Page 23 of A Matter of Pedigree
Finally, Frank was allowed to speak.
“This is a load of crap,” he began. “Let’s cut through the bullshit here, pardon my French.”
A few people laughed, but Frank was undeterred. “This place you’re all so crazy about is one big dump. You people ought to be ashamed of yourselves. Why do you want to live and work in these crappy conditions? Low rent is good for you, I get that, but considering the money you save, how come you don’t buy a gallon of paint? It’s cheap enough. Or pick up the trash; that don’t cost nothing. The place is a health hazard. I see rats down there, garbage everywhere. So, the way I see it, take your filth and crap and your precious creativity to Pawtucket. I won’t miss it. We’re gonna make this a place people can be proud of; that’s all I have to say.”
While Frank was talking, Carole managed to angle herself so she could see more of the room. She looked for Frank-O but didn’t see him. She spotted Adrienne and a couple of other reporters and photographers; the cameras were pointed in Frank’s direction. And she spotted somebody familiar. Stu something. Stu from sixth grade; he hadn’t changed a bit. Sempione. That’s it. Stu Sempione. She’d know him anywhere. He was a big tattletale who’d gotten her and her friends in trouble plenty of times. “Sister, I saw Carole stick her chewing gum under the desk,” he’d say. Or, “Sister, I saw Carole roll up her skirt when she left school yesterday to make it shorter.”
What had become of Stu, she wondered. Hadn’t she heard something, something that she’d thought was terribly fitting, and thus funny? Like he’d become a cop. An undercover cop, that was it. And was that Frank-O standing next to him?
On the way home, she asked Frank if he’d seen Stu Sempione.
“The narc?”
“Is that what he is? A narc?”
“Yeah,” said Frank.
“So why was he at the meeting?” asked Carole. “I thought the cops were interested in fraud.”
“’Cause of the artists,” said Frank, taking a corner a mite too fast, so that Carole had to hang on to the grab bar over the door. “Those creative types like to experiment with hallucinogens, mushrooms, crap like that. Expand their minds.”
“Oh,” said Carole, as a broad avenue for future worry opened before her. “You don’t think Frank-O uses, do you?”
“Better not,” said Frank, flooring the gas to make a yellow light. “I’ll kill him if he does.”
Chapter Eight
Next morning, Poopsie woke Carole as usual, nudging her with a cold nose and demanding her walk. And, as usual, Carole splashed some cold water on her face, ran a comb through her hair, and pulled on her track suit, boots, and jacket. Poopsie wore her pink rhinestone collar.
Carole felt a sense of relief as Poopsie dragged her down the four flights of stairs; she’d felt uneasy about the effect the tranquilizers could have had on the little dog. She’d wanted to calm her down, not knock her out. Truth be told, Carole didn’t much like drugs at all. If she had a headache, she’d lie down on the couch for half an hour and see if it went away rather than take anything, even an aspirin. If she had an upset stomach, it was clear fluids for a day or two rather than Pepto-Bismol.
It was a puzzle, though, she thought, checking the lobby to see if it was empty before making the dash for the door. Why wouldn’t Poopsie stop barking yesterday? Today she seemed fine, sniffing her way up Edith Street, pausing to squat at the last tree.
While she waited for the dog to finish, Carole assessed the weather. It was a damp, drizzly morning, too cool for comfort. She shivered as they started the climb up the hill toward Smith Street and decided to take a shorter route, turning down West Park, where there were houses on only one side of the street. The other side ran along the back of the Esplanade property, behind the garage, and was largely unkempt and perfect for dog-walking purposes. Nobody expected you to scoop the poop here, although Carole did.
She was debating with herself whether to give Poopsie another dog pill or not. She sure didn’t want another barking episode, but she also didn’t want to dope the dog unnecessarily. Poor little thing, thought Carole, studying the dog. Her senses were so finely tuned that she was easily upset. Brittanys were bred to find birds in the brush and could hear tiny noises that humans couldn’t. That was it, Carole decided. Poopsie had probably heard something yesterday that set her off, something that she couldn’t hear. And today, whatever that was, it was apparently silent.
Poopsie suddenly scooted off, and Carole followed with a lurch. They were at the corner of Caverly Street, and she could see Frank-O’s building. There were lights on in his apartment, so she decided to pay a quick, surprise visit, just to see if he was all right. It wasn’t that she thought he was doping himself with heroin or LSD or cocaine or ecstasy, nothing like that. She just wanted to know if he’d found the groceries she’d left for him yesterday and if he’d remembered to put the food in the fridge.
“C’mon,” she coaxed the dog, who hesitated at the door. “We’re going to visit Frank-O.”
Hearing the name, Poopsie lifted her ears. She loved Frank-O and obediently followed Carole inside and up the creaky, uneven stairs. Poopsie gave each step a thorough examination with her nose, and Carole figured there must be quite an assortment of aromas: Chinese food here, pizza there, even a hint of New York System hot dogs. Those last, she thought, were a Providence recipe that would certainly surprise a New Yorker. Poopsie was prancing eagerly when they reached Frank-O’s door and wagging her tail. Carole knew she was anticipating at least a pizza bone from Frank-O.
When there was no answer to her repeated knocks, Carole tried the knob, and the door opened. Calling Frank-O’s name, she stepped inside. Poopsie went in, too, and immediately began checking out the pizza boxes that littered the floor.
Carole stepped gingerly over the mess: food containers, clothes, shoes, books. A couple of canvases were propped against a wall; a wooden crate held jars and tubes of paint. A coffee can sitting on a windowsill bristled with paint brushes. In the kitchen, the sink was overflowing with dirty dishes, and the bags of groceries had been set on the cluttered table; the plastic packages of food were still inside the bags. Sighing, she dumped most of it in the trash, salvaging only a couple of packages of cheese that she put in the fridge among the containers of half-eaten food. What a way to live!
Dismayed, she checked Frank-O’s bedroom, but his unmade bed was empty. Either he had turned into an early riser, thought Carole, or he was shacking up with some girl. Or maybe he couldn’t stand his own mess. As in the rest of the apartment, every surface was covered with clothes and books and shoes. The fug was unpleasant, so she cracked the window an inch to let in some fresh air and withdrew, ignoring the adjacent bathroom. She was not going to look in there, no way. Poopsie, however, found it fascinating, so Carole tried not to look as she grabbed the leash and pulled her away from the overflowing waste-basket, which had a used condom dangling over the side. Yuck.
On the bright side, she told herself, as she returned to the Esplanade, Frank-O was practicing safe sex, and she hadn’t found any sign of drugs. No zip bags of pot, no vials of crack, no packets of white powder. Still, she couldn’t help worrying. Where was Frank-O? As usual, Frank had an answer. “Probably got lucky with some artsy-fartsy broad,” he said, with a shrug. “That kind have loose morals.”
Recalling that dangling condom, Carole was inclined to agree. She tidied up the breakfast dishes, gave Frank a goodbye kiss, and went into the bedroom to get dressed. How exactly did a cleaning lady dress? Her own cleaning lady, Thomasina, went in for white shoes and hospital scrubs, but she was a top-of-the-line professional, referred by a top-notch service, and spoke in a clipped, British accent. That wasn’t quite the look she and Mom were going for, thought Carole, flipping through the rack in her closet.
Well, she finally decided, the track suit she was wearing was probably the best she could do, and the dog-walking boots were appropriately worn. She pulled out one of Frank’s sport shirts; it was a boldly patterned Tommy Bahama, but it was pretty old. It looked awful when she put it on over the track suit, so she kept it on and went over to her vanity table and sat down, staring at her face in the makeup mirror. Thomasina wore bright red lipstick, carefully applied, and gigantic gold hoop earrings. Again, not the downtrodden look she was going for. She dabbed on a bit of moisturizer and some lip gloss and figured that was all she could get away with. As for her hair, she left it uncombed and topped it with an old PawSox baseball cap. Honestly, she decided, taking one last look in the hall mirror as she left the apartment, she looked more like a clown than a cleaning lady.
“Not bad,” said Mom, greeting her at the door, dressed in the costume she wore as Golde in last year’s Parish Players’ production ofFiddler on the Roof, “but we gotta do something about your hair. Those highlights probably cost ten dollars a foil …”
“More like twenty, Mom.”
