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.'
CHAPTER 12
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
