Greg Gifune - Night Work

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."

Frank felt a surge of anger. He was tempted to interrupt her, to ask the series of questions flooding his mind, but held his tongue.

"The beatings became more frequent," she continued, "but I convinced myself to believe him when he swore each time would be the last. Another poor choice. One day I'd been out shopping, and when I got home he was waiting for me. He was wearing a peculiar pair of black gloves, and it wasn't until he'd hit me that I realized they were lined with lead. He nearly killed me, Frank. I spent two months in the hospital. The day I was discharged I left him. We were divorced and I relocated to Massachusetts. A few years later I met your father."

Frank lit a cigarette. "Why didn't you tell me about this before?"

"Your father never wanted me to."

"Why not?"

Connie shrugged. "He was afraid you might think less of me."

"That's ridiculous," Frank snapped. "Maybe he was afraid I might think less of him."

"Believe me, we had more than one or two arguments about it, but he made me promise I wouldn't tell you until after his death."

"I wish you'd told me sooner."

"I wanted to, but you know how your father could be at times. He had this idea in his head that we were supposed to be flawless, the perfect American family."

Frank looked out over the sea of graves. "Whatever happened to this Arthur Bertalia?"

"I haven't a clue. After the divorce I never saw or heard from him again."

Frank hugged her, pulling her in tight against his chest. She felt so small and defenseless; he found it inconceivable that anyone could ever raise a hand in anger against her. "I'm sorry you had to go through that," he said quietly, "but I want you to know that if anything, it makes me love you more."

"It took us so many years to have you," she sobbed. "I was convinced the beatings had left me unable to have children."

"It's all right," he told her. "I'm here."

Connie kissed his cheek. "I'm so worried about you."

"Never mind me," Frank said. "Are you going to be okay?"

"I hope so," she whispered. "I haven't been alone in a very long time."

"You're not alone." Frank stroked the side of her face and felt himself smile for the first time in months.

The night of his father's death, Sandy had finally ventured from her side of the bed to Frank's, and he'd fallen asleep in her arms like a child suffering nightmares. Although their union seemed a step in the right direction, the comfort both received in revisiting a familiar physical tenderness was short-lived.

Since that time Frank had done his best to submerge himself in work, usually staying at the office long after everyone else had gone home.

He leaned back in his chair, watched the streetlights turn on through the open blinds in his office, and casually checked his watch. Having run out of things to do, he decided to call it a night. Hopefully Sandy would be waiting for him, but his wife's continued presence was something he could no longer view with certainty.