"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 measuring up to his father's lofty expectations was something he knew he would carry with him forever. Perhaps, Frank thought, it was better that way.
"I know you didn't want to come here," Connie said hesitantly, "but there's something I need to discuss with you."
"Do you need money?" Frank reached for his wallet. "Just tell me how much you need, it's not a problem."
Connie made no attempt to conceal her disappointment with his response. "No, Frank, I don't need money. That may be the only reason you get out of bed in the morning, but then, we aren't all alike, are we?"
"I just thought – "
"That's an awfully nice suit," she interrupted. "Italian silk, isn't it? Your father shopped at Sears so I've no idea what a suit like that costs, but I'll bet it set you back seven or eight hundred dollars. That diamond on your pinky must be worth at least two or three thousand. Your coat had to be about five hundred, and I'm sure those shoes weren't something you picked up on sale at Wal-Mart."
Frank looked at her. "What's your point?"
"Did you think I didn't see those hideous flowers Michael Santangelo and that other piece of scum sent to my husband's wake? Have you convinced yourself that I was too distraught to notice you and Vincent at the funeral?" she asked. "The two of you behave like a couple of gangsters. If nothing else, you certainly dress for the part."
"I'm sorry if my success offends you," he said evenly.
"Success? Is that what they call it these days?"
"I'm a legitimate businessman, mother."
"That depends on one's definition of legitimate."
"I'm not going to discuss this right now."
Connie gazed at the headstone. "I'm sorry," she said in a hushed voice. "I asked you to come here because there's something we need to discuss. Something I want you to know about my past."
"I'm not sure I can handle anything else at this point."
"Then I suggest you pull yourself together."
Frank nervously lit a cigarette. "I'm listening."
"Long before you were born, and a few years before I met your father," she said in a detached tone, "I was married to a man named Arthur Bertalia."
Her admission genuinely surprised Frank but seemed unworthy of such dramatics. "Were there any children?"
"Thankfully, no."
He shrugged. "Then it's no big deal."
"I was very young." Connie put her purse on the hood of Frank's car and crossed her arms. "I made a poor choice. We lived in Vermont and were together less than a year. The man I thought I'd fallen in love with and the man I married turned out to be two completely different people. He was a heavy drinker, horribly jealous – a very possessive man. He wouldn't let me work, and a few weeks after we were married I learned he'd lied about wanting children. By the time our second-month anniversary rolled around he started to beat me."