Shoot the Moonlight Out, page 10
“It’s okay,” Francesca says. “I’ll go out with you. What do you want to see?”
“It’s your pick,” Bobby says, flicking the last little bit of his cigarette over the gate. “What’s your number?”
She gives it to him. He’s lucky he’s got a pen in his pocket. He doesn’t usually keep pens in his pocket. Must be fate. This one’s from the dentist’s office where he’s gone his whole life. Dr. Hecker. He used it to sign some form his father asked him to sign the other day. An insurance thing. His father asks him to sign something, he signs without reading. He writes Francesca’s number on the palm of his hand. When he gets home, he’ll transfer it to paper and tack it to his wall.
Max comes out just then, letting the door slam behind him. “What the hell are you doing?” Max asks.
“Talking to Francesca,” Bobby says.
“Don’t do that, okay? Don’t just leave.” Max is laser-focused on him. He’s refusing to even look at Francesca at first, who’s still got her cigarette going, didn’t burn through it quite so fast. But then he does. He gives her a once-over that’s simultaneously gross and dismissive, as if he—an ugly, soft Irish numbers guy—is judging her in a beauty contest and deciding she doesn’t pass muster.
“Sorry,” Bobby says.
“You should be sorry. I’m teaching you the ropes here and you throw it out the window to come sweet talk a gal.”
“I’m right here,” Francesca says. “Why don’t you boys take this elsewhere?”
“Excuse me,” Max says, bile in his voice. “I’m talking to my employee.”
“Hey, Max, I’m sorry, man,” Bobby says. “It’s no big deal.”
“ ‘No big deal’ is how people wind up dead on the side of the road.”
Francesca can’t help but laugh.
“What do you mean?” Bobby says.
“Come on. Let’s go.” Max storms out of the gate, headed for the car.
Bobby mouths an apology to Francesca. She raises her eyebrows, as if to say, What the fuck’s wrong with this guy? Bobby shrugs and holds up his hand, showing how neatly and carefully he’s written her number there. “I’ll call you,” he says.
Another long sizzle. “Okay,” she says.
He follows Max out the gate and back to the car. Max’s behavior has thrown him off. He’d forgotten all about asking if he could just walk home from there. If he’d done that, maybe he could have run back out and had a few more minutes of conversation with Francesca. Or maybe they could’ve just gone on their date now. He didn’t do that, though. He trails after Max and takes it as Max berates him further in the car.
Then, he listens as Max goes off on Francesca, saying she’s not even that hot, what’s he thinking, that she’s clearly nothing but trouble.
Bobby’s not answering him. All he can think about is Francesca. The Sade shirt. The way she pinched her cigarette as she smoked. Her eyes.
Max is talking about Francesca like he’s jealous of her. He’s flushed in the way that only a pale Irishman can get flushed. Splotches of red on his cheeks and arms. Bobby’s embarrassed for him. A fortysomething guy responding this way about a girl of eighteen. Maybe he’s jealous that there’s no scenario where he gets away with talking to her. Maybe he’s wishing for a youth where he might’ve had the guts to ask someone like her out. Maybe he’s a racist fuck. Or maybe it’s just that Bobby’s attention’s divided. Maybe he likes having Bobby to himself.
“You asked her out?” Max says.
“Yeah,” Bobby says.
Max laughs. “You’re a kid. Don’t fall under the spell of a girl like that.”
“A girl like what?”
“You can just see she’s got some tricks up her sleeve. I hate to use the word, Bobby. I hate to use it, but I’m gonna use it. She’s a slut. No doubt. Girls like that, they give off these fumes that blind you. Just like that, you’re down on your knees. Nothing else matters. You’re powerless. You let yourself get pussy-sick, there’s no coming back from it.”
Bobby cringes at Max’s use of that word. It’s not so much the word itself as the way Max says it, like he’s using it to sound hip. Max, who’s probably never even gotten close to a girl. Maybe that’s it. Maybe the jealousy—or whatever it is—is rooted in the fact that not only would he never have been cool enough to talk to someone like Francesca, but he’s never even been laid, the poor bastard. Look at the guy. He’s out of central casting. Pocket protector. Drinks milk. Lives with his parents. The movie of his life would be The Guy Who Never Got Laid.
Bobby’s been laid. Three times. There was Gina, who he went with for two weeks, when he was fifteen. She was two years older and had been around the block. That’s the other thing bugging Bobby. Max calling Francesca a slut. First off, he doesn’t know that. How could he? Second, who cares? Bobby respects experience. Every other way in life, people respect experience. A girl sleeps around, she’s a slut. Nope. She knows her stuff. He likes to learn from people who know their stuff. He didn’t get that virgin/whore complex handed down in his Italian blood. After Gina was Sandy. That was a one-time deal at a party. She had knockers like wrecking balls. She almost crashed in the side of his head with them. He can still remember her breath. Cool Ranch Doritos. Then there was Ally. They dated for two months but they had nothing to say to each other. They slept together once in his bedroom when his dad was out and it was sad. Ally was a sad person in general. Nice but sad.
Max continues: “Okay, Bobby? You listening? Stick with me, I’ll take you places. Get rid of her number. Focus on work. You see how I handled them in there?” He takes his eyes off the road for a second and pulls a folded check from his pocket. “I was masterful. They had a question, and I had an answer. Victoria was eating out of my hand. Was I trying to bang the broad? No way. Come on. I could’ve if I wanted to. I could’ve taken her upstairs to her room right then.”
Bobby sputters out a laugh.
“What? You don’t think so? I know I don’t look like much, but she could smell the money on me. Believe it. Anyhow, my mind was set on one thing. Get the investment. That’s it. And that’s what I did. Because I’m a pro. I’m great at what I do.”
Bobby nods along.
They’re headed back to Bay Ridge. Max puts on his right-wing radio show again. The host’s still prattling on in his sickly voice. Hell is listening to this shit for more than two minutes. Bobby looks at Francesca’s number on his hand. He says it over and over in his head. That way, if it gets rubbed off, he’s got it stored in his memory. He wonders if it’s the landline at her house or if she’s got a cell phone.
More and more, people have cells. He doesn’t, but he wants one. He saves up enough dough working for Max, that’s the first thing he’s getting. Not that he has that many people to call. He just likes the idea of carrying it around. No more payphones. No more beepers. Someone needs him, there he is.
He has the number down cold. He’s wondering when he should call. Today’s pathetic. Tomorrow’s too soon. He can’t wait too long or she’ll forget him. Somewhere between three days after meeting and a week tops. A week might be stretching it. He’s worried Max ruined it for him. All Francesca’s going to remember is that Bobby’s taste in movies is pedestrian and that his boss is a gross jerk.
It’s okay. He can watch some movies in the next few days that might make him look better. He’ll ask Wolfman for some recommendations. Foreign shit. Weird shit. He should’ve asked her what her favorite movies are. He’s kicking himself over that.
“You’re still thinking about her, aren’t you?” Max shouts over the voice on the radio.
“I’m not,” Bobby says, just loud enough to be heard. But he is. Big time. He’s thinking about kissing her fingers, smelling the tobacco on them. He’s thinking about how she rolled that cigarette. He’s thinking about her voice. Her arms. The way she leaned against the fence. He’s reliving their whole encounter on a loop in his memory, wishing he’d said some better things, wishing he’d come off as more memorable. He’s also thinking about smashing Max’s head into the windshield and busting it open like a piñata. He imagines Max’s head is like an eggshell, easy to crack. He bets the fucker bleeds milk. Bobby hasn’t really liked him from the start but now he hates him.
“I’m telling you. Steer clear.” Max beeps at the car in front of him, pounds the wheel.
“Right. I will.” Bobby rolls down the window and listens to the noises outside. An engine backfires somewhere nearby. Men yell at each other. Horns blare. Voices drift from windows.
The music of the neighborhood makes things better. He forgets about Max, forgets that he’s in this beater car going back to that dreary office in Bay Ridge. Forgets that the radio’s blasting this shit talker. The music of the neighborhood tells him there’s a shot that Francesca’s thinking about him too. He’s not sure why he feels that way but he does. Something in all the terrible noise reassures him.
FRANCESCA
Francesca Clarke crumbles the last little bit of her cigarette between the tips of two fingers, dusting it into the front garden. One thing she likes about hand-rolled is no filters. No filters means no guilt over dotting the sidewalk with trash. She always thinks of birds pecking at butts with filters or putting them in their nests, and she gets bummed.
That strange Bobby kid and his creepy boss have just driven away up the block, and she’s feeling the kind of weird she feels when someone she doesn’t know has just asked her out. She wonders if he knew from the second she came down the stairs that he was going to ask her on a date. She wonders what it was about her. It couldn’t have been anything she said at that point, so it must’ve just been a physical thing. Or maybe he didn’t know until they shared that smoke. Whatever. She probably shouldn’t have said yes, but there’s something she likes about him. He has this kind of Matt Dillon quality. Not how he talks or even how he looks but the way he carries himself. Cool and anxious at the same time. Steady and shaky. She’s thinking if she ever manages to make a movie, even just a short, he’s somebody she can use. Everything about him screams of the neighborhood.
She goes back inside. Her mom and grandma are fighting. She gets a drink of water from the tap. It’s not long before the attention turns to her. “What were you and that boy talking about?” Grandma Eva asks.
“Nothing,” Francesca says. “Movies.”
“Always with the movies. Too bad you didn’t care about school the way you care about movies. Did he say anything about his boss? Your mother just threw away a thousand dollars. A thousand dollars that could’ve bought a new stove or washing machine or fixed the roof. Nope, why do anything like that? Instead, she gives it to this bum Max Berry in the hopes that he’s gonna double her money or triple it or whatever he promised.”
Victoria throws a dish towel over her shoulder, fed up with being second-guessed. “Ma, you should hear Stan talk about the money he’s made with Max. How do you think he affords those trips to Vegas and Paradise Island? And that new car he drives? On a teacher’s salary?”
“So, how’s it work? Magic?”
“He told us. He invests. He makes money off our money. That’s how he’s able to offer such high interest rates.”
“You ask me, it stinks. You might as well have set that money on fire.” Grandma Eva turns her attention back to Francesca. “And you, look at yourself, would you?”
“What?” Francesca says.
“Leave her alone,” Victoria says. “How’d you sleep, sweetie?”
“I slept okay.”
“We’ve got these strange men in the house and you dress like that,” Grandma Eva says.
“I didn’t even know they were here,” Francesca says. “What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed? A T-shirt and jean shorts.”
Grandma Eva throws up her hands. “Ah, you make me nervous.”
Her grandmother hates her. She hates that Victoria married her dad, Bill. She hated Bill when he was alive. Everything she did told him she hated him. She hated that he was Black. She hated that her daughter had married him, and she hated thinking that others in the neighborhood disapproved and talked behind their backs. She hates that her only granddaughter is half-Black. She’s racist but mostly it’s rooted in what others will think, which is a truly cowardly form of racism. The first thing she’d said to Victoria when she brought Bill home was “What would your father say?” Grandma Eva’s husband, Grandpa Natale, had died a couple of years before that. His kidneys had gone haywire or something. Victoria loved him, but he wasn’t particularly good to her. He hated everyone who wasn’t Italian, not just Black people but Irish, Polish, German, Jewish, and on down the line. Her whole childhood, Francesca has heard Grandma Eva say things about her like, “What are people gonna think when they look at you?” or “What boy’s gonna want to marry you?” She constantly insinuates that the way she dresses is trashy, that the way she acts is trashy, and that these faults come one hundred percent directly from her no-good old man. It still bothers Francesca, but she’s gotten good at ignoring it. The day will come where she leaves and she doesn’t have to deal with Grandma Eva anymore. Having to move in here after they lost their apartment was the second worst thing that’s happened to her after her dad dying. Victoria tries to make things okay, but there’s not much she can do. Victoria has a good heart. No wonder she went for this money thing. She’s always thinking about ways to try to get them their own place again.
“There’s nothing wrong with the way she’s dressed,” Victoria says.
“She dresses like a puttana. No brassiere? Come on. She shows everyone everything. Why pay for a ticket when you can see the show from outside the gates? And who signed those shorts? The men you’ve been to bed with? God help me.”
Francesca laughs.
“Don’t talk to her like that,” Victoria says, her voice forceful and yet defeated. Francesca knows that her mother can’t really throw punches in a fight with Grandma Eva, can only take them. She’s been absorbing those punches her whole life.
“It’s no wonder, really,” Grandma Eva says. “She gets it from you. All those saloons you used to go to. The outfits. The hair. I’m lucky I didn’t have a heart attack then.” She blesses herself. “I’m just glad your father can’t see her. A granddaughter like this would give him nothing but agita.”
“I don’t need this,” Francesca says. She runs up to her room for her wallet and her boots and then escapes down the fire ladder into the backyard. She knows going out the front door means Victoria apologizing for Grandma Eva, making excuses for her, and Francesca doesn’t have the patience for that right now. She just wants to get the fuck out of the house.
Her old man was too good for this. He deserved more than being stuck in this small world. Victoria is okay—she really loved Bill and they were great together—but she couldn’t let go of Grandma Eva. She had and still has that old Italian sense that family is family, blood is blood, you can’t walk away no matter how bad they are to you, no matter how toxic. If she’d had the guts to stay in the East Village the way Bill wanted to, maybe things would’ve been different. Maybe he wouldn’t have even died. Maybe he would’ve had a regular music gig. He played double bass in jazz bands for a while before giving it up and taking whatever construction jobs he could get. He died in an accident on a nursing home site when Francesca was twelve. Taken out by falling debris. What a way to go. It was Victoria who insisted on moving back to her neighborhood once they were married and Francesca was on the way, going for her teaching certificate and getting a job at PS 48. It was Victoria who pushed against living the bohemian life they both wanted, settling instead for what she knew, trying to fit round pegs into square holes or whatever the fuck.
Her dad was from the Bronx but had moved to the East Village when he was seventeen. He met her mother at a bar called Long Eddy’s one night in 1981. Aside from playing double bass, he was a painter and a poet. He typed poems on index cards and sold them for a buck each in Washington Square. His paintings were abstract. He used spray paint and found objects and lots of glue. He left them behind when they moved back to Brooklyn, to the apartment on Sixty-Fifth Street right before she was born. Art, poetry, and jazz weren’t paying bills and certainly weren’t going to help support a family. They got married at city hall—Grandma Eva was not happy about that—and he vowed to get a steady job. That’s when he started in construction. Victoria always says the joy started going out of him then, and she still feels bad about that. He loved Francesca and he loved Victoria, but he didn’t have anything else. He played softball on the weekends to help clear his head, but it was a beer league and most of the guys were assholes, except for one or two he liked. He never found purchase in the neighborhood, heard whispered slurs and not-so-whispered slurs, was made to feel like he didn’t belong.
Francesca wishes he had some family she could contact, but there’s not really anyone. His parents died when he was in his twenties, before she was born. He didn’t have any siblings. The few cousins he had moved down to Virginia, North Carolina, and Georgia in the late nineties. She wrote a letter to one of them and never heard back. It was an old address.
Moving through the world, she feels really close to Bill, feels guided by him somehow. She lets him guide her now, away from Grandma Eva, away from the crumbling house on Bay Thirty-Fourth Street, and into the city, where things tend to make more sense for her as they did for him.
