“At work,” he added.
Harriet sighed again, massaging her hand. “I’m not moving to Peoria, Sam.”
He stared at her for moment and then uncrossed his arms. “We’re not moving to Peoria. Althea just—”
Harriet slammed her hand down on the table. “Damn it, Sam! I know that. But what I do want to know is why I have to hear from Althea that something’s wrong at work.” Pause. “Why won’t you talk to me?”
Sam pushed off the refrigerator. “I didn’t tell her anything.”
She looked at him, mouth open. Then she threw her hands up in a gesture of frustration. “What is it with you? What could be so wrong at work that you can’t talk to me about it? I know you, Sam Wyatt, and you haven’t acted like this since—”
She stopped herself, but what words she had said hung in the air between them.
Sam opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of mineral water. He unscrewed the cap, tossed it in the garbage and took a long swallow. Lowering the bottle, he said, “Do you trust me?”
Quietly, “Yes.” He nodded, slowly, eyes on the floor. He raised them. “I’ve got a problem I need to work out for myself.”
Harriet looked as though she might cry. But she didn’t. She closed her eyes for a moment, raking her teeth over her lower lip, and reopened them. “Okay,” she murmured. “Okay.”
“I just can’t talk about it now,” he said, shoulders slumping, moving toward the door.
She caught his hand as he went by and pulled him back a step. He looked at her, eyes tired. “It’s not us, Sam,” she whispered, “is it? Just tell me that much. We haven’t—” Her mouth pressed into a line.
Silence. “No, honey,” he said, brushing her cheek with the back of his hand. “It’s nothing like that.” He paused, tilting her head up. “Trust me,” he said. She nodded and Sam left the room.
PART II
18
THE MEMORIAL SERVICE
It took almost a month, but Rosanne managed to pull things together to hold a memorial service for Frank. After trying for a week to track down the scattered remains of Frank’s family, she had given up and had his body cremated. The undertaker was still holding his ashes, waiting for instructions. Instructions Rosanne was not sure of. She was still waiting to hear from Arlington Cemetery in Washington, D.C.
“Cardiac arrest,” was what it said on the death certificate and that was the line Rosanne used. And it was true. During the frantic efforts of the emergency-room team to keep Frank alive, to drain the deadly dosage of heroin and cocaine in his body, his heart had stopped. They had tried everything, for almost an hour and a half, but Frank slipped away.
Four times before Rosanne had been in that emergency room, willing her husband back to life. Four times before the tubes they had put inside her husband had sucked the toxins out of him in time. Four times before the death rattle in his chest had been driven out. And this last time, after Dr. Karrel pronounced her husband dead, Rosanne had kept on sitting there, waiting for Frank to come out of it. But he didn’t and Dr. Karrel kept saying, “Mrs. DiSantos, Mrs. DiSantos,” and then in one awful moment it registered—Frank was really dead this time.
It was the undertaker who had suggested she talk to the pastors of Riverside Church about a memorial service. Rosanne did so, cautiously. The church of her own childhood faith was out of the question. In the beginning of her troubles with Frank she had gone to that church, seeking guidance, seeking help. What she had got was harsh judgments and a declaration of God’s wrath against a life of sin. (“No,” Rosanne had said, pleading her cause, “he’s a veteran who got addicted to drugs while fighting a war for his country.”) Rosanne refused to lie about Frank to a church. If prayers were to be offered in his name, they had to be offered by those who believed in a more merciful God.
She told a pastor of Riverside Church the truth about Frank, about their religious history, about their nonattendance at any church for years. The pastor did not seem surprised, or ruffled by what Rosanne said. He merely nodded, smiled gently at times, and made sounds of understanding. When Rosanne had finished, he told her that God’s love worked through people, and they would be happy to do whatever they could to help Rosanne through her time of grief. He only hoped this would help reassure Rosanne that God indeed loved her and Jason, that He was always there for them, and that Frank was one of His children too, at peace now in His eternal embrace.
A memorial service for Frank DiSantos would be held in the chapel of Riverside Church.
Rosanne could not bring herself to write notes to people, so she had a simple announcement printed that said Frank had passed away and there would be a memorial service. She sent one to the Cochrans, to Amanda, to Howard, to the Wyatts, and finally, after agonizing awhile, to Mrs. Goldblum. Then she sent one to every person in her address book—one that hadn’t been updated for years—and hoped the announcements would find their way to all who cared.
She traveled to Brooklyn only once in those weeks, to see her son, to try to explain to him that his daddy had died. What it meant. It nearly broke her heart to look into those trusting five-year-old eyes (Frank’s eyes) and say that Daddy had gone to heaven to live with God. After, Rosanne took Jason out to buy him a navy-blue suit and made arrangements with his foster parents about the day of the memorial service.
Jason’s temporary guardians, Ruth and Gary Rubinowitz, were at first very sympathetic, very supportive to Rosanne. But then, when Rosanne said she was planning to take Jason back at the end of July, their attitude decidedly shifted. Rosanne said she had to work out new living arrangements, a new apartment—and of course they would see Jason whenever they wanted... It wasn’t anything the Rubinowitzes said, but when they nodded and said they understood, a look was exchanged between them that sent a chill into Rosanne’s heart. But of course they would be sad, Rosanne thought, and she left their home trying to dispel her anxiety.
Rosanne laboriously wrote out the details of Frank’s life for the junior minister, Reverend Harris, who volunteered his services. She hunted through the photographs she had, found one photograph of Frank that she loved (just after his release from the army—how handsome, how healthy, how happy he looked then!) and had it blown up into a 1-1/2 X 2-foot photograph for the service. The minister arranged for an organist and Rosanne went along with his suggestions for music.
She went to Macy’s and, with Mrs. C very much on her mind, bought a black dress, shoes, stockings, and purse. And, with Mrs. G very much on her mind, she also bought a black hat and gloves.
Rosanne ignored all but the long-distance phone messages that were collecting at the Krandell Arms front desk. A stack of letters and notes had also accumulated, but all except those postmarked from outside of the city remained unread, unopened. One night, late, someone knocked on her door and called out to her—it was Amanda, Rosanne recognized—but Rosanne had just lain in her bed, shivering, and had not answered.
Not yet. Soon. But not now.
Rosanne had tried to track down by phone Frank’s best buddies from Vietnam. The first, Freddie, had sounded drunk on the phone (at eleven in the morning) and so Rosanne had not pressed an invitation to the service. But then she located Ron, Frank’s second best buddy, in Ithaca, New York, and his response to the news had comforted Rosanne. He had been upset his voice broke when he asked what had happened—and he said of course he would be at the service, and yes, he would feel honored to say something about Frank. Rosanne’s efforts failed to turn up any other army buddies.
Two days before the service, on Wednesday, Frank’s older brother surfaced in Chicago. Rosanne’s announcement had reached him; it had been forwarded from his address of ten years ago in Nashville. He also said he would come to the service, and sure, he would say something about Frank but no, he was sorry, he had no idea where his other brother was.
The memorial service was on Friday, July 4, and it was a brilliantly sunny day. It had never registered with Rosanne that it was a holiday—much less t
he day of the Liberty celebration. When she left the Krandell Arms that morning for the church, she was confused and a bit frightened to see hundreds of people streaming down 94th Street to Riverside Park. Cars were parked everywhere; groups with hampers and straw hats and blankets and radios and chairs and binoculars roamed; apartment windows all along West End Avenue were flung open, parties going on inside.
“Operation Sail,” one man told her, looking at her as if she were crazy. “The boats—the tall ships—they’re sailing up the Hudson at noon.” (Here everyone was jumping about in Bermuda shorts and this tiny woman was dressed in black, from head to toe.) “Lady,” he added with some urgency, “the Statue of Liberty’s a hundred years old today—where are you from, anyway?”
Rosanne was thoroughly shaken by the time she reached the chapel on 122nd Street. Convinced now that no one would come, no one would come to say good-bye to Frank, she cursed herself for not reading the mail. At least she would have been prepared.
Reverend Harris met her in the lobby and took her inside the chapel. Chairs were still being set up, but Rosanne was awestruck at how beautiful the sanctuary was. Over one hundred years old, its walls were works of art unto themselves, and the stained glass windows were magnificent. The minister guided Rosanne down the aisle to the altar and then stood there, hands folded, waiting for her reaction.
Candles were lit all across the altar, casting a warm, comforting glow around a large gold cross. In the center of the altar, held by an intricately carved mahogany easel, was the photograph of Frank. It was surrounded by vases and baskets of flowers. “You’ve done too much—” Rosanne started, swallowing.
“They were sent by your friends,” the minister said gently, taking her hand. He took her to meet the organist, a parishioner, a middle-aged man who murmured how sorry he was.
The Rubinowitzes arrived with Jason and the minister led Rosanne and her son through a door on the altar into a small study. Rosanne sat down in a leather chair while the minister showed Jason a model of the church. The organ music began and Jason looked to his mother. She patted her lap and he came over to climb into it. Rosanne put her arms around him and absently kissed the top of his head.
In a few minutes Reverend Harris slid open a panel and looked out into the chapel. He turned to Rosanne and smiled. “Many of your friends have come,” he said, stepping back and making a gesture for her to come and see.
Rosanne went to the panel.
Joey, Frank’s brother, was sitting in the second row with a woman Rosanne presumed to be his wife, and a young girl, perhaps twelve years old, who was clearly his daughter. Joey looked good; the years had treated him well.
Across the row, on the other side, were a man and a fair-haired woman. It was Ron—balding—the same face that grinned in the photographs taken over one wild weekend leave in Saigon so many years ago.
There were the Rubinowitzes, looking around at the other people.
Amanda was seated behind Joey, looking serene and lovely in her Tuesday-tea black dress and pearls. Joey leaned over to say something to his wife and Rosanne nearly gasped when she saw who was sitting next to Amanda. It was Howie. He was holding Amanda’s hand, whispering something to her, and then Rosanne could have sworn she saw him kiss her ear.
Rosanne stepped back from the panel for a moment to consider this. For the first time in weeks, a faint smile crossed her face. She looked back outside.
Mrs. C was coming down the center aisle. Alone. Rosanne knew Henry was away; she figured Mr. C was taking a quick pull somewhere. Mrs. C was beautiful in the pale gray dress she wore but seemed—well, kind of fragile or something. She took a seat, looked up at the altar briefly and then lowered her head in prayer.
And, oh, boy, there was the gang from the Krandell Arms, skulking along the back and then sitting down in the back. Buzzy, Creature, Ernie, Lenny and—oh, no—Sissy, tottering about and looking like hell.
Ceily and James were sitting toward the front. James was coloring in a book in his mother’s lap. Ceily looked great.
The Wyatts were coming down the aisle now, with Harriet leading the way in a black suit; Samantha, clinging to her mother’s hand, wearing a blue dress; Althea was in a flaming red number (must have had a fight over that one); and Sam, in a navy-blue suit, was straightening his tie, looking around at the chapel.
Maxie from the newspaper stand, and his wife, were there.
Dr. Karrel from St. Luke’s was there.
Could that be... It was. Nicole, one of Rosanne’s sisters, about forty pounds heavier and with an overweight man Rosanne did not know. Who the teenage boy and girl sitting next to them were was anyone’s guess, since Nicole was only twenty-three— no, twenty-four now.
Zigs and Carson swaggered in and sat down toward the front.
No Mrs. G.
The minister said it was time to begin. Rosanne looked down at her dress, pulled on her gloves, and beckoned Jason to her. She fussed with his hair, straightened his little tie, and bent to kiss him. She took his hand and stood at the door.
“Ready?” the minister whispered.
Rosanne nodded and he opened the door. Without looking at the congregation, she walked into the chapel, sat down in the front row, and helped Jason up into the seat beside her. He behaved like an angel.
The organ music stopped and Reverend Harris’ robes flowed across the altar to the pulpit. He welcomed everyone and opened with a short prayer. He told them why they were gathered together today and offered his condolences and his comfort. “Frank Salvatore DiSantos...”
His name sounded strange to Rosanne, as if she had never met him.
The minister gave a short eulogy, describing Frank as a man of great courage and of gentle humor, a man who had done his best in a difficult world. A son, a brother, a brave soldier, a husband, a father... After he led the congregation in another prayer, he invited people to come up to the altar and share their memories of Frank.
Rosanne turned to look at Joey, but it was too late. Sissy, in blue jeans and a knit shirt that had seen better days, came lurching down the aisle. Rosanne turned back around and closed her eyes. Sissy stomped up the stairs of the altar, went up to the photograph, and cried, “Frank!”
“Mommy—ouch,” Jason said, and Rosanne relaxed her grip on his hand.
Sissy was just standing there, zonked out of her mind, staring off to the heavens. The minister carefully took her arm and guided her down from the altar.
Joey tripped on the chair in front of him but did much better on the way to the altar. He stood by Frank’s picture and cleared his throat several times. His face grew more and more red.
“I’m Frank’s older brother Joe,” he said. He cleared his throat again and spoke, louder. “Of all of us, Frank was the smartest kid in the family. But he was also the dumbest when it came to—courage. We used to go down and play on the old freight train tracks. And like the fools we were, we used to stand on the rails, waiting for trains to come. And one would come and we’d stand there as long as we could. And then Louie would run away, and then Mickey would jump off and then I’d start running—but there would be Frank, standin’ there like Superman, trying to stare down the train. And then at the last second, the very last second, he’d jump off the track and the train would come roaring through.”
Pause.
“And I was seven years older than that squirt!”
People chuckled, softly.
“He was a good kid. I’m glad he was my brother.” Pause. “I’m glad he’s left a son behind.” He looked at the photograph, tapped the corner of it and said, “He was the best-looking kid, too.” Softly, “Wasn’t he?” Joey came down from the altar, ringing his collar with his finger. As he passed Rosanne, she smiled and nodded her head.
Ron rose from his chair. He was impressive. Tall, good-looking, neat, obviously successful at something, he strode up to the altar with a manly gait and faced the congregation without a shred of nervousness.
“My name’s Ron and I serve
d in Vietnam under Sergeant Frank DiSantos.” There was a slight murmur.
Rosanne smiled.
“We were in the infantry and, for those of you who don’t know what that means, it meant we fought in places where more soldiers died than survived.” Pause. “I’d like to share good memories about that time, but, to be honest, I don’t have any. I saw my friends be killed—my brother was tortured to death in a prison camp—and half of my platoon was slaughtered on April 4, 1972, and if it hadn’t been for Frank DiSantos, I wouldn’t be standing here today. I would have come home in a body bag.
“We were ambushed on maneuvers. We had just come out of the jungle and were crossing a field and—” He snapped his fingers. “Our point man’s head blew off and then most of us were down. It happened that fast. The VC had two M-79’s on us—two of our own grenade launchers—and I took a hit in the chest and leg and was just lying there in this damn field, not able to move, with no place to hide even if I could.”
A pause. A smile. “And then all of a sudden I’m being pulled away by the back of my shirt. It was Frank, out there in the middle of this shooting gallery, on his stomach. Out there to get me.” Pause. “And he did. He dragged me out of the field, stashed me, and then went back out and got two more guys before one of our gunships came and took out the VC.”
“A medevac chopper picked us up and I was in the hospital for three months. While I was there I found out Frank had been hit, too, that day he had been carrying a piece of shrapnel in his thigh the whole time.”
Rosanne knew exactly what the scar had looked like, exactly what it had felt like under the touch of her hand.
Ron paused to wipe his forehead with the handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit. “He saved my life. He saved a lot of men’s lives.” He looked at Rosanne and Jason in the front row. “His son should grow up knowing that his dad was a hero.”
The chapel echoed sounds of throat clearing and muffled coughs.
Ceily walked up to the altar. “I’m Ceil, a neighbor of the DiSantoses. I just wanted to say that once when I was short on cash Frank bought me and James enough groceries for a week. He never let me pay ‘im back, either. Frank was like that. You know, anything he had, he’d give some to whoever needed it. He was a hell”—she winked at the minister—”heck of a guy and did the best impersonation of Buddy Holly I ever saw.” Chuckles. She looked at the photograph. “I’m going to miss him a lot. It just won’t be the same without him.”
Riverside Drive Page 25