Page 18 of Everything We Thought Was True
Anthony jumped up and down, chanting, “Ice cream, ice cream,” while slapping Frank’s leg with excitement.
Frank smiled. Such a sweet, silly boy. Lena giggled at her brother. It was times like this when Frank hated himself and couldn’t bear what he was doing to his family.
“Sure, that sounds great. I’m just going to jump in the shower first. I’m still feeling dirty from work earlier this morning.” Frank watched Teresa swallow his lie. He headed down the hall, hoping to scrub away any evidence of his infidelity, along with his guilt.
Frank sensed something brewing beneath the surface with Teresa, a kettle about to whistle. He kept waiting for her to question him more and voice her suspicions. But she didn’t. Her silence was often louder and more powerful than if she’d screamed those unuttered thoughts at the top of her lungs. Every time she let him get away with his lies, it made him feel even worse, as if he almost wanted to get caught. They kept going around in circles, with him feeding her lies and her accepting them without putting up a fight. He guessed she wanted the lies to be true more than she wanted to know the truth.
As he showered, Frank thought back to the first time he’d met Teresa. It was summer 1965. While driving his Chevy on North Avenue in New Rochelle with his cousin Dino, he spotted Teresa walking with her friend. She’d looked so self-assured, like she was exactly where she was supposed to be, doing exactly what she was supposed to be doing at that moment. Years later, he would think how ironic it was that he’d noticed her maturity, as he would come to find out she was only sixteen years old at the time. She walked with her head held high, periodically laughing and throwing her head back, carefree, like a breath of fresh air.
During their introductions, Frank stole some good, long looks at Teresa. She wore a gray box-pleated skirt and a lavender sweater, with a matching cardigan draped over her shoulders. She was taller than him by about an inch, even with her penny loafers on. Her hair, styled in a bouffant, was a striking black. She had pale, creamy skin, small lips, and a bit of a crooked smile. And her eyes were the color of chocolate with specks of caramel. She had wide hips and full breasts, a long neck, and shapely legs.
He was drawn to her. And the feeling seemed to be mutual, as she kept giving him that crooked little smile. After some mutual flirting, Frank asked her to go dancing the following Friday night at Glen Island Casino, and she said yes.
They danced the night away, and it amazed Frank that for a full-figured girl, she was so light on her feet and graceful. The different expressions moving across her face entranced him as they danced. At one moment, Teresa’s face would be a study in determination. Then she would shake her head and smile as if she realized how seriously she’d been concentrating.
Frank wanted to dance with her all night long. She felt soft and comforting. Holding her had made him feel at home in a way he’d never felt before. He’d thought that perhaps with Teresa at his side, he could drown out the feelings he’d been trying to deny.
Entering the kitchen after his shower, Frank felt nauseated when he saw Teresa at the table and remembered how frantic and desperate he and Henry had been, hastily tearing off their clothes to get closer. Even though he’d just showered, he felt dirty.There’s something wrong with me.God in heaven, what have I become?He reeked of desire and betrayal. He could smell it coming off him no matter how much he’d scrubbed himself.
Teresa looked at him in the doorway and smiled, gesturing with motherly pride at the kids, who were engrossed in a puzzle with pieces scattered all over the table. Frank smiled back and sighed. Helonged to see himself through Teresa’s eyes—a straight man with a loving wife, working a good job to support his family. He struggled to be that reflection. But he was losing the fight. He hated leaving Teresa alone so much. He still loved her. She was his wife. Hiswife.Frank said the word silently to himself like a talisman, thinking if he repeated it enough, it would help him break free of the spell that he found himself under.
Teresa came over, grabbed his hand, and squeezed it. Surprised, he felt his body relax. Maybe Teresa wasn’t really suspicious, trying to catch him in an act of betrayal. But it didn’t matter. He felt guilty all on his own. Guilt was a familiar foe, something Frank had grown up with as a Catholic.
He thought of the church with its traditions and rituals. Frank hadn’t been to church in ages. Suddenly, he felt a need to go to confession—a powerful pull, like a beacon calling to him.
Frank stood on the steps of a church he’d never set foot inside. He watched three old women walking out with their heads covered in scarves. They reminded him of his mother. He’d chosen this church two towns away, on a Saturday afternoon, because he didn’t want to bump into anyone he knew. But everyone looked like they could be someone he knew.
I’m paranoid, he thought.
Frank used to go to Mass regularly but hadn’t gotten any comfort from it the way his parents had. He felt trapped by sin and guilt. It had actually begun when he was much younger, while he was an altar boy. He felt like a fraud. Every week, he took the host during communion and wanted to believe his sins were forgiven and he was pure and whole again, but he sensed that was a lie. Even if it was true, he would continue to have blasphemous fantasies about other boys, and the sins would start accumulating again. It was a viciouscycle and not one he cared to repeat week after week, so he stayed away once he and Teresa were married. She sometimes still went to Mass with the kids, while he made excuses such as needing to take an extra weekend shift at Drifters or tinker with something on the boat. But he noticed even she didn’t attend church as much as she used to.
Now he was back, and as with riding a bike, he knew exactly what to do. He went through the familiar motions. Frank genuflected as he passed the altar on his way to the confessional. He entered the dark space and could sense the priest on the other side of the screen, more than he could make out the man’s shadow.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” Frank said, reciting the words he’d said so many times in the past.
But this time was different.How can I tell him what I’m really thinking and doing?He feared his sins were beyond forgiveness. But he didn’t feel unforgivable. He felt confused, sad, and flawed. Frank opened his mouth to speak, but only a tiny sound came out. He stopped.
“Yes... go on. Tell me what is heavy on your heart,” the priest said soothingly as if he were speaking to a child.
“I’m sorry, Father.”
“Yes, I know. What are you sorry for now?” The priest spoke with an Irish lilt that made him sound friendly and approachable.
But Frank couldn’t go on. He couldn’t tell this priest—this holy man—he was having an affair with another man. Sodomy was a sin in his religion. The thought of telling a priest what he was doing made him cringe with shame.
Frank rose abruptly. “I’m sorry, Father.” It was barely audible, a whisper that got lost in the dark, confined space. Frank tore aside the curtain and broke free of the confessional. He hurried down the aisle toward the back of the church. He stopped at the altar, genuflecting one last time, and said quietly, “I really am sorry.”
ACT 2: THE CHARADE
Chapter Ten
LENA - ORANGE, CA
June 2015
Ipulled my Fiat convertible out of the driveway of our home in Old Towne Orange to brave the traffic to downtown LA. It was a beautiful blue-sky Southern California kind of day, but the Santa Ana winds howled. I remember my dad mentioning the Santa Ana winds to me before I moved out west, but until I experienced them, they’d been a hard concept to grasp. I’d thought,What’s the big deal? It’s just wind, but they took on a life of their own, like an extraterrestrial being that haunted my days.
The cypress trees bent as though leaning in to hear a juicy bit of gossip. A few oranges had fallen off their branches in our front yard, their bright color contrasting starkly with the drab brown of the mulch, announcing that something was amiss—reflecting my mood.
