“Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh,” Franco said, and his gigantic hand was on my shoulder. His other hand was pointing. “Dad?” Franco said.
“Your dad’s home?” I said. Then I saw. It was a gigantic dense guy who you could see through in some places. His mustache was the same as Franco’s, but less black and more thick. He had his hands in front of him, by his waist. His hands were moving around while his wrists stayed still. It seemed like he was either telling some great story, or he was listening to some boring story and saying, “Come on, already, get to the point, already,” except he wasn’t saying anything.
“Dad?” Franco said. “How are you, Dad? I love you, Dad.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I said. “This is really amazing. Do you mind if I ask you what’s it like in the world of pure spirit, Mr. Iafarte?”
Franco told me, “His name’s Domenico.”
“You got different last names?”
“Iafarte’s my ma’s.”
“Your ma’s?” I said.
“Yeah,” Franco said. “We changed it after the hospital. It was a pain in the ass.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. I didn’t know why anyone was in what hospital, or when. I wanted to ask, but I never asked. I don’t know why I apologized, either, but I felt like I should apologize. Franco didn’t seem to notice, anyway.
Looking at him, I got the feeling that the ghost of Mr. Domenico was sad, but he wouldn’t let anyone know because it would make him feel like a jerk if we knew how sad he was because then we’d get sad and it would be his fault. I thought maybe it had something to do with the hospital, that maybe he died in the hospital, from cancer or something, and felt guilty about it. I had no idea, though. That butane spins you out.
“I love you, Dad. Do you love me, Dad?” Franco said.
Mr. Domenico didn’t say anything. He started to fade, and then he disappeared. Franco was shivering.
“Helio,” Franco said, “that was my dad, yo. Franco I. Did you see him? How big he was? I told you how big he was, right? But I bet you didn’t believe it. But now you do.”
“I didn’t see,” Helio said.
“He was right there,” I said.
“Bullshit, fat stuff.”
Franco said, “Hey. Helio. Go away. Don’t come here no more.”
Helio sat there for a second, and then Franco III barked and then Helio left. Franco raised up the butane can like how I saw this king in a movie raise a gold cup of wine, and he said, “More for us, Clifford. More for us.” Then he rubbed his eyes. It felt good that he called me my name and then called us “us,” and by that time we were friends for sure.
My dad didn’t like it that I spent time with Franco, but I got good grades so he didn’t say I couldn’t. I heard him tell my ma that if he told me I couldn’t hang out with that delinquent wop son of a wife-beating degenerate gambler wop, then I’d never learn that that’s what he was. A delinquent wop. When my dad says some guy’s a wop it means that the guy is such a bad guy that he makes all Italians look bad, including us. Like for instance even Finch, the famous hitman, who’s half-Irish — my dad calls Finch a wop. It’s funny because he likes to tell Finch stories. Everyone around here likes to tell Finch stories. Finch is this hitman who lives somewhere close, though no one knows where, but if it’s not in the neighborhood then it’s somewhere else in Chicago. Everyone says Finch killed everyone who was ever famous and killed, but that he never got caught for any of it, which is why they call him Finch. I don’t get it, but that’s what they say. A lot of kids think Finch is as fake as Santa Claus. I don’t think so, though, and neither does Franco. Franco told me once that he sometimes wished his dad was Finch and I said so did I. I think everyone wished that sometimes. Even though everyone likes to hear stories about hitmen, though, my dad pretended that he didn’t like to hear them because he didn’t want to set a bad example for me. When he told me the Finch stories — like the one about how Finch killed that Nixon and made it look natural because Nixon was dying and Nixon knew that Finch killed that Hoffa, and Finch knew Nixon was gonna rat him out from his deathbed (Nixon’s) right before Nixon died if Finch didn’t get Nixon first — my dad didn’t say, “I’ve got a Finch story to tell you, have you heard this one?” He said, “I got a dumb wop story to tell you. This story is about that hitman Finch who’s just another dumb wop. Ready?” My dad explained to me about dumb wops at the very beginning of the summer, on the evening of the seventeenth day in a row me and Franco hung out, when I saw him after I’d been at the garage all day and I accidentally said to him, “Hey, w’su’, nigga.” He didn’t cuff me or anything because he’s not like that, but he yelled at me about how that wasn’t a good word to use inappropriately. He said that only black people can call each other nigga and get away with it, just like only Italians could call each other wop and get away with it. I told him it was different for blacks than Italians because when blacks say nigga it doesn’t mean anything bad, usually, but when my dad says wop, it means something really bad. My dad said that that was unfortunate, Cliff, and very sad. Then he made a sad face and started saying about how he was a Democrat even though lots of Democrats let women kill babies which was wrong but not as wrong as white people calling black people niggas and meaning it badly, but I sort of drifted off, thinking about how I’m Italian and lots of black guys at my school call me nigga, like “Get outta my way, nigga.” Or “Look at this roly-poly little nigga here.” And I was trying to figure out if they were being totally mean or mean with some niceness mixed in, because a lot of times I can’t tell when black guys say stuff to me what exactly they’re saying and because even though they called me fat slur words, they always added nigga, and that’s what they called each other, so maybe they were saying, really, “Cliff, you’re a real fatty, but you’re one of us.” It was a nice thought. I was having fantasies about being one of those guys because the girls liked them a lot at our school. It went like this, how girls liked you: Number one was basketball players. Number two was guys who got haircuts at salons and listened to music where five guys sing and there’s no guitars. Number three was black guys. There was no number four. Some of the real geeky girls liked tough guys but only if the tough guys would be their boyfriends, but those girls were ugly, and they always would be.
After the grilled cheese sandwiches on the fifty-third day, I got home before my dad. My ma said to wash my face and change my filthy clothes because she could always smell it on me when I hung out with Franco and it was horrible. “You smell like that garage, Cliff,” is what she said. So I washed up really fast with paper towels — just my pits and my face — and then I changed out of my black T-shirt and into this polo my dad brought back from Laos that was colored baby blue. I changed in the bathroom in front of the mirror, which I forget sometimes how bad it is to do that, because I get stuck there, counting my rolls to see how much bigger I’m getting, and it’s always bigger because I got no discipline. And by the time I was done my dad was home, and he didn’t give me a hug, and guess why. It was because he was worried I was a fag. He’s always worrying about something. Plus I think I looked like a fag in that shirt. Baby blue with a collar.
“What do you and Franco do all afternoon at that filthy garage?” my dad asked me.
“We talk about stuff,” I said. “Life and stuff.”
“What about girls?” He got right to the point. “Do you talk about girls ever?”
“Not really.” I told him not really because first of all it was true. I was always scared that if I talked about girls, Franco would want to go get some girls, and that would mean he’d ditch me, and where would I be for the afternoon? Either fighting Helio or stuck at Theo’s with Gino is where. And also the whole Jenny Wansie thing was embarrassing to talk to anyone but my ma about, especially my dad and Franco.