Page 7 of Everything We Thought Was True
Even with flats on, Teresa knew she would need a break from dancing soon. Her calves were going to be so sore in the morning. But it was deliciously worth it.
Hours later, a ringing phone awakened Teresa from a deep sleep. She glanced at the bedside clock. Two o'clock in the morning. She groggily leaned over to reach for the phone, praying it didn’t wake Anthony, but Frank had beaten her to it.
“Hello?” he said. Through the glow of the streetlight coming through the window, she watched his face. “Rosa, what’s wrong?”
Teresa heard alarm in his voice. She sat bolt upright in bed. Frank listened intently, cradling the phone and looking at her.
“It’s Marco. He’s missing,” he mouthed.
Not again.Teresa hadn’t heard from her little brother in the last few days and knew when he was radio silent, it was never good news. He almost always surfaced in some kind of trouble.
After her father, Sergio, passed away of a heart attack at the age of fifty-two, Teresa had worried about her mother, Rosa. Even though Sergio was a difficult man to live with, prone to bouts of drinking and treating Rosa as a second-class citizen, she didn’t know any other life than the one she had with him. Teresa worried her mother would find it a challenge to navigate life alone after so many years of being part of a couple, even one with glaring imperfections.
Teresa and her two brothers had still been living at home after Sergio died. Then, one by one, they’d moved on. First, Teresa’s big brother, Sal, went to college in Pennsylvania on a scholarship, met his wife, got a great job in the area, and settled there, to Rosa’s dismay. Teresa married Frank a few years later—a joyous occasion for her mother but one that meant Teresa left home. That left only her younger brother, Marco, at home, which had proved to be a burden rather than a comfort. Ever since Sergio died, Marco had struggled with alcohol and drug addiction, often going on benders where he was drunk or stoned—or both—for days or weeks at a time and failing to come home. The task of roaming the streets, looking for him before and after work or in the wee hours of the morning, usually fell to Frank, who’d dragged a disheveled Marco back to their apartment too many times for Teresa to count, letting him sober up before bringing him home to a worried-sick Rosa. On those occasions, Teresa would try to reason with Marco, begging him to keep it together for their mother’s sake. He would make promises he couldn’t keep—to get help, to make a new start, to really try this time. But then the drama would happen all over again, like a well-choreographed play they couldn’t stop acting out.
“I’ll go canvass the usual spots,” Frank said. “Try not to worry, Rosa. I’ll find him.” He nodded, listening. “You’re welcome.”
Teresa’s heart hurt for her mother, who’d had to put up with her father all those years and now had to deal with Marco. She never got a break.
Frank hung up and got out of bed. He pulled on a pair of jeans, grabbed his keys from his nightstand, and kissed Teresa.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’m sorry—”
Frank gently placed a finger to her lips. “Don’t apologize—it’s not your fault.” He shook his head. “Damn kid. I swear, I could kill him sometimes.” Frank clenched his fist. “Although he’s doing a damn good job heading in that direction on his own.”
“I know,” Teresa said, releasing an enormous sigh.
Teresa worried Marco would get so high one day that he would overdose. She’d spent years trying to save him and eventually realized he didn’t want to be saved. So she’d given up trying to change him and instead just loved him for who he was—her lost little brother wasting his life away on drugs.
She loved her family, but they were never easy. Thank goodness for Frank. He was her family now—along with their precious baby. Teresa thought for the thousandth time about how lucky she was to have Frank in her corner. It was the two of them against the world.
Chapter Three
FRANK - NEW ROCHELLE, NY
1968
Driving along Shore Road, Frank smelled the grease frying from the burger joint, Greasy Nick’s, where families sat outside on picnic tables, eating fried clams, french fries, and of course, the signature burgers. Over the soundtrack of opera on his radio, the engines of the muscle cars roared, driven by guidos in undershirts, with thick gold chains around their necks and cigarettes dangling out of the corners of their mouths, staring out with sly smiles and daring you to mess with them. To make the grade, a car had to be a Corvette or a Camaro. No self-respecting west-ender guido would be caught dead driving anything else. And if it was a Z-28 with the T-tops off to let the sun in and the music out, even better.
Yet Frank proudly drove a Cadillac, which he’d gotten as part of his job at the dealership. He didn’t want to be one of the guidos, who were stuck in the old world even though most of them had never set foot on actual Italian soil. They seemed low-class. Sure, he was friendly with some of them—he’d gone to school with them and even worked with a few of them now. His hands and nails were just as dirty from working on cars as theirs were. But he longed to make a better life for himself and his family.
The town of New Rochelle was situated on Long Island Sound, atop a rocky shoreline that signified its tough interior. New Rochellewas for the rough-and-tumble—those who worked hard and could shed their blood, sweat, and tears, all the while striving for a better life for their kids. Only one slice of town was far from typical New Rochelle in class and style—Davenport Neck.
As he approached Davenport Neck, Frank smelled the sea air, its briny pungency pulling him toward it like a siren. He rolled down the window and breathed in a unique mixture of diesel fumes and sea. It invigorated him and made his senses come alive. Seagulls flew overhead, squawking as they dove into the water before arching back up to the sky. This was a different world, on the edge of the sea. It felt freer, more open, brighter. Even though Davenport Neck was a mere ten-minute drive from where he and Teresa lived, as soon as he crossed the little bridge that arched over the inlet, he had arrived someplace special.
Compared to most of New Rochelle, with its modest working-class homes, fast-food joints, and pizza places, Davenport Neck stood out like Cinderella at the ball. The wide streets were filled with mansion after mansion, with expansive green lawns reaching down to the water’s edge, bikini-clad women lying on chaise lounges, champagne glasses in hand, private docks with boats waiting to be taken out for a spin, and Rolls-Royces parked in the circular driveways. There was yacht club after yacht club, with a few beach and tennis clubs thrown in for good measure. Davenport Neck was made for those born with a silver spoon in their mouths, who’d never had to toil away a day in their lives. When Frank dreamed of a perfect place to live, he always pictured Davenport Neck—on the water but a step up from the New Rochelle he’d grown up in.
At the very tip of Davenport Neck sat the Drifters Boat Club, a place that signaled success to Frank. Two years ago, when his boss at the Cadillac dealership had said he could get Frank a boat slip for free in exchange for Frank working part-time at the boat yard, Frank had jumped at the chance. And even though he’d heard that the ownerof the Drifters, Jim Butler, was a real hard-ass, so far, the man had been pretty easy to get along with. It was a dream come true, an invitation to a better life that he couldn’t pass up.
Ever since he was a boy, Frank had lusted after boats. He bought boating and yachting magazines and would sit at the kitchen table, flipping through them, daydreaming that someday he would own one of those beauties. Frank had saved money for years until he had enough to buy a thirteen-foot Boston Whaler. It was a small entry-level boat, but it was his, and he hoped it would be the start of a long line of boats he would own throughout his lifetime. He’d named itHorizonso it would always remind him of where he was heading when steering it.
Frank pulled into the Drifters’ parking lot. Even though it was already six o’clock, he would still have several more hours of light on this summer evening. He’d been glad when Teresa had told him she planned to bring Anthony to see her mother, Rosa, that night, encouraging Frank to take the boat out for a spin and burn off some steam. Knowing his wife, she also wanted to check up on her little brother, Marco, and make sure he wasn’t straying too far from his latest drug-treatment plan. Frank doubted this attempt would differ from the last hundred times Marco had tried to get clean. But that was his Teresa—loyal to those she loved, sometimes to a fault.
He walked down the dock and broke into a huge smile when he sawHorizon. There she was, sitting next to his friend Henry’s boat. He pulled back the cover and folded it up. Then he started the engine, untied the ropes, and slowly maneuvered out of the slip, through the harbor, past the buoy, and into the open water of the sound.
Work at the car dealership had been stressful lately. He was hoping for a promotion soon, but it was taking longer than expected. He wanted to make more money so he and Teresa could move to a bigger apartment—maybe even get a house someday. Andthey wanted to have another baby, hoping for at least two children. He needed to provide for them without constantly worrying about making ends meet. For the time being, he would continue to prove himself at the dealership, while also taking weekend shifts at Drifters. But he was feeling restless. He worried it wasn’t just work stuff nagging at him but that something was resurfacing—a shadow from his past trying to creep back in.
Frank looked out over the bow at the offing in the distance, that part of the sea visible between the boat and the horizon. It held promise and mystery, luring him like a beacon of light. Frank didn’t know if he was running toward the horizon or running away from what he tried to conceal. He realized he’d been running for years. He’d always thought he could outrun what haunted him, but now he wasn’t so sure.
