Night Work (25 page)

    Frank moved to the side so she could pass, offering no reply as she descended the stairs and drifted into darkness.

    

    

    The smell of his breath, stale from marijuana and liquor, was nearly intolerable. Groggy one moment and relatively alert the next, her awareness of the situation seemed to come in waves. Gliding backwards, Sandy felt two strong, callused hands tighten around her waist and realized that she had been propped up into a sitting position.

    "Yeah," someone said, the voice distant and distorted. "Fuck her, man."

    She looked down and saw Steve lying beneath her. He was inside her.

    "That's it, baby, that's it," Steve said beneath her, his lips moving but slightly out of sync with the sound drifting about. His hands clutched her waist and she felt him pushing deeper.

    She slumped forward and collapsed next to him on the bed, curling into a fetal position as if to go to sleep. "Stop," she sighed.

    Undeterred, he rolled her over.

    "You do her mouth yet?" the other voice said.

    "Before you got here."

    "Soon as I catch my breath I'm gonna stuff it in there again."

    "You almost drowned her last time, dude. Big Sal, still the man!"

    Laughter, joyless and dirty, echoing around her followed by more bursts of hot breath. Large hands tightened around her again, and the world began to spin. Nothing seemed real. Swallowing was nearly impossible, her mouth mucky and covered in thick cum still dribbling from her lips, a physical memory, residue of the man belonging to the other voice. The man who had opened her mouth with rough hands and put himself inside her, telling her to suck, holding her head and pumping his erection deep enough to gag her, even when she'd gone along with what he'd wanted, before finally releasing, emptying himself into her.

    "It's okay, honey." Another voice - Steve's voice? "Roll over on your tummy, okay, baby?"

    "Wait." She struggled to raise the volume of her voice but felt too weak. "Please… wait."

    "Its okay, baby." A hand stroking her forehead, feigning tenderness, Steve's voice pretending to sooth. "Help me turn her over. Let's fuck her ass, man."

    "Please…" Her voice? Had she spoken, was she only thinking? Was any of this real? "Stop… stop."

    "Did you hear what she said?"

    Steve turned; surprised to see Frank standing in the open doorway. "Hey, man, I - I ah, I didn't know you were watching. If you're gonna get off come on in and have some - "

    "Did you hear what she said?"

    His smile slowly vanished. "Yeah," he said softly.

    "Then get the fuck away from her."

    Steve slid off the bed as Sal casually zipped his pants. He motioned for Sal to follow him, gave an apologetic nod and slipped quietly from the room.

    Sandy was sprawled out on the bed, her head lolled to one side, resting against a pillow. Her eyes searched for Frank, and when they found him a quiet whimper escaped her. Unable to look at him now, she rolled over, gathering the sheets along with her.

    Frank turned away, noticed a full-length mirror on the far wall. Someone he had never seen before stared back: hair mussed and eyes bloodshot, remnants of cocaine still smeared beneath the nostrils. His eyes dropped. His pants were undone, and a sticky wetness had gathered between his legs.

    Frank turned and vomited into a small wastebasket.

    Supporting himself against the wall, he shut off the light and sank to the floor.

    Tears came to him first in the form of small sobs, increasing in intensity until his entire body shook and he wept like a child.

    

    

    

    After the September tour the holidays came and went without incident. Frank and Vincent focused their attention on wining and dining a new crop of potential clients, and helping Gus and his salespeople close the deals that would lay the foundation for the next run of shots. Working primarily out of the office, it was an unusually long down time for them, and when they finally hit the road again in late December, Frank was relieved, knowing that they wouldn't return until middle January.

    Things at home had become increasingly difficult since the night of the party, and Frank found Sandy more distant than ever. Because neither of them had found it possible to even broach a discussion concerning all that had taken place, the tension level between them had festered. Four consecutive months of lukewarm conversation, no sexual contact, and mechanical, uninspired social interaction made what little time they spent together nearly intolerable.

    The New Year was less than three weeks old when Frank returned from the tour that had begun in Massachusetts and ended in Maryland. Fearing his mood swings and bouts with severe depression might lead to further problems, Frank had spent many of the days and nights isolating himself from the troupe in a way he had never done before. With the Turano situation about to unfold, the difficulties in his marriage mounting, and a drinking problem that had become increasingly difficult to manage, Frank knew that if he didn't get his life back under control soon, he might lose all hope of ever doing so again.

    His first night back, Sandy prepared dinner. They sat at the kitchen table, together, yet apart. Where there had once been inane small-talk there now resided apprehensive silence. Pushing his plate aside, Frank lit a cigarette and rested his elbows on the table. Sandy ignored his obvious posture and continued to eat without comment.

    "I can't do this anymore."

    Sandy glanced across the table at him and picked at a pile of peas with her fork. "You can't do what anymore?"

    "Live like this," he said quietly. "I wish you'd get mad, cry - something."

    "Am I the only one capable of such things?"

    Frank stared at the table. "I feel like we're roommates."

    "Yeah, well I'm not in the mood for introspection, okay? Just eat your dinner and go watch TV like you always do."

    "I'm not hungry."

    Sandy stood up, took both plates from the table and emptied them into the trash beneath the kitchen sink. "Neither am I." She slammed the dishes onto the counter, grabbed a pack of cigarettes and her purse from the bedroom and headed for the door.

    "Where the hell are you going?"

    "Out."

    In springing to his feet Frank caught his chair with the backs of his legs. It tipped over onto the floor with a loud crash. "Sandy, goddamn it, wait a minute!"

    His outburst had startled her, and she hesitated in the open doorway, not bothering to turn around. "What is it?"

    "Close the door."

    "Please, Frank," she said, nearly whispering. "I've got to get out of here for a while. Just a quick drive around the block."

    "We need to talk." Frank reached down for his chair and carefully placed it against the table. "Now."

    Sandy closed the door and let the wall support her. "I don't have anything to say, Frank."

    He went to the cupboard and poured himself some vodka. "Some bad things happened," he said, looking into the glass. "We can work through it."

    "Do you honestly think things can ever be the same? Jesus, are you that far gone?"

    Frank put the glass down without drinking from it, and opened his arms as if to hug her. "I'm right here."

    "I can't," she said, struggling to light a cigarette with shaking hands. "For months you've acted like I wasn't even here. I can't remember the last time you tried to touch me."

    "We've both been distant."

    Sandy exhaled a stream of smoke into the center of the room. "I'm not like you. I can't just shrug things off."

    "Does it look like I've shrugged this off?" He finally sipped his drink. "My whole goddamn life is falling apart. You're the only decent thing left in it."

    "There's nothing decent left in your life."

    "Some bad things happened - "

    "Stop saying that." She walked back to the table and sank into her chair. "I always thought I could trust you."

    "Of course you can trust me."

    She looked up at him, eyes moist. "You brought me there knowing full well what would happen."

    "Nothing happened until you decided it would."

    "The fantasy of me playing the whore turned you on," she said, voice trembling. "You wanted it, I gave it to you, and you couldn't handle it."

    "Neither could you."

    "I was drunk, I was flying on coke."

    "You were horny."

    Sandy glared at him. "Do you think I enjoyed being mauled?"

    "You weren't raped, Sandy," he said. "I was there. Granted, you got in over your head with the drugs and the booze but you didn't have to go along with all the rest. That was a decision you made, nobody else."

    "I don't know what you want from me," she said, wiping the tears away. "What else am I supposed to do to make you happy?"

    "To make me happy?"

    She put her elbow on the table and let her forehead rest in the palm of her hand. "I went through with it for you."

    "Bullshit," he said. "You were trying to punish me."

    "Maybe myself," she admitted wearily.

    "I didn't make you go to that party," Frank told her. "You wanted to go."

    Her hand slammed against the table. "Don't you do that to me, you sonofabitch. Don't you dare do that to me!"

    Frank turned away and swallowed the remainder of his drink. "You'll never see any of those people again."

    "Unfortunately, I still have to live with myself."

    He looked at her dejectedly. "I don't want to lose you."

    She smoked her cigarette desperately, as if only allotted a certain amount of time in which to do so. "You left me a long time ago, Frank."

    The phone began to ring, and when it became apparent that Sandy had no intention of answering it, Frank did so himself. His face immediately registered concern. "What - just tell me what's wrong." He listened intently, then squeezed shut his eyes and nearly lost his grip on the phone.

    "What's the matter?" Sandy asked.

    Frank slowly brought the phone back to his ear. "Where are you…? No you - you stay right there. We're leaving now." He hung up and stared at the floor.

    "Frank, what is it?"

    "It's my father," he said softly. "He's dead."

    

    

    The freshly packed soil over the grave served to illustrate a disturbing characteristic that distinguished Joseph Ponte's plot from all the others. A small plant sat to the right of the headstone, and most of the flowers placed in front of it had already begun to wither.

    Connie stood clutching per purse with both hands; her back leaned against Frank's car. Her clothes had not been ironed, her hair needed to be brushed, and a blank expression did little to mask her true feelings of devastation.

    In the week since her husband's sudden heart attack, the stark finality of death had been a gradual realization, and she was only just beginning to force herself to acknowledge the loss. She had been amazingly strong throughout the entire funereal process, and hadn't broken down until after all the arrangements had been made and she was alone in the newfound silence of her home.

    The funeral itself had been a wonderful testament to the degree of popularity Joseph had enjoyed in life. Many of the students and faculty from his school had attended, as had several members of the community in which he and Connie had lived for so many years.

    The lack of response from the wrestling world was not unexpected. Only Charlie Rain had bothered to call with his condolences.

    Gino Fratenzza and Michael Santangelo both sent enormous, unnecessarily extravagant displays of flowers, and Vincent, Gus and Benny had remained faithfully by Frank's side throughout.

    "It's a beautiful headstone," Connie said softly.

    Frank thought it a ridiculous statement, but let it pass. Because a good percentage of the insurance money had gone to cover the outrageous funeral expenses, Frank had insisted that his mother allow him to purchase the headstone. Looking at it under gray skies, it made Frank uncomfortable to see his mother's name and birth date already etched alongside his father's, as if in eager anticipation. The bitter winter air chilled him despite his heavy coat. He gathered the dead flowers and carried them silently to a large trash barrel at the end of the row.

    "Why do we try so hard to convince ourselves that death will never touch us?" she asked. "Maybe if we spent as much time preparing for it…"

    Frank stood by the rear of the car. He had never before seen his mother in this condition, and found himself unsure of how to respond. Humor had always been her way - even in stressful or sullen situations - but now it seemed a trait better assigned to someone else.

    "At least he didn't suffer," Connie said.

    "Was he proud of me?"

    She looked at him, dark rings encircling both eyes. "Of course he was proud of you. You're his son."

    Frank knew his mother was lying, and wondered why he'd asked the question in the first place. He and his father had never been close, and that struck Frank as an even greater tragedy than death itself. So much time had been wasted in insignificant debate - bloodying themselves over minor points - that the opportunity to truly come to know and understand each other eluded them. Frank's tears had already been shed, but the guilt of never measuring up to his father's lofty expectations was something he knew he would carry with him forever. Perhaps, Frank thought, it was better that way.