He couldn’t deny this pissed him off. What he’d quit denying was that he was pissed at his dead brother, not the woman upstairs. It was not comfortable having that feeling about a brother he loved who could no longer make explanations or amends. That wound was arrested in time, gapping, sore, bloody, no way to heal it. And it was arguable, but Benny thought that might be worse than Vinnie turning to the dark side, working for Sal, and losing his life in a violent way doing it.
On that thought, he heard the coffeemaker beep that it was done. He had the mugs ready by the time the shower went off. He delivered them, setting them on the nightstand, then rapped on the bathroom door with his knuckles to communicate that fact. He came down the stairs and was walking back into the kitchen at the same time his parents walked in the back door.
“Caro,” his mother greeted, coming direct to him, giving him a distracted kiss on the cheek, then moving straight to the coffeepot.
“Ben,” his father greeted, looking not at Benny but at the ceiling.
Apparently, Vinnie Senior was done waiting to sort things out with Francesca. Eyeing him, Benny thought his father might be done waiting, but he wasn’t looking forward to it.
“She’s just out of the shower, Pop,” he told his old man, and Vinnie Senior’s eyes came to him. “That means you got at least an hour and forty-five minutes while she does her hair to get some coffee and come to terms with the fact that she’s Frankie. She never changed and she’s not gonna make you work for it.”
“I told him that,” his ma put in. “He’s decided to worry.”
Vinnie Senior directed a dark look to his wife, then he changed the subject by directing an order at her. “Coffee, woman.”
She turned to him, pot in hand, two mugs already on the counter in front of her. “You know, just like every time the last forty-one years I’ve been near a coffeepot, I already got your mug ready. And just like every time the last forty-one years you tell me to get you coffee instead of asking for it, I want to throw your mug at you. Now, after hearing that for forty-one years, I’m wonderin’ why I held back.”
“You do because, for forty-one years, you have not once filled up your gas tank. You take the good, Theresa, you gotta take the bad.”
“You fill up my tank maybe once a week. Maybe. I fill up your coffee mug more than once a day. I’m beginning to see this doesn’t balance out,” his ma returned.
Jesus. They’d been there two minutes and they were already at it.
“Right,” Benny cut in. “You wanna bicker, do it after I get a cup of coffee.”
At that, Theresa’s eyes went right to her son. “Caro, you’ve had no coffee?”
“Pot just got done. I just got done deliverin’ it to the women upstairs. So, no.”
His mother’s face softened when he mentioned doing something for Frankie. What his mother didn’t do was move out of the way of the coffeepot or pull down another mug.
So he moved into her to get his own mug.
“I got it, I got it,” she mumbled, shooing him away before stating, “I take it you haven’t made Frankie her eggs and bacon.”
At this, Benny hoped like fuck that he could sort shit out with Frankie, and soon. Then he hoped like fuck what he figured they could have was what both of them wanted. And at that moment, he hoped this so that kitchen would cease to be his kitchen and, instead, it would be Frankie’s. That way she could battle it out for supremacy with his mother and Benny could quit doing that shit.
“Ma, you know Frankie likes sweet in the morning,” he reminded her.
“Then I’ll make pancakes,” his mother replied.
Benny looked to his father.
His father had his mug and was seating himself at Benny’s kitchen table. He also caught his son’s eyes and shrugged. Then he took a sip of coffee and leaned back in his seat, one leg stretched out, like he owned the fucking table and the house it was in.
No help there and it wasn’t worth the hassle to take it any further. Frankie would eat Theresa’s pancakes, even if she preferred coffeecake or wanted to switch it up and have him haul his ass to a donut shop.
“Caffè, mio figlio,” his ma murmured.
Benny looked to her and saw her extending a mug.
He took it and went to the table.
His mother went to the fridge.
He was downing the last of the cup, listening to the hair dryer upstairs going on and off (and on and repeat), hoping that meant Frankie had shaken off her daze. At the same time, he was hoping his mother brought her clothes that would cover her up, like turtlenecks and massive sweatshirts, when the doorbell rang.
His mother turned to face the kitchen door, his father’s eyes came to him, and Benny got out of his chair.
He wasn’t expecting company, but Frankie was in his house. Word would be making the rounds.
Manny had his own amends to make, but Manny would no way be there that early. Manny had settled on a woman, they’d been together over a year, and Ma was biting her lip that they’d moved in together two months ago with no ring on Sela’s finger.
Sela was a good woman. Benny liked her. And Man came to work with a content look on his face that said he liked what he left at home. So Ben knew he liked his time at home, especially if a man was getting what Man obviously was getting…and liking, the mornings.
Sal would come in the morning. So would Gina. Sal’s boys knew better than to show at Benny’s door, morning or anytime. But the big man and his wife would do whatever the fuck they wanted.
For Frankie, he’d have to eat that shit and he would. Once. Then he’d have words with her, and if she intended to keep Sal and his wife in her life, she’d do that well away from him.
But Ben found halfway down the hall to the door that he wouldn’t be eating that particular shit that morning.
He’d be eating other shit.
He knew this when a vaguely familiar female voice shouted from outside the door, “Yeah! Fuck you too! And kiss all this good-bye forever, asshole!”
He wasn’t sure—he hadn’t been around the woman in years—but he was thinking that was Nat, Frankie’s sister.
Closing in on the door and seeing her head through the window, he saw he was right.
Fuck.
Frankie did not need this shit. More, he didn’t need it. She was not his favorite person normally. Having to keep his shit together after her sister spent a week and a half in a hospital bed and the bitch did not even send flowers was not something he had the patience to do maybe ever, but definitely not then.
He opened the door, positioned himself firmly in it, and got an eyeful of her jumping up and down, giving the finger to a beat-up Dodge Stratus racing down the street.
He also got an eyeful of her short, tight, black knit skirt, which was a centimeter away from giving a crotch shot, and skintight tank with material so thin, he could easily see the lace of her bra. With this, for some fucked reason, she was wearing a lightweight but bulky scarf wrapped around her neck. Silver and gold was profuse at ears, fingers, and wrists. She smelled like she’d just walked through one of those bitches at the mall who offered sprays of perfume and choked the air with it for reasons he never got. And he only had her profile, but he could see she’d taken Ninette’s heavy-handed makeup lessons to extremes.
Even way back when, when he was at school with the Concettis, it was like Frankie was not one of them. She knew how to trick herself out, absolutely. But the sisters dressed like whores from age twelve up and Frankie never did that shit.
She could do big hair, she did, and she did it well, as evidenced yesterday. She could show skin, but she did it with style and class that made it appealing, not cheap. And she liked her makeup, but as heavy as she could go with it, it never crossed that line from class to trash.