Chapter Text
Frank Delfino saw his first dead man at the age of ten, in a middle-class bedroom in south Philly. He was ugly man, before death and after: forty-five or fifty, though his liver spots said older; deep-set yellowed eyes, shot red; a beer gut above his boxers, pale chicken legs below. Mismatched, Frank remembers thinking. Not right.
It started past midnight, on a Tuesday. “So you’ll have the flu tomorrow,” his dad had said when he woke him. “You’ve faked it before. Get up. We’re goin’ out.”
They picked their way across the room, (“Don’t wake ‘em,” his father said, eyes flitting to the other beds, where John and Tony slept on), then down the stairs, past his parents’ room, then out the door and into the night. January, freezing; his father handed him his puffy parka as they left, but no gloves, no hat, like he’d wear if his mother were near. Just his PJs underneath. “Gotta hurry,” his dad muttered. “‘S late.”
They drove for a long time; he watched the buildings grow shiny and new out his window, the lawns grow wide, the streets grow broad. Watched the world spruce up. He didn’t ask where they were going, just kicked the glove box till his dad told him to cut it the fuck out. The radiator rattled. He tapped his feet, shivered. Nobody turned on the radio.
They pulled up between the headlights, where it was darkest. Frank remembers that. “Gotta walk from here,” his father said. “Come on. Up. Out.” Frank didn’t want to walk. His feet hung out of the heels of his sneakers--he hadn’t had a chance to pull them on properly--and went numb almost instantly. When he fell behind, his father glanced back, eyes sharp and bright in the dark. “You wanna get left?” he said. Didn’t even sound upset, really--certainly not mad--but Frank shook his head, and didn’t lag twice.
They walked for a long time, his father pausing occasionally to peer up at a house, check its number, and carry on. Finally, they stopped.
“Now, we’re gonna go in there,” his father said, “and we gotta be real quiet, alright? I gotta do somethin’, and it’s...no good. No good at all. And I’m not gonna like doin’ it, see, but if I don’t, someone else will, and it’s gotta get done. You hear me?” Frank nodded. Stepped from foot to foot, like he had to pee. Tried to regain circulation in his legs.
“You gotta promise me you won’t say anything, okay? Gotta promise you’ll stay quiet. Can you do that?” Frank nodded again. “Okay. Let’s go, then. Come on.”
They crossed the long lawn and found themselves in front of a broad white house, trimmed black, with a little brass knocker on the door. Frank had an urge to grab it, to knock, to shout trick-or-treat. He didn’t--of course he didn’t. His father pulled a pair of black leather gloves from his pocket, slipped them on, and reached right for the knob before glancing back at Frank, at his bone-white, gloveless hands. “Shit,” he muttered. “Don’t you touch anything, alright? Nothing. Not the wall. Not the banister. If you do touch somethin’ show me where, soon as we’re done. Got it?” He didn’t wait for Frank’s nod this time.
The door was unlocked, and swung open easily. It was warm inside, so warm it almost burned Frank’s frostbitten skin. Still, he was quiet as they ascended the stairs. One creaked, and his father’s hand was on his arm in an instant, squeezing tight. He blew air through his teeth, a quiet “shh,” and they stood silent for a moment before carrying on. The hand stayed on Frank’s arm all the way up, nails biting sharp into dwindling baby fat. Still, Frank was quiet.
(Frank remembers, most of all, the portrait at the top of the stairs: oil paint on thick canvas, a soft-lit image of a couple and two boys Frank’s age. Later, he’ll know the man--years younger in the painting, hair grayed respectably but solidly present--as the corpse on the floor. He’ll look at the boys again on his way out, and wonder.)
They turned left, and were met with an open bedroom door. Frank could see a king-sized bed against the far wall, one lump under the covers. He turned back to his father, who raised a finger to his lips, lowered his other hand to Frank’s back, and led him in.
The man didn’t wake when they entered, or when they approached the bed. Didn’t stir, in fact, till Frank’s father’s hands were around his throat. Then, his eyes sprang open. Gazed first at Frank’s father, of course, but turned, at one point, to Frank’s own face. Into his eyes. Frank turned away, but couldn’t help looking back, once, twice, again and again until it was over. At the face, going red, then purple, then blue; at the eyes, growing larger, larger, scared then still and glassy. At his father’s thick fingers, straining and pushing, and his arms, ramrod straight and near motionless. It was quiet, overall. A few grunts--from the man, from Frank’s father, from the bedsprings below--then it was done. Frank did not make a sound.
When it was over, his father turned to him, face serious and red. Not angry; maybe a little tired. “It’s done,” he said. “That’s it. You wanna see?”
He didn’t, but he nodded, and stepped closer to the bed. Peered down into the ugly man’s face, made worse, so much worse, by…what had happened. By what his father had done.
“Dead,” Frank said, finally. “He’s dead. Right?”
“Yeah. Yeah he is. Do you remember what I told you earlier?”
It felt like all Frank did that night was nod.
“Tell me. Tell me what I said.”
“He had to die. You had to kill him. If you didn’t, somebody else would.”
“Exactly. And it’s bad, and it’s sad--he was a person, like you and me--but it had to happen. You understand?”
He didn’t, not at all, but he nodded again, because it was his father and he looked so damn certain Frank would get it, and Frank has always, always, hated to disappoint. He nodded while his father grabbed an ornate wooden jewelry box from the dresser--"makes it look like a robbery," he said--and kept on nodding as his father led him from the room, down the stairs, out the door, down the street. Subtly, lightly, with each step he took. He nodded all the way home, to the beat of the radio his father played full-blast.
He did not cry.
“We got one more stop,” Frank’s father said as they pulled onto an unfamiliar highway. “Shouldn’t take long.”
Frank cast a sidelong glance at his face, then. “We gonna...is it gonna happen again?”
“Nah. Nothin’ like that. We’re just gonna meet with a lady I know. Friend of mine. She’s gonna give us some money. Maybe this weekend, we can get Sunday breakfast someplace nice; how’s that sound?”
“Good,” Frank said. Quiet, as though he still had to be. He wasn’t sure he didn’t. He wasn’t sure of much, right then.
This time, they pulled up in front of a dingy motel, in a part of town not so different from their own: building upon boxy building, broken windows, flickering streetlights and shadowy figures on corners and stoops. They climbed the rusted iron stairs to the third floor, knocked on a door, and were received quickly by a portly brunette woman, dressed for the day, not the night. The woman from the portrait, Frank thought; he wasn’t sure, but he thought so. What if she knows? he wondered. He forced himself to stop nodding, looked down at his feet, crossed his arms across his chest. She must know. She’ll see it somehow. In me. In Dad.
If she knew, though, she didn’t say anything. She pulled them into the room quickly, glancing behind them before pulling the door shut. Nobody said anything: the woman nodded at Frank’s father, a question in her eyes; he nodded back; she handed over a thick envelope. They shook hands, stood, and left. Within three minutes, Frank and his father were back in the car, on their way home.
Eventually, Frank began to recognize their surroundings, and breathed a sigh of relief that he hoped his father didn’t hear. His father turned the headlights off a block from their house; when he pulled into the driveway, he turned to Frank. “Your mom don’t need to know about this, okay? Women, they get upset about this kind of thing. They don’t understand what has to happen, sometimes. They’re better than us, that way.” He chuckled at that, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes. “So you can’t go tellin’ her, alright? Or your brothers, neither. This is between you an’ me. Can you do that?”
What was Frank to do but nod?
“Good man. Alright, let’s get you inside. You cold?”
“Yeah.”
“You can have some cocoa before bed, if you want. That sound good?”
Frank nodded. It did. It really did.
Finally, Frank’s father sent him back to bed, belly full of warm milk and chocolate, head fuzzy, eyes still dry. Frank fell asleep almost instantly.
In the morning, it almost felt like the night before had been a dream. Nonetheless, Frank vomited almost instantly, barely making it to the hall bathroom first, missing the toilet by a solid foot. Faking the flu wasn’t hard from there: each time he pictured the bulging, reddened eyes, the sickly stare, the creaking mattress springs, he was back over the bucket his mother brought to his bedside.
His mother. God, his mother. He wanted so badly to tell her that day, each time she came in to check on him, asked him if he was okay. He trusted his father, though. More than that, he knew, even then, what it would do to her to know what he knew. And...he couldn’t.
His father came home early that day, shouting his hellos with a smile in his voice. He came to Frank’s room as soon as he’d greeted the others downstairs. “Frankie!” he said. “You still feelin’ sick?”
Frank could see something behind his father’s eyes; a sort of wariness, and maybe even a little bit of fear. Frank had never seen fear on that face before, and once again, he felt like puking. When he started to lean over, though, his father rushed in, sat on the bed beside him, and schooled his features into something like a smile. “Hey, hey, hey,” he said, voice lowered. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You did real good, son. I can tell. You didn’t say nothin’, did you?” It wasn’t a real question this time; his voice was laced with pride. “Good man. I knew you could do it.”
Frank couldn’t help crying, then, and his father let him, rubbing his back and muttering, occasionally, about how everything would be fine. “Frankie,” he said, “I know how it is. I’ve been there. Been like you; scared, guilty, whatever. But lemme tell you something: it gets better. Give it a day, two days, and you’ll feel better. Okay?”
Frank nodded, but the tears didn’t stop. He met his father’s gaze, fleetingly, before returning his eyes to his lap. “I dunno,” he said. “It was...bad. And...who was he? Why’d you have to…?”
His father sighed. Disappointed? Frank’s breathing hitched. When he spoke, though, his voice was even and, Frank thought, perhaps still a bit proud. “You’re a good kid, Frankie. You’re sad for the guy, and rightly so. But look at me. I done this before. This ain’t the first time. And you know what?” He smiled. “I’m still the same guy. Still your dad. D’you think your dad’s a bad guy?”
Frank shook his head. Gave no indication of his own niggling doubts. His father slapped him on the back. “I’m not!” he said. "I’m really not. And neither are you, kid. Nothin’ll make you a bad guy. You can trust me on that, okay?” Frank nodded.
Frank expected that to be it, but before he could lie back down, turn back to the wall, his father reached into his pocket, pulled something out, and haned it to Frank. "Got somethin' for you," he said. "'S from the house. I gotta get rid of most of it, but I want you to have this."
It was a necklace, a golden chain with a small oval pendant hanging from it. Frank turned it over and over in his hands; cold, but smooth and somehow comforting. On one side of the pendant was a a bearded man holding a child; on the other were some initials: JLP.
"St. Christopher," his father said. "Wear this, and he'll protect you. Sounds silly--'M not a church man--but these work, so. Thought I'd give it to you. Put it on."
Frank did; it was not a large piece, but it hung heavy on his neck. "Thanks," he said, quietly.
“Now,” his father said, his voice a bit louder, “you think you can eat somethin’? You feelin’ better enough for that?”
He didn’t wait for an answer; just stood and, on his way to the door, shot a wink and a grin back at his son.
Moments later, Frank followed him. And he ate. And he felt better.