Page 17 of A Matter of Pedigree
“They can stay right where they are,” exclaimed Carole. “They’re not tearing those old buildings down; they’re just rehabbing them. It will be better, all nicely landscaped and cleaned up.”
“Oh, yeah, it’ll be nice all right, but they won’t be able to afford the new rents.”
Carole rolled her eyes. “Sure they will. They’ll make more money because people won’t be afraid to come down to Valley Street and will stop avoiding the area.” She waved her arm. “Nobody picks up litter, it’s a maze of chain-link fences and weeds and hand-lettered signs. Where exactly are these businesses? I tried to find that table and chair place a couple of months ago, and I got kind of lost, so I parked to figure out where I was, and some weird-looking guy was staring at me. I got out of there fast.”
“That weird-looking guy was probably a great artist, on the verge of being discovered,” said Frank-O.
“I think he was a wino,” said Carole. “But anyway, I’ve got some groceries for you.”
“Great,” said Frank-O, watching as the tail end of the procession wound its way past the parking lot. “Can you drop them at the apartment? I’m kinda busy right now.”
“Okay if I leave them on the porch? I don’t want to climb the stairs.”
“Sure, Ma.” He withdrew his head from the car. “And remember how I told you I need some money for art supplies?”
“Oh, right,” said Carole, reaching for her bag, but stopping when a niggling little thought popped up. She turned and raised a freshly manicured finger. “Hold on here,” she said. “Are you aware that this money you want me and your father to give you comes from this very project that you’re demonstrating against? How do you think your father makes his money?”
“From those toilets, Ma.”
“Yeah. And where do they put those toilets? In projects just like this one, all over the country. And where is your father works hard to keep his brother and mother and father living in the style to which they’ve become accustomed? And to which you seem to be taking for granted?” she finished, ungrammatically.
“Look, I don’t have to agree with everything my father does …”
“But you’ll take his money?”
“Well, Ma, I don’t want to, but I’ve got to, don’t I, if I’m going to finish my sculpture project? Art supplies are expensive, and this is a big project; it needs a lot of stuff.” He shook his head mournfully. “I wish it was different, but it isn’t.”
“Okay, okay,” said Carole, digging into her oversized purse. “I’ve got it right here.” She was holding the folded check in her hand, and he started to take it, but she didn’t let go. “But listen to me, Frank-O. I don’t want your father knowing that you’re demonstrating against his project, okay? Not a word to Frank, right?”
“I promise, Ma.”
She let go of the check and smiled fondly as he ran off to catch up with the demonstrators, just like he used to run off to join his friends when he was a kid on the Hill. Nostalgia, it’ll get you every time, she thought, blinking back a tear. What happened to that cute little kid? Where’d he go?
Carole was still thinking fond thoughts about her not-so-little boy when she dropped off the groceries for him. Then, remembering she wanted to touch base with Frank’s parents, she circled back to Federal Hill, where Mom greeted her by engulfing her in a big, welcoming hug. Mom wasn’t exactly fat, but she did carry an extra fifteen pounds or so, and hugging her felt a bit like hugging a marshmallow. She wore her gray hair short, didn’t bother with makeup, and favored elastic-waist pants and arch-support Skechers sneakers.
“How’re you doing, sweetie?” she asked, concern clouding her big brown eyes. “Is Frank holding up okay?”
“You know Frank. Nothing short of a nuclear bomb bothers him.”
“That’s my boy,” crowed Big Frank, who was cooking up his gravy. The whole house smelled like tomatoes and herbs and garlic; the scent wrapped around you, like a favorite old sweater.
“Y’eat?” asked Big Frank, turning to her.
Now retired, Frank favored comfortable track suits and used more than a little dab of the Brylcreem that left comb tracks in his plentiful, steel-gray hair. He was remarkably light on his feet for such a big man; he’d boxed a bit in his youth and had kept himself in shape. The boxing explained his crooked nose—broken in a fight, along with quite a few teeth—but dentures gave him a perfect smile. She planted a kiss on his freshly shaven cheek. “Not yet”
“Sit,” he ordered, waving his ladle at the kitchen table. “How ’bout a bowl of minestrone? I know you like to watch your weight.”
“That would be great,” she agreed, although Big Frank’s minestrone, which was loaded with pasta and beans and topped with a big handful of cheese, was hardly low-calorie. She’d skip the bread, she promised herself, and besides, it had been a tough, calorie-burning kind of day, what with wrestling the dog and shopping for Frank-O.
Mom set the table for Carole, setting down a big basket of bread and offering to pour her a glass of wine. Carole asked for Pellegrino, instead, and was surprised when Mom poured a big glass of Chianti for herself and joined her at the table.
“I’m worried about Frank,” she said, by way of explanation. “The stress is killing me.”
“I’m telling you, stop worrying,” said Big Frank, whacking a garlic clove into small pieces with a chef’s knife. “He’s innocent; he’ll get off.”
“I don’t know,” sighed Mom, watching as Carole spooned up the delicious soup. “Look what they did to Buddy.”
“That was a long time ago; Buddy’s gone, rest his soul. Things have changed. And besides,” he added, waving the knife, “Buddy wasn’t exactly innocent, like Frank.”
