Page 13 of Supernova

"I think the wind is blowing this-a-way," Enzo says, taking the cigar from his mouth and waving it around like Frankie cares about the direction of the wind. "And I have a clear shot to the green."

"Uh huh," Frankie says with a half-smile. It would insult his manhood to hear it, but Frankie has always found her father's gruff exterior adorable. She sorts through the clubs in the bag that he's attached to the back of the cart, hunting for a four iron. "And when exactly did you take up golf, Pop?"

Enzo sets his cigar on the roof of the golf cart and takes the club from his daughter, inspecting it with narrowed eyes like he's some sort of a golf pro. "I started playing last year, Francesca. Why--you think a guy like me doesn't belong on the links?" He looks around. "Am I the only Italian out here?"

Frankie hears the warning note in his voice and realizes instantly that it's not her he's feeling defensive towards. There are times and places where her parents—though they immigrated to the United States in 1914--look as though they feel like foreigners. They grow uncomfortable, bashful even, as if everyone's eyes are on them. But that's never the case--at least not in Frankie's experience.

"Papa," Frankie says gently. "There is no 'guy like you'--you're one in a million."

Enzo's face softens. "Thank you, Francesca." He walks over to his ball and positions himself. "I went to the course in Flushing Meadows with Mr. O'Connell last summer," he says, naming a man who Frankie has known for most of her life. Mr. O'Connell and his family have been their neighbors in Brooklyn for years. "And I took a shine to the game." Enzo shrugs. "What can I say? I'm a regular Alfonso Angelini."

"Who?" Frankie smiles at her dad as he bends over his ball, getting his club into position.

Enzo swings and whacks the ball, sending it flying over the emerald green grass, and between the palm trees. The blue winter sky is the perfect backdrop for the white ball as it sails towards the flag on the third hole.

"Alfonso Angelini is the best Italian golfer there ever was, Francesca. He has won tournaments, and he has played in the World Cup. Mark my words, I will play one day with Angelini. You'll be so proud of me." Enzo holds a finger in the air as he walks back to the cart to put his four iron in the bag and retrieve his cigar.

Frankie doesn't laugh at this; she knows better. "Okay, Pop," she says. "Why not."

They get back in the cart and Enzo lets out the brake so that they can glide down the fairway.

"I was proud of you, you know," Enzo says, eyes pointing ahead as he drives. "When you were in New York, I was the proudest father there ever was. I told everyone I know, 'My daughter is a Rockette! She's going to be on Broadway--you'll see!' And they all got tired of listening to me." Enzo waves a hand to dismiss the naysayers as he stomps on the brake of the cart. "I was proud, Frankie," he says, turning to look at her. "And then you stopped dancing and I don't know why."

"Papa," she says pleadingly.

They'd left Allegra at the beauty salon near the butcher shop so that she could get her hair washed and set, but Frankie suddenly wishes her mother was there to turn the conversation around. Without a doubt, Allegra would point out here that dancing on stage isn't for respectable women, or that Broadway is just a place for over the hill women who never want to marry, and for men who prefer the company of other men. And she would definitely agree that Frankie marrying a military man was a better life choice than being on stage.

In the absence of her mother's opinions, Frankie swallows and then takes a deep breath. "Yes, I did leave, Papa," she finally agrees. A light breeze picks up and Frankie shivers. She's got a sweater next to her on the bench seat of the cart, and she picks it up and wraps it around her bare shoulders. "I wanted to settle down and make you and Mama proud."

Sitting in the cart, Enzo squints at the group of four men climbing into their own cart and pulling away from the green. "We've been proud of you since the day you were born, Francesca. We lived a lot of life before we had you, and when you came along, you filled our hearts with joy."

Unexpectedly, Frankie feels like crying. "Well, I'm proud of you, too," Frankie says, blinking to hold back the tears. "I know how hard you and Mama worked your whole lives, and you made sure we always had everything we needed."

"Maybe not everything youwanted," Enzo says, wagging a finger at her, "but yes, everything you needed." He's pensive for a long moment. "So then why did you leave it all, Frankie? When you finally got the things you wanted, why did you get married and stop dancing?"

Frankie looks at her hands as she twists them together in her lap. Why had she left? She knows why, but in this moment,she can't imagine why she let anyone else dictate her value, her worth, her future. She shrugs. "I just did, Papa," she whispers.

Enzo shakes his head. The smell of cigar smoke fills the air around them. "Not good enough," he says, tapping the steering wheel with the gloved hand that holds his cigar. "You gave up your dreams and now you're here, and you don't even have children to raise and keep you busy." Enzo holds up a hand to stop Frankie before she starts speaking. "And I'm not hounding you like your mother does about having babies, I'm just saying--a woman without children underfoot needs something to do. Lounging by a swimming pool and drinking wine isn't enough."

Of her two parents, Frankie's father has always been the one to really see her—to see who she is. Never once in her life has she felt as though she's gotten away with anything when Enzo Lombardi was around, but, by the same token, she’s never had to suffer through anything alone, because somehow her dad always knows when something is wrong.

"I know it’s not enough," Frankie says. She's picking at the edge of the sweater in her lap. "I'm thinking about what to do, Pop."

"But again, Francesca, I ask: why did you leave New York? Why did you give it all up? A million girls would love to be a Rockette. You had it—you had it all, and you threw it away.“

Frankie smiles as she remembers the times her parents had come into the city to watch her at Radio City Music Hall, and the way her father had beamed with pride as they waited for her to come out from backstage. The first time they'd come, he'd brought her a bouquet of pink lilies from DiFranco's supermarket in Brooklyn, and she'd turned the same shade as the flower petals as the other Rockettes had filed past,oohingandaahingover Frankie's adorable parents in their finest clothes.

There are reasons she'd left the stage, and even more reasons why she'd fled New York, but Frankie isn't sure that the golf course on a sunny day is the place to get into them. "I just had enough," she says. "Everybody thinks they own you, and at some point, you just want to go back to owning yourself."

Enzo frowns at this and Frankie can see that he's not satisfied with this answer. "Who thought they owned you, Francesca? Who?"

Frankie's breath catches in her throat. She had never intended to talk to her parents--or anyone--about him, and the fact that his name is this close to escaping her lips in front of her father--her father--is almost incomprehensible.

"A man, Papa. Just a man. He...hurt me," she says, smoothing the thin sweater against her bare, tanned thigh in an effort to stop her hands from shaking. “It’s nothing.”

Enzo turns in his seat, his eyes boring into Frankie as she looks at her lap. “Someone hurt you? Who did this? Why?” Enzo nearly thrums with pent up frustration as he waits for his daughter to answer. Frankie can actually feel the anger radiating off him in waves.

She shakes her head. “I left, Papa. It doesn’t matter now.” She can feel her father breathing in and out raggedly next to her. “No one knows, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

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