Chapter Nine
FRANK - NEW ROCHELLE, NY
Frank got out of his car and detected Henry’s cologne on his skin, musky and spicy.
He worried Teresa would detect it. He climbed the three flights of stairs, opened the front door to the apartment, and stood in the kitchen doorway but didn’t step inside.
The kids sat at the kitchen table, boosted on phone books, while Teresa washed dishes at the sink.
“Well, hello. Look who’s home,” Teresa said.
Lena registered his presence and jumped up from her seat to greet him. Anthony joined her, squealing, “Daddy!” They threw their arms around his legs, and he bent down to hug them.
“Hey, you two.” Frank smiled and kissed Lena on the head. “How’s my little Cricket?” She was obsessed with the character of Jiminy Cricket in the children’s movie Pinocchio. “And what about you, kiddo?” He tousled Anthony’s mop of hair, his heart swelling.
But he remained rooted to the spot. He didn’t go over to kiss Teresa because he was nervous about the lingering scent of his infidelity, which was making him feel both guilty and aroused.
Thank goodness he’d popped a mint into his mouth on the way home.
It had become Frank’s habit to carry mints to freshen up.
He mostly did it to prepare himself to see Henry.
But now he realized it also had the opposite effect—to help mask any lingering taste of Henry on his lips and tongue.
“Did you all have a good day?” he asked.
“Yes, we did. And how about you? How was that work event?” Teresa asked. “I bet it felt good to get out of the dealership for the afternoon.”
“Yeah, it was a nice change of pace. Good not to be stuck behind the parts counter all day, you know?”
Frank tried to sound as casual as he could muster.
He hated how easily the lie fell out of his mouth.
There hadn’t been any work event that afternoon.
He’d made up a fake regional meeting in Queens but had really met up with Henry at a motel, where they’d made love.
He’d never taken time off work to meet up with Henry before.
It felt risky, yet here he was, getting away with it.
Over the last few years, Frank had kept up this charade, sneaking time with Henry when he could manage it after work and on weekends.
He told Teresa he was working late at the car dealership or had to go to Drifters to meet with the owner, Jim, or one of the boat owners, or was going out on his boat.
All lies. Frank couldn’t bring himself to tell Teresa the truth, afraid that she would see him as he’d always seen himself—an outcast reciting his lines and trying to pass.
An impostor. If he told her, he was petrified he would lose everything—his marriage, his kids, his whole life as he knew it.
But he suspected he was fighting a losing battle.
No matter how many times he’d told Henry they couldn’t keep seeing each other and he couldn’t keep up this farce, he found himself unable to stop.
Frank knew about the terrible things happening to the gay community, like raids, fires, arrests, and violent attacks, even killings.
He should lie low for his marriage’s sake—and for his safety.
But the affair was like a vortex pulling him back, and he felt powerless to resist. He was so attracted to Henry, to being with a man, and to finally giving in to what he’d known all along was his true nature.
It was a powerful, but dangerous, elixir.
“After we eat, I thought we’d take the kids to the park since it’s still light out. Maybe stop at Carvel for ice cream,” Teresa said.
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. He longed 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. His wife. 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 vicious cycle 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.”