The Temptations of St. Frank by Anthony Bruno

believed it. In the universe of Frank Grimaldi, Sr., crazy bullshit like that would be repeated over and over again until it eventually became a hard fact.
    Frank’ mother whisked around the kitchen, getting serving spoons, mustard and mayo for the cold cuts, and paper napkins, wedging them onto the already crowded table wherever there was a sliver of open space.
    â€œFrank!” she said, plopping down into her chair, her baby-blue floral housedress parachuting around her. “Why can’t you wait for the rest of us?”
    â€œHey, I work hard,” he yelled, gravy dotting the corners of his mouth like vampire blood. “I’m hungry!”
    She shrugged and waved him off as if his sudden flash of anger meant nothing. And she was right. I didn’t mean a thing because his father had the unique ability to blow up and tell you to go to hell because you were a worthless, no-good good-for-nothing and then in the next breath ask you what the hell your problem was and why were you pouting. His temper came fast and left fast. He never let anything bother him for more than a second. Frank, on the other hand, was a brooder. When Frank felt he’d been wronged, he held grudges, plotted elaborate vendettas, held it in and let it simmer.
    â€œCarol!” his mother yelled, calling to Frank’s little sister. “Carol! Come eat!”
    The sound of a flushing toilet answered her.
    â€œCome on,” his father said, lowering his voice. “Let the poor kid go in peace.”
    But it wasn’t Carol who came to the doorway. It was Frank’s grandfather, Antonio. His sparse unruly white hair stood out from his head as if he’d recently had an electric shock, and as usual he had a few days of gray stubble on his cheeks. He was stocky with a round belly covered by a baggy wool plaid shirt. His hands were hard and calloused from a lifetime of manual labor—he held a heavy pipe wrench in one, a plunger in the other.
    â€œIt’s all fix,” he said. He had a thick Italian accent, and a hoarse voice that was no more than a loud whisper, the result of a bout with throat cancer long before Frank was born.
    â€œThanks, Pop,” Frank’s mother said.
    â€œYou want something to eat, Pop?” Frank’s father said.
    Antonio waved his thanks but no thanks. “Go ‘head, eat,” he said, slipping back into the hallway. They all listened to his slow steps as he descended the squeaky stairs. When it was clear that he was downstairs, Frank’s father shot out an annoyed hand gesture at his mother.
    â€œWhat’d ja make him fix the toilet for? I told you I’d do it.”
    His mother threw her own annoyed gesture. “When? I kept asking you, but you didn’t do it. It was running for three days. The water bill’s gonna be huge.”
    â€œNext time don’t bother my father. I’ll do it.”
    She sniffed defiantly. “Next time I’ll call a plumber,” she said just as he was shoveling another slab of manicotti into his mouth.
    He glared at her as he chewed. Those were fighting words. The Grimaldis never ever hired outsiders to fix anything. Frank’s father and grandfather fixed everything themselves—even when they didn’t know the first thing about it.
    â€œWe got any bread?” his father said, still glaring at his mother.
    â€œWhat do you think that is?” His mother pointed to a basket overflowing with slices of rye and pumpernickel and a couple of Kaiser rolls.
    Frank’s father made a sour face, and Frank knew why. He wanted a long loaf of crusty Italian bread from the Italian bakery around the corner. You couldn’t sop up Grandma’s gravy with a Kaiser roll or anything else that came from Foodtown. You had to have Italian bread for it to taste right. Frank had to admit his father was right about that.
    â€œCarol!” his mother yelled again. “Come
eeeeat!”
At Frank’s house