Under the Sun | 2. Frankie the Butcher

Frankie Ancona shifted his weight onto his good leg. It was more tiring, but less painful and Frankie was determined never to take any sort of pills. They made him lose his edge, and an Italian can’t afford to lose his edge. That was even more important than a leg. He lit up a Lucky Strike and inhaled deeply, holding the smoke in his lungs, hoping it would absorb his worries and carry them away when he exhaled.

It didn’t work. A wraith of smoke drifted away, taking nothing with it but a few soft glimmers of moonlight. But Frankie wasn’t disappointed–it had never worked. He looked at the cigarette, its tip glowing orange in the night, just a few inches from his fingers. That did calm him. He’d seen what that orange glow could do to a man–a man held in place by a couple of other guys. Now, he was playing with it, in full control. With the flick of a finger, it would be suffocated by the puddle of dog piss ten feet away.

It seemed to be the only thing he had control of. In a half hour, he’d be at home waiting for dinner with the kids and grandkids. Everyone would be screaming as if they were blocks away from each other. The children would be howling with glee as they chased each other around the house. None of them would have any idea of the burden he carried–the burden he carried for them. And it took more and more energy to keep up that wall. If it wasn’t for his eldest daughter, Lisa, he didn’t know if he could do it at all.

His throat tightened as acid bubbled up from his stomach. Shaking, he took a roll of extra strength Tums from his pocket, peeled away the wrapper and popped four discs into his mouth. He rubbed his chest as he chewed, “That was a bad one.”

Lisa had been born prematurely, tiny, weak and blue. Frankie had never experienced fear like he had that early morning when she was born, not even when he lost his leg. The instant he saw her, her life meant more to him than anything–even his edge. The nurses whisked her away. She was silent and her arms and legs moved slowly.

More nurses herded him off to a waiting room where he waited anxiously, eating Tums every five minutes. A doctor came in to assure him everything was alright. But Frankie knew death when he saw it. It was a constant battle, and life never seemed to go back to normal after that. Though she was still tiny, weak and quiet, Lisa did survive. And she was smart–the smartest person Frankie had ever known–though emotionally, she was still a child. She had never married and remained at home, usually sitting quietly alone in her room, drawing, whispering to the cat or writing in her diary.

It was Lisa Frankie was thinking of when he took out the loan, though Sammy called it an “advance” at the time. In any event, it hadn’t seemed like a big deal to him. He knew business would have to pick up again, eventually. He just needed some cash to get by and Sammy had always been close to the family.

It had been a year now and Sammy was getting impatient. Tonight was his strongest threat yet: “You know if it wasn’t for your aunt, you’d be bleeding right now?” sent via one of Sammy’s boys–Frankie didn’t know which, he couldn’t keep track of them all. He wished he had some sons, but somehow only ended up with four daughters and involving their husbands would be involving them.

The stories about Frankie’s aunt and Sammy had been rehashed around the dinner table for years. The old woman had always been a bit off-balance, giving the girls her used stockings or makeup for Christmas gifts. One year she had wrapped up her toaster and gave it to Lisa for Christmas.She had been married to Frankie’s uncle longer than Frankie’s own parents had been married. Then one day he disappeared, never to be found. It was then she started spending all of her time with Sammy, neglecting family functions completely until she was mysteriously committed to a mental hospital and forgotten by everyone. Except as the subject of much speculation.

Whatever her shortcomings, the old woman seemed to be the only reason Frankie was safe for the moment. He wondered if she was still alive.
Frankie was snapped out of his daydream when his Lucky Strike bit him. He flicked it vengefully, with perfect aim, ten feet away and smiled at the satisfying sigh it gave as it was extinguished.

Taking a deep breath to prepare himself for the evening at home, Frankie returned to the shop to close up. He untied the bloody rags from his waist and threw them in a large black trash bag. The blood-stained knives went in the dishwasher and he grabbed his coat, hat and the full trash bag. Limping toward the front door, he snapped his free fingers. He’d forgotten something. It was more of an effort for Frankie than it would be for most. He dropped the bag and limped back into the cutting room. He took a package of meat wrapped in a plastic bag and went out the back door again. The remnants of the Lucky Strike partially floated in its puddle like a body bobbing up in the river.

Frankie closed the top of the trash dumpster and left the package of meat sitting atop. He went back to the door and paused, propping himself against the frame with his shoulder. He fished out another couple of Tums and chewed them up, rubbing his chest.

“Gotta stop sneaking bites of pepperoni,” he scolded himself.

He limped back inside to the laundry bag and shut off the lights and locked the door behind him. The red neon of the “Closed” sign tinted the moist pavement of Broadway. The cement was sweating, it was so hot. He turned to gaze into the darkened deli, letting the emptiness absorb into himself. Then he headed home to Lisa, who would be waiting by the window in her darkened room upstairs.

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