A Death On The Wolf, page 19
Again, I was being blindsided by another open secret about Frankie’s family of which I knew nothing. Had I been walking around unconscious for the last fourteen or so years, ever since Frankie and I first met? How come I didn’t know these things? How come I didn’t know my best friend’s dad was a drunk who hit him? How come I didn’t know his grandmother was a drunk, too?
“What about his mama’s parents?” the sheriff asked.
“They live up around Philadelphia somewhere,” Daddy said. “I don’t think they were ever too pleased about their daughter marrying Frank.”
“Well, it’s either his grandma or the State of Mississippi, so we got to figure out who to call.”
Daddy looked over at me. “How would you feel about Frankie living with us for awhile?” he asked.
The question took me by surprise but I didn’t have to think about my answer. “It’s okay with me,” I replied. So many thoughts were racing around in my head at the prospect of Frankie moving in I couldn’t keep it all straight.
“Think about it a minute, son, before you jump in with both feet. If Frank Thompson starts going around town running his mouth about his son being a faggot, that talk is going to come right back to this house, right back to you. It won’t be nice and it could get ugly.”
“He won’t say anything, Daddy,” I said.
“Why do you think that, son?” Sheriff Posey asked.
“Because he’s ashamed of Frankie. The last thing he’d do is go around telling everybody that his son is queer.”
The sheriff looked at Daddy and jerked his thumb in my direction. “He’s got a point,” he said. “So, is he queer?” he asked my father. “I mean he told me he went to the motel willingly with that jaybird and it wasn’t until things started getting rough that he wanted out.”
“Hell, Joe…I don’t know what’s going on with Frankie. But it doesn’t matter. You don’t strangle your kid just because you find out he might be queer.”
“Yeah, you’re right about that. So, you’re okay with him staying here?”
“Yes,” Daddy said. “And what about this Peter Bong character? He threatened to kill Frankie. Are you gonna pick him up?”
“If I can find him. I’ll put out a bulletin on him. Based on what you and the boy told me, I’ve got a good description: Five-ten, one-hundred sixty pounds, olive complexion, long hair, ponytail, Australian, rides a Vincent motorcycle. And get this: when I asked Frankie if the guy had any tattoos or other distinguishing features he told me there was a mermaid tattooed on his ass.” Sheriff Posey shook his head. “Think I should put that in the bulletin?” he asked with a cockeyed grin.
“Sheriff Posey, do you think he’ll come back here after Frankie?” I asked.
“I don’t know, son. Y’all should start locking your doors at night if you don’t already. But I got a feeling that if Bong wanted to make sure Frankie never talked he would’ve killed him right there in that motel room. That boy doesn’t know how lucky he is.”
“Joe,” Daddy said, “can you hang around here, eat some dinner, and then go with us down there to get Frankie’s things? An hour is just enough time for Frank to get all liquored up and I don’t want to have to kill that man if he starts something.”
“Not a problem,” the sheriff replied. “I’ll stay here as long as you need me. What’s for dinner?”
Forty-five minutes later, after a hasty meal of pot roast over at Aunt Charity’s, we turned into Frankie’s driveway behind Sheriff Posey’s cruiser. There was a bonfire in the front yard sending a plume of dark smoke straight up into the early evening sky.
“I don’t believe this,” Daddy said as we got close enough to the house to see what was happening.
“Is that my stuff?” Frankie asked from the backseat of Daddy’s car. He moved from the middle of the seat to up behind Daddy to get a good look.
As Daddy came to a stop behind the sheriff’s car, I looked at the mess in the yard. Frank Thompson had gutted Frankie’s bedroom and dragged everything, including the furniture, out into the yard. He had piled most of Frankie’s clothes on the bed, along with what looked like his sleeping bag, and set it ablaze, mattress and all. It was burning wildly, no doubt fueled by the contents of the discarded can of charcoal starter fluid lying on the ground beside it. Frankie’s dresser was just a few feet away with all the drawers pulled out and there were a few pieces of clothing in a pile beside it. Old toys, GI Joes, cars, tanks, and trucks were scattered everywhere. All of Frankie’s board games were in a pile, no doubt waiting to be burned. The Monopoly box top had come off and the money was blowing all over the place. Frankie’s dad was sitting on the porch smoking a Camel with a beer in his hand looking rather proud of his handiwork. It was a heartbreakingly surreal scene that left me speechless.
Daddy got out of the car, adjusted his trousers, which revealed a flash of bright metal. The nickel plated Smith & Wesson Model 27 he kept in the drawer of his bedside table was stuck in his waistband. “You boys stay in the car,” he said to us.
When Frank Thompson saw my dad, he did an exaggerated check of his wrist watch and said, “You’re late.” Then he waved his arm toward the fire and grinned.
Sheriff Posey got out of his cruiser and pointed at him. “Frank, get a hose and put that damn fire out right now or I’m gonna arrest you.”
Frankie’s dad didn’t move. “Arrest me for what?” he said. “This is my property. I can have a fire if I want to. I can burn the whole goddamn house down if I want to.”
I looked back at Frankie. “Your dad’s crazy,” I said.
“He’s just drunk,” Frankie replied. He seemed strangely calm to think he was watching his bed and clothes burn to cinders in his front yard.
“Lem,” the sheriff shouted, “help me get this hose over there and put that fire out before it spreads and does burn his damn house down.” He pointed to the rolled up garden hose attached to the faucet in the flower bed.
As Daddy and Sheriff Posey started for the hose, Frankie’s dad stood up. He had Frankie’s old little league baseball bat in his hand. “You leave that goddamn hose alone, you fat sonofabitch!” he yelled, pointing the bat at the sheriff.
“Sit your drunk ass back down,” Daddy said. He was pointing the .357 Magnum at him. Frankie’s dad saw the gun about the same time I did and put his butt back in the chair and dropped the bat.
Sheriff Posey turned the faucet on and he and Daddy dragged the hose over to the fire and showered it with water until it was just a steaming, stinking, smoldering, smoking mass of burnt wood and charred clothing and foam rubber. It smelled horrible. Daddy came back over to the car. He leaned down and looked in at me. “You and Frankie go back to the house and get the pickup. We’ll never get all this stuff in the car.”
I jumped out and ran around and got behind the wheel. Frankie got out and took my place in the front passenger seat. I adjusted the driver’s seat, started the engine, got us turned around, and then we headed down the drive.
As we pulled out onto the road and I hit the gas, Frankie pointed to the clock on the dash and said, “I wish I’d said no.”
I looked at the clock. It was 7:20. “What are you talking about?” I said.
“This was about the time yesterday when me and Peter got to the motel and he asked me if I really wanted to do this.”
“You mean he gave you a chance to back out and you didn’t take it?”
I waited for an answer, but there was none coming. Frankie was just staring out the open window at the pine trees flashing by. I put my foot in the four-barrel and that big Chrysler 383 roared as we raced back to the house.
— — —
We got all of Frankie’s stuff hauled back to the house by eight o’clock. We brought Frankie’s dresser and mirror back too, and the only reason Daddy had us load that in the back of the pickup was because Frankie’s dad said he would burn it if we didn’t. We put it under the carport, along with Frankie’s other stuff, except for the few pieces of his clothing we salvaged, which we brought into my room and piled in the middle of the floor. Frankie and I were now going through that pile to see what he had left to wear. I had just finished giving Sachet her bath and she was sitting at my desk, wearing one of my tee shirts for a nightgown, dividing her time between coloring and watching us.
“You don’t have much left,” I said to Frankie as we finished folding and sorting everything.
Frankie was sitting on the floor across from me folding the last pair of socks. “Yeah,” he said.
“Are you living here now, Frankie?” my sister asked without looking up from her coloring book.
I could tell Frankie didn’t know what to say, so I answered. “For awhile,” I told her.
“Baby girl,” Daddy said from the doorway, “it’s past your bedtime. Go brush your teeth and get ready for bed.”
“Will you read me a story, Daddy?” my sister asked.
“Yes, if you hurry. Run along, now.”
In a flash my sister was out of the room and Daddy came over and took her place at my desk. “This is a mess, isn’t it?” he said and motioned to the clothes on the floor. “So what’s he got there?”
I gave Daddy a quick inventory: Three undershirts (Frankie wore the sleeveless kind), two pair of underwear, five pair of socks, one pair of jeans, two tee shirts (one red, one green), and his dress shoes. When this was all in a heap on the floor it looked like a lot; once folded and counted, it didn’t. Most of Frankie’s clothes were now a pile of ashes in his front yard.
“Don’t you think it’s all gonna need washing?” my father asked.
“It didn’t get dirty,” Frankie said.
“Smell it,” Daddy said.
I picked up one of the folded tee shirts and held it to my nose. It had the foul smell of that fire. “It smells like smoke,” I said.
“You might as well take it all in the laundry room to be washed,” Daddy said to me. “And tomorrow, I want you and Frankie to clean out your mother’s sewing room. We’ll make that Frankie’s bedroom.”
“There’s no bed in there,” I said.
“I know that. You two just get it cleaned out. I’ll worry about the bed.” The room Daddy was talking about was originally intended to serve as a child’s nursery when this house was built by my grandparents in the 1920s. It had been my mother’s sewing room as long as I could remember, and when she died, it more or less became a catch-all junk room. It had a small closet and was just large enough for a twin bed and maybe Frankie’s dresser.
“What do you want us to do with all that stuff in there?” I asked.
“Most of it can be thrown away, but anything you’re unsure of, put it in the living room and I’ll go through it.”
“Do you think I’m gonna be here long enough to need my own room?” Frankie asked.
Daddy sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. “Yes, son, I do. When we went to get your clothes and I saw that fire and your things strewn over the front yard, that settled it, and the sheriff agrees with me. Your father needs help, Frankie, and until he gets it, I don’t think you’re safe around him. I’m going to meet with Preston Marks tomorrow to see what I need to do to get legal custody of you.”
“Oh, man,” Frankie said, but his voice was devoid of any emotion. “Daddy’s never been like this before,” he added. “I mean, he gets drunk almost every night and he hits me sometimes, but he’s never flipped out like this. It’s my fault.”
“Whoa,” Daddy said, holding up his hand. “What you did yesterday was beyond stupid, but your dad reacting the way he did was not your fault, so just get that out of your head right now. What he did to you last night, and what he did today—that’s his fault. Period. Understand?”
Frankie gave a slight smile. “Yes, sir. Thanks, Mr. Lem. And thanks for letting me stay here.”
“You’re welcome, son. Let’s get one of the ground rules out of the way while I’m thinking about it: we all work around here, and it’ll be the same for you. I’ll give you five dollars a week allowance, but you’ve got to earn it. I know that’s probably less than what your dad was paying you to work on the dairy farm, but it’s what Nelson gets. Does that sound fair?”
“Yes, sir,” Frankie said. “More than fair. Daddy never paid me anything.”
I looked at Frankie. “You told me your dad pays you twenty-five dollars a week for working on the farm.”
“That’s what he told me he was paying me, but he never gives me any money. He always says he’s putting it in the bank for me. I always have to go to Mama when I want some money, and she hardly ever has any except for groceries because that’s all Daddy will give her.”
Now I knew why Frankie never had any money and was always mooching off me and never paying me back.
Daddy pulled out his wallet and handed Frankie and me each a five dollar bill. “This week’s allowance,” he said.
Frankie tried to give his back. “Nelson already gave me ten dollars this morning, Mr. Lem.”
“That was combat pay,” Daddy said with a wink.
“Well, I haven’t earned this yet,” Frankie said, still holding the money out to my father.
Daddy stood up. “Yes you have, son,” he said. “You’ve got a good heart, Frankie. Just don’t do anything to make me regret letting you live with us.”
“I won’t,” Frankie said.
“Good. And I guess you all need to go clothes shopping tomorrow.” Daddy pointed to the clothes in the floor then looked at me. “Take him to Peterson’s in town, Nelson. We’ve got an account there. You want Charity to go with you?”
“We can handle it,” I answered.
“Okay. I’m going and put Sash to bed and then get a shower. You guys need to do the same when I’m done. Somebody in here forgot to put deodorant on this morning.”
I quickly pointed to Frankie because I knew it wasn’t me. He just shot me a cold stare which made Daddy chuckle as he left the room.
“What do you think your dad meant?” Frankie asked.
“Maybe he meant you earned it for helping us move your stuff—I don’t know.”
“No, I’m talking about what he said about me doing something to make him regret letting me live here.”
I stood up and picked up the clothes I’d folded and set them on the bed. “Daddy said you’ve got a good heart. What he didn’t say is that it’s your head that needs some work.”
Frankie got up off the floor and brought his stack of folded clothes over to the bed. “What the heck is that supposed to mean?”
“It means if you keep doing stupid things like you did yesterday, he’s gonna regret letting you live here.”
“Oh.”
— — —
The next morning Frankie and I went to Peterson’s department store in town and spent over $50 on clothes for him. We got just the basic stuff: undershirts, underwear, pajamas, socks, some new sneakers, two pair of jeans, two pair of khaki shorts, plus dress slacks and shirt for church. The one item we splurged on was a blue Izod Lacoste polo shirt. I knew Frankie liked my Izod shirts and when I saw him eyeing the Izod display at the store I figured Daddy wouldn’t mind. We also went to the drugstore and got Frankie a toothbrush and other toiletries. When we got back to the house just before lunch, a delivery van from Wheaton’s Furniture and Appliance was in our driveway.
“Are y’all getting some new furniture?” Frankie asked as I pulled up beside the van.
I set the handbrake and shut off the engine. “Not that I know of,” I replied.
Frankie grabbed the bags from the backseat and we headed for the house. Just as we got to the back porch, the delivery man came out along with Aunt Charity.
“What’d we get?” I asked my aunt.
“It’s a bed for Francis,” she replied. “The two of you need to get that room cleaned out before you leave for work, Nelson.”
“We will,” I said. “Where do you want him to put the bed until we do?”
“Just have him take it in through the front door and put it in the living room.”
Frankie put the bags from Peterson’s on the back porch and then he and I watched the delivery man pull a long, tall cardboard box from the back of the van. He asked if Frankie and I would carry it in, which we did. Next came the mattress and box springs, which were individually wrapped in heavy plastic. Frankie helped him carry those in.
Aunt Charity had fixed roast beef sandwiches (from leftovers) for lunch and Frankie and I wolfed those down so we could tackle the sewing room and get it converted into his bedroom before I had to leave for work at two o’clock. Daddy had said to throw everything away except what I was unsure of, but once I started going through the boxes and saw Mama’s things, I was sure he’d forgotten some of what was in that room. All those boxes went in the living room for him to go through. The old broken GE vacuum and a bunch of my old toys that were in the closet went in a pile in the backyard to be hauled to the dump, but Aunt Charity intervened and told me to box up the toys for her to take to the Masonic home for kids. Mama’s Singer sewing machine went in the living room. When we finished, between the big box containing the bed, the mattress and box springs, and all the stuff from the sewing room, our living room was nearly impassible.
“It’s not a very big room,” I said, looking at Frankie’s new bedroom, now spic and span from a top to bottom cleaning.
Frankie had just finished mopping the hardwood floor and was standing there leaning on the mop handle. “It’s not that much smaller than my room at home,” he said.
“Wait until we get the bed in here and your dresser,” I said.
“I’m not complaining, man. I still can’t believe your dad is doing all this for me—letting me live here, buying me clothes, a new bed. Who is Preston Marks?”
“Who?”
“Preston Marks. Your dad said last night he was going to see Preston Marks about getting custody of me.”
