inexperience and maturity.
If Dutch touches Frenchy, I’ll break every bone in Dutch’s body.
D UTCH STEERED the sports car while a copiously weeping Frenchy rode shotgun. Somewhere over the bridge to New Orleans, Frenchy finally lost his tears of rage and humiliation. Dutch had the tact to say nothing.
As he pulled into the Saint-Paix pile next to his own house, Dutch offered consolation at last. “Frenchy, you and I have it made. Whatever it is, it’s gonna go away.”
Frenchy wouldn’t look directly at Dutch. “Thanks for the ride, Dutch.”
He headed for his garçonnière. Maman had given him this private apartment in the family home when he first came home from the hospital. “You’re a true man, now,” she had said.
But tonight, Paule Saint-Paix happened to be looking out when she beheld the unexpected sight of Dutch Abbott driving into the porte cochere. Frenchy was headed for his garçonnière when he saw his mother out of the corner of his eye.
Paule Saint-Paix worriedly surveyed her son’s tear-streaked face and the stuffed toy he held. “Dolls, Frenchy?” she asked. Frenchy had hated the stuffed animals he’d received from the masked and robed well-wishers and doting nurses as he lay in the chemo ward. He was not a baby to be playing with stuffed animals!
Frenchy turned from the entrance to his garçonnière and strode into his mother’s house.
“It’s not a doll. It’s a bolar pear.”
He hurled the stuffed animal into the fireplace of his mother’s front parlor, unconsciously displaying the very throwing arm he’d mastered under Manny’s tutelage. “Burn it. Make sure it releases lots of particulates and greenhouse gases.”
“Bolar pear?” Paule Saint-Paix frowned her incomprehension.
“Maman,” he said, ignoring her question, “I would like three things.”
“Yes?”
“First, a psychiatrist.”
Paule processed this assertion with silent delight.
“Second, a personal trainer.” Frenchy vowed to become the muscle-bound zero of Manny’s dreams. He understood it all now. He was a string bean. Manny didn’t want a string bean. And once he wasn’t a string bean, well… he’d have to see. Revenge was looking good about now.
“Yes—Lily, Fifi, Mimi, Gigi. I’ll ask Say-Say Abbott for her number,” said his mother.
“And last—a tutor. I’m in the same class as fucking fourteen-year-olds!” he said in exasperation. “Get me out!”
“Very well,” said Maman. “As you say. But no need to be vulgar, Leo.”
Paule didn’t know why she reverted to Frenchy’s real name, but it just seemed right at that moment. And although the vulgarity offended her, and she would not ordinarily have tolerated it, she let it go.
Chapter 15
E SCALONIA L OTTE LaNasa, widow of Raymond, sat behind register one of her grocery, conflicted. It was an alien emotion, an emotion from the discredited planet Pluto. She frowned as she gazed at the jar she kept perpetually at the register stand: “For the upkeep of the Cabrini Shrine in Chicago.” She always primed the pump at the beginning of the day by placing a five-dollar bill in it. Of course, the godless people in the neighborhood mostly ignored the jar, dropping in a quarter only now and again. That is, until the Abbott boy had moved into Rita’s.
Raymond LaNasa had been devout. He’d asked “Lonia”—how Lotte wished somebody still called her that!—to pin the scapular on his hospital gown, which exposed his cancer-wasted butt, as he lay dying of metastasized melanoma. Ten long years ago. Not that the scapular had done any good; Raymond had died anyway. But he’d gotten so upset at his Lonia when she’d voiced the hope that the scapular would save him. Agitated, Raymond had said, “Lonia, this is not an amulet for my protection. This is a testament to my faith and a reminder to live my life in emulation of the Savior.” And then he’d kissed the scapular, thereby trimming five hundred days from his
If Dutch touches Frenchy, I’ll break every bone in Dutch’s body.
D UTCH STEERED the sports car while a copiously weeping Frenchy rode shotgun. Somewhere over the bridge to New Orleans, Frenchy finally lost his tears of rage and humiliation. Dutch had the tact to say nothing.
As he pulled into the Saint-Paix pile next to his own house, Dutch offered consolation at last. “Frenchy, you and I have it made. Whatever it is, it’s gonna go away.”
Frenchy wouldn’t look directly at Dutch. “Thanks for the ride, Dutch.”
He headed for his garçonnière. Maman had given him this private apartment in the family home when he first came home from the hospital. “You’re a true man, now,” she had said.
But tonight, Paule Saint-Paix happened to be looking out when she beheld the unexpected sight of Dutch Abbott driving into the porte cochere. Frenchy was headed for his garçonnière when he saw his mother out of the corner of his eye.
Paule Saint-Paix worriedly surveyed her son’s tear-streaked face and the stuffed toy he held. “Dolls, Frenchy?” she asked. Frenchy had hated the stuffed animals he’d received from the masked and robed well-wishers and doting nurses as he lay in the chemo ward. He was not a baby to be playing with stuffed animals!
Frenchy turned from the entrance to his garçonnière and strode into his mother’s house.
“It’s not a doll. It’s a bolar pear.”
He hurled the stuffed animal into the fireplace of his mother’s front parlor, unconsciously displaying the very throwing arm he’d mastered under Manny’s tutelage. “Burn it. Make sure it releases lots of particulates and greenhouse gases.”
“Bolar pear?” Paule Saint-Paix frowned her incomprehension.
“Maman,” he said, ignoring her question, “I would like three things.”
“Yes?”
“First, a psychiatrist.”
Paule processed this assertion with silent delight.
“Second, a personal trainer.” Frenchy vowed to become the muscle-bound zero of Manny’s dreams. He understood it all now. He was a string bean. Manny didn’t want a string bean. And once he wasn’t a string bean, well… he’d have to see. Revenge was looking good about now.
“Yes—Lily, Fifi, Mimi, Gigi. I’ll ask Say-Say Abbott for her number,” said his mother.
“And last—a tutor. I’m in the same class as fucking fourteen-year-olds!” he said in exasperation. “Get me out!”
“Very well,” said Maman. “As you say. But no need to be vulgar, Leo.”
Paule didn’t know why she reverted to Frenchy’s real name, but it just seemed right at that moment. And although the vulgarity offended her, and she would not ordinarily have tolerated it, she let it go.
Chapter 15
E SCALONIA L OTTE LaNasa, widow of Raymond, sat behind register one of her grocery, conflicted. It was an alien emotion, an emotion from the discredited planet Pluto. She frowned as she gazed at the jar she kept perpetually at the register stand: “For the upkeep of the Cabrini Shrine in Chicago.” She always primed the pump at the beginning of the day by placing a five-dollar bill in it. Of course, the godless people in the neighborhood mostly ignored the jar, dropping in a quarter only now and again. That is, until the Abbott boy had moved into Rita’s.
Raymond LaNasa had been devout. He’d asked “Lonia”—how Lotte wished somebody still called her that!—to pin the scapular on his hospital gown, which exposed his cancer-wasted butt, as he lay dying of metastasized melanoma. Ten long years ago. Not that the scapular had done any good; Raymond had died anyway. But he’d gotten so upset at his Lonia when she’d voiced the hope that the scapular would save him. Agitated, Raymond had said, “Lonia, this is not an amulet for my protection. This is a testament to my faith and a reminder to live my life in emulation of the Savior.” And then he’d kissed the scapular, thereby trimming five hundred days from his
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