The Temptations of St. Frank by Anthony Bruno Page A

everybody yelled. Except for Frank and his sister. He stewed; she prayed.
    Frank’s father started to make himself a ham sandwich. “Where’s your sister?” he said, reaching for the jar of spicy brown mustard.
    â€œI dunno. Probably saying a rosary.”
    Frank’s father didn’t react. He reached across the table with a fork to spear a couple of slices of provolone for his sandwich.
    â€œDon’t make fun of your sister,” his mother said in a loud whisper. “She might have the calling.”
    â€œShe’s ten years old, ma. The only calling she has is you calling her to come eat.”
    â€œI think you might have the calling, too,” his mother said. “More than her. You just don’t want to listen to it.”
    Frank rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “We’ve been through this before, ma. I do not have the calling. I’m never gonna be a priest.”
    She sighed. “I guess not.” She sighed again. Loudly.
    Kids who went to Catholic school got indoctrinated early. In first grade Frank was taught that there were two paths in life: taking your vows and everything else. Bank presidents, bank robbers, lay schoolteachers, prostitutes, and the President of the United States were all on one side; priests, brothers, monks, and nuns were on the other. Frank could remember coming home from school one day when he was six and his mother quizzing him about having the calling, asking him if he felt it moving inside of him the same way she would always ask if he felt like throwing up when he was sick. The answer was no then, it was still no, and it was gonna stay no. But she kept hoping. What Frank couldn’t figure out was why the possibility of having her daughter become a nun wasn’t as satisfying as having her son become a priest. Maybe she figured she’d get more points for getting into heaven if she produced a priest. After all, priests could say Mass and nuns couldn’t.
    Carol walked into the kitchen and took her usual seat in the narrow space where the table met the wall. She was holding her Barbie doll, the long blonde hair not as lustrous as it had been on Christmas morning. Frank noticed that Carol had wrapped her rhinestone rosary beads—a different garish color for each set of Hail Marys—around Barbie’s sexy bod, making a glittery risqué cocktail dress out of them. Frank was relieved to see this. Maybe someday she’d snap out of it. She had severe straight bangs that covered her eyebrows, and her expression was always serious, which made her look like a nun in training, but her attachment to Barbie and girly things convinced him that she didn’t really have the calling. For a while she had him worried, but deep down she was normal.
    Frank’s father stopped chewing and smiled at Carol. “You want some of Grandma’s manicott’?” He already had one balanced on his fork for her.
    She didn’t answer, just smiled, and he put it on her plate. She was Daddy’s girl.
    â€œAny of your friends hear from any colleges?” Frank’s mother asked him.
    He tensed. The mere mention of college at the dinner table was a time bomb. There was no question that it would go off. It was just a matter of when.
    â€œYeah, a few guys heard this week,” Frank said, braced for the blast but deliberately provoking it, too. “Danny Pensa got into Georgetown. He got into a few other places, but that’s probably where he’s gonna go.” Danny Pensa was one of the smarter guys in 4H. He was class president, and he ran track, so he was a desirable candidate. What Frank decided not to reveal was that Georgetown had offered him a scholarship. Money was another time-bomb topic in his house. An
atomic
time bomb.
    â€œYou should have applied to Georgetown,” his mother said with a wistful note in her voice. He’d been in Catholic school since kindergarten—he didn’t want any more