Page 33 of A Matter of Pedigree
“Right.” Carole and Connie stood up. Carole wrapped her arms around her daughter in a big hug, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and released her. “You’ll be okay?”
Connie nodded. “Sure, Mom. It was just the shock.”
“Not the best way to start your day,” said Carole, giving her another squeeze.
Frank had opened the door and was standing in the doorway, jingling the car keys. “I’m coming,” said Carole, in a warning tone. She turned to Connie and made eye contact. “You drive carefully now, extra carefully.”
Connie offered a little smile. “I will, Mom.” She gave her mother a quick hug. “Go on, Dad’s hungry.”
“He’s always hungry,” muttered Carole, following her husband out the door.
They were just finishing breakfast—for once Carole skipped the yogurt and ate scrambled eggs right along with Frank, though she gave her bacon to the dog—when the phone rang. It was Mom, announcing that Angelique Poole had called and offered them the cleaning job at Prospect Place. “She wouldn’t go for seventy-five, though, said sixty-five was the best they could do. She wants us to start today.”
“I can’t today,” wailed Carole. “Frank-O’s in the hospital.”
Mom was on it in a flash. “What happened?” she demanded. “Is he going to be okay?”
“He’s in the ICU,” said Carole.
“Aiee!” exclaimed Mom.
“He was in that fire at the Factory last night …”
“It was all over the news this morning. They said they’d recovered a victim, but Mother of God, I had no idea it was Frank-O.”
“He wasn’t burned, but he got smoke inhalation.”
“Ohhh! Mamma mia!”
“They’ve got him sedated, and they’re monitoring his condition.”
“That poor baby! I’m on my way; I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“We’re going back, too. We’ll see you there,” said Carole.
But Frank, who’d been listening in, had other ideas. “Look,” he said, leveling his gaze at her over his coffee mug, “you might not get another chance to get into Prospect Place,” he said. “I think you and Mom should go.”
Carole was horrified. “But what about Frank-O?”
“Far as I could tell, he didn’t know we were there. And those nurses are top-notch; they know what they’re doing. And that nurse promised to call if there’s any change, and since her name plate said Julia Rosetti, I know she’ll keep her word ’cause I know her father and her grandfather.”
“But he’s my baby!” protested Carole.
“Yeah, well, what about me?” demanded Frank. “If you remember, I’m under indictment for murder and could go away for life if that DA has his way.”
Carole bit her lip, torn between her husband and her son.
“He’s doin’ okay,” Frank reminded her. “I’ll go and stay with him, and I’ll call you if anything happens.”
Carole considered. “Okay,” she finally said, “but you call your mother. I don’t want her thinking that I don’t love my son.”
Frank narrowed his eyes. “With you, it’s always the zinger, isn’t it? Like I don’t love him?”
Carole was tempted to remind him of the long list of issues he had with his son, beginning with his blue hair dye, but decided against it. There was no point starting something she couldn’t finish. “I’ve got to get dressed for my cleaning job,” she said, leaving him at the table with the dirty dishes. “Oh, and tell her she’s got to drive. My car’s still at Johnny D’s. I figured I might as well get it detailed while he’s got it.” She paused. “It was starting to smell kind of doggy.”
Frank was in the shower, and the dirty dishes were still there when she emerged from the bedroom in her mousy-brown wig, polyester housedress, and sweatpants. She started clearing the table and was loading the dishwasher when Frank appeared in crisp, clean clothes and freshly shaven. “What the hell?” he exclaimed.
Carole straightened up so he could get the whole effect. “It’s my cleaning lady outfit. I don’t want anybody over there to recognize me.”
