
“So how come he stopped?”
She sighs. I’m not sure whether it’s sorrow or relief at the new topic.
“I think it was too hard after the baby. He blamed himself, blamed his painting, like it cost him your brother. I guess he thought it was too dangerous to care about something so deeply. He just slammed that door. I always felt it was a shame — especially when we recognized your talent. That was something you two could’ve shared.”
“Yeah, well, it’s too late for that.”
“Maybe not.”
“Well, unless you’re planning a séance, I’m afraid it is.”
“Oh, that’s right. You inherited his sarcasm too, didn’t you? I’m talking about the mural. Your Aunt Reg tells me you’re working on it. That’s a way to share your art with him.”
“I guess. But I’m not sure what’ll happen with the mural now that Mister Alberti — ” I can’t finish; there’s a lump in my throat that has nothing to do with stale cookie.
“What’s the matter, Evan?”
“He’s in the hospital, Mister A. They think he had a stroke on top of Alzheimer’s. I just came from there. I don’t think he’s going to make it.” Suddenly the levees burst.
“Evan, honey, it’s okay. He’s a very old man.” She doesn’t seem particularly broken up. Maybe she shares Aunt Reg’s opinion of Zio.
“I know. I only … he’s been telling me things about Dad. And now — it’s stupid — I feel like I’m losing another link to him.”
Gran shifts to the coffee table; I meet her gaze. She’s turned her high beams on. “So what’d he tell you?”
“Nothing, just stories, stuff about when Dad worked there.”
“Stories?”
“Yes.”
We sit there in mongoose-versus-cobra pose for a moment. “Evan, make me a deal. I’ve been honest with you. And I’ll continue to answer you truthfully, but only if you’ll do the same.”
“Okay.”
“Did Mister Alberti say why your father started working for him, back in high school?”
I can’t see what this has to do with anything. “No. I figured he needed money. For a car, maybe.”
“He wasn’t saving for a car.”
“What then?”
“Your father’d gotten in trouble, Evan. He’d — ” Crossing to the back door, she moves Gramp’s soggy boots onto the mat. “Your grandfather would have this place looking like Tobacco Road if I didn’t keep on top of things.”
“Gran, what kind of trouble?”
“This is still embarrassing, all these years later. It wasn’t like him, Evan. Even after, he’d never say why he did it.”
“What did he do?”
“He vandalized the painting studio at school. Tore up canvases, smeared paint all over. He even threw a metal easel through the window. He caused over $500 worth of damage.”
So this is what Mister P meant when he said Dad had
gotten disruptive
. “My God.”
“I know. I was humiliated. He’d never done anything destructive before — or after — thank God.”
I almost say,
well, he did hang himself.
“They were going to kick him off the team, expel him. Until Father Brendan intervened. He said, if your father apologized and made full restitution, they’d forget the whole thing.”
“Really? I’m surprised Father B was so easy on him.”
“I know, even then he had a reputation as a disciplinarian. We expected him to come down hard on your dad.”
“And he wasn’t angry?”
“Not really. In fact, I remember thinking he seemed as shaken as we were. It was clear he wanted to protect your dad. He insisted no trace of the incident would ever appear in your father’s permanent records.”
“Wow.”
“So, your Gramp was in the Elks with Mister Alberti, and they arranged for Evan to work at his restaurant to pay the debt.”
“When did this happen?”
“Well, I guess it was right before Father Fran left.”
“And after encounter?”
“Yes, about a month afterward.”
“Something happened on encounter, didn’t it? Something bad.”
“I think so, honey. But I don’t know what. Your father came back different — closed off, angry, keeping to himself. He hardly spoke to anyone but Father, and even then … one time I heard him yelling at Father on the phone. Terrible.”
“What was he saying?”
“I can’t remember exactly. ‘I won’t! Not my friend.’ Something like that. When I confronted him, he said it didn’t matter, they weren’t friends anymore.”
“Did he mean Tony?”
She looks a bit startled as she says, “Yes, his best friend was named Tony. How’d you know, another footlocker picture?”
“Sort of. And I know Tony is Mister Pettafordi. I already talked to him. Mister P said the same thing: Dad acted strange after encounter.”
Eyes narrowing, she says, “God, Evan, you’re a real detective. What else do you know?”
“Mister P told me Dad completely shut him out after encounter. Any idea why?”
She actually blushes. “Your father said … Tony had developed inappropriate feelings. He said they couldn’t be friends anymore … because Tony was in love with him.”
“Why would Dad say that? Pettafordi insisted they were just friends. He flat-out said, ‘I was never in love with him.’ ”
“I’m only telling you what your father told me. Then, when he did what he did at school — ”
“Trashing the studio?”
“Yes. After that, everything else seemed less immediate.”
“So he came back from encounter, went Hulk on the art studio, ditched his best friend, and started pasta-based community service.”
“Very concise.”
“And that was the only trouble he caused?”
“Evan, how long have I known you?”
“Um, my whole life. Why?”
“Because I know when you’re fishing. What else has Mister Alberti told you?”
“Nothing.”
“Wrong answer. Remember, you promised to be honest.”
“Okay, he mentioned something about Dad and his daughter, Theresa.”
“Son-of-a-bitch!” She’s way past startled, officially furious. “That whole thing was a misunderstanding. It became crystal clear when her baby was born.”
“Whoa, what baby?”
“Maybe it’s not right, telling you all this.” She crosses herself — eyes heavenward. It’s such a classic Gran gesture I almost smile, ’til she says, “She accused your father.”
“Of?”
“He was a good kid, Ev, but in high school … he was so handsome, he got a little wild with the girls. Things just got out of hand.”
“Out of hand how?”
“He had all these girls and trouble keeping track. I told him it was disrespectful, he was getting too big for his britches. I suspected he might even be,” she blushes again, “having sex.”
“Okay, this isn’t uncomfortable at all.”
“That was another reason I thought encounter might do him good, but afterward, things got worse, with the vandalism and all.” She leans forward, straightens the
Family Circle
s.
“Gran, what did she accuse him of?”
She sighs. “Your father started hanging around the Alberti girl.”
“Theresa.”
“Yes, and Mister Alberti encouraged it — he’d come to really like your dad. I thought it was a bad idea, mixing business and pleasure. And her, almost twenty, for goodness sake!”
“So was he in love with her?”
“I think so. Even when he went to college, he came home to see her every chance he got. At least at first.”
“What happened then?”
“I’m ashamed to say, he behaved like a typical male. He stopped calling Theresa, started spending all his time with this new one.”
“You mean my mother?”
“And then the girl, she ends up pregnant.”
“Mom?”
“No, Theresa.”
What was he, the freakin’ Johnny Appleseed of sperm?
“Was it Dad’s?”
“No, that’s the thing. I don’t even think they’d been … intimate. He came home to break it off with her once and for all. I think he’d realized he had a future with your mom. But Theresa wouldn’t let him out of it.”
“What do you mean?”
“She tried to seduce him, to
make him
have sex. He said he was sorry, he’d fallen for someone else. She went to her father, told him your dad forced himself on her. When that man showed up at our house, I swear, he wanted to kill your father.”
“So, what’d Dad say?”
“He said he loved Theresa and he wanted to do right by her.”
“Marry her?”
“Yes, and this when he hadn’t even finished college and with another girlfriend he supposedly loved. He wanted to provide for her and the baby. But I knew something was fishy.”
“How?”
“He was my boy, that’s how! I could tell he was lying. And then about a week later, she disappears, and don’t you know, the Chang boy goes missing too.”
“Okay, you’ve lost me.”
“It turns out Theresa was two-timing your dad. She was carrying on with Jimmy Chang from Jade Palace the whole time your father was away at school. They ran off, and about a year later, Netta — Mister Alberti’s wife, rest her soul — she shows me a snapshot of Theresa’s baby. Unless your father had some recessive Asian genes, there was no way that child was his.”
“This is like a freakin’ soap opera!”
“No, Evan. This is life. Sometimes there’s more drama than you think you can stand. Mostly, it just is.”
“But wait, why’d Dad say the baby was his? I mean, he had to know it wasn’t.”
“Evan, it was like with the Christmas presents.”
“How do you figure?”
“When I asked why he offered to marry her, he said, ‘Ma, I don’t matter so much. I just knew I had to protect her.’ He was afraid her father might kill her. As it is, I don’t think Mister Alberti ever spoke to Theresa again. I swear Netta died of a broken heart.”
“So he didn’t ‘do her dirty’ then?”
“Oh, Lord. Is that what that old fool told you?”
“Um, yeah. But he was pretty far gone when he said it, Gran. I’m not sure he even knew who he was. And he apologized after he came back to himself. He said Dad was a good kid.”