Frankie

 

To sum it all up, my bruised childhood began more or less while I was in the womb. Of course, I don't remember any of that, but maybe you do. I wonder what it was like being yanked from warmth by cold latex covered hands and having a cold blast of air cover every part of my naked flesh. For the most part that stuff is pretty hazy along with...oh about...the next five years of my life.

My brother Frankie was born on January 24 which is exactly one week after my birthday. Believe it or not, I still remember that day clearly. It was really early in the morning and it was still dark out. I woke up because Jeff, my father, he was violently shaking me and yelling, “Get the hell up! We have to go to the fucking hospital and you're in here sleeping your goddamn ass off.” It turned out that my mom went into labor while she was working the late shift at her job.

I got up, slipped my jeans on over my pajama pants, and put my sneakers on. Jeff shoved my arms into the sleeves of my coat, zipped me up, and we left the house.

The car was filled with cold air. I sat in the front passenger seat. I inhaled slowly through my nose and exhaled through my mouth while I watched my breath become visible and disappear as quickly as it came.

We pulled up to the hospital which was surrounded with a large black fence with the initials WHB enclosed in a circle and welded unto the gate in front of the entryway. As we walked up the black asphalt ramp to the stairs of the hospital, Jeff began muttering something about behaving myself and not trying to “cause a scene in the hospital unless you want what's coming to you boy!” The redbrick hospital had a lot of large windows. Some rooms had plants in the windows and others had children's drawings taped to them. I figured that some people had been hospitalized there for a while and decided to decorate the place to make themselves feel more at home.

We passed a couple of ambulances in the hospital lot. There were big white vans with blue and orange lettering on their sides reading Washington Hospital of Boston. There were also big orange and red rectangular lights on the top of the vans. As we were walking up the hospital stairs an ambulance burst into the emergency entrance with its sirens wailing. I couldn't see the person who was inside of the ambulance because Jeff was pulling me up the stairs. I knew I didn't know whoever it was but I sort of wished that the stranger would survive whatever had happened to him or her.

After Jeff and I walked through the automatic glass doors, everything was white or some other bright uplifting color. We got off the elevator on the fourth floor, the maternity ward, and walked down a long corridor on white tiles with little specks of blue in them. There was a large window at the end of this corridor, which was letting in a huge amount of sunlight; it was blinding. The sunrays streamed into the pale blue walls and danced along the corridor. My life was changing. While we were still in the light I looked up at Jeff but I could hardly see him. I knew he was there because of his snarling “what the hell you looking at?” I was squinting my eyes because of the sun, but there was something else, but I don't know what. I just couldn't see him. I just followed his voice and footsteps. He didn't belong there. My life was changing.

Once I took one look at my baby brother's ghastly pale soft as a cloud skin and bald head, I felt this soul capturing feeling. I thought he smelled like heaven. The whole experience was almost indescribable. I was floating. My mind was packed with 10 million different things to say or do and I couldn't pick one.

My parents and I never really got along so well—not even then—and for Christ's sake I was only six! You know all those lame therapists and stuff who wear glasses and talk in really nasal annoying voices who'll tell you something like: “Small kids have a hard time adapting to a newborn being at home and they often become consumed with jealously and hatred towards what they will see as an intruder in their already established household,” or something like that. Well, I'm no psychologist but…it's a truckload of crap. I loved my little brother from the day I laid eyes on him. I knew from the moment that his little hand grasped my small finger that he would be mine to love and pay attention to—since my parents hardly ever did.

Good ol' Frankie and I did everything together. He was the best. I remember helping him take his first step. Geez I was even the kid's first word “co-dee.” He made my name sound so sweet and innocent “co-dee.” I was so accustomed to the frightening, cold, distant sound of Jeff's voice when he screamed my name “COODYYY.”

I was in the den one day with Frankie, who was then two years old. He was playing with some colored shape blocks that used to be mine and he was trying to shove the big red star into the slot for the big green hammer so of course, it didn't fit but he was having so much fun trying. Little kids, go figure. They have so much fun doing anything. They have the most imagination. I was busy playing with my Batman action figures. Mom had gotten us those toys the Christmas before last—she was cool sometimes when she wasn't pretending she was blind. I got up, walked over to Frankie, and showed him where the big red star was supposed to go. He went ecstatic. He was smiling and laughing. Then he pulled my stubby nose and grabbed my round face with his little hands. I looked deep into his eyes until I saw the reflection of my hazel eyes in his black pupils.

All of a sudden Jeff crawled out of a dark corner of the living room that he was sitting in while watching television and yelled, “Get these fucking toys up off the floor. Go to your damn room after you're done, and take the brat with you!” At that moment I felt like fire. Something was burning inside me and the dingy beige walls began to spin. I started to feel a hot prickling sensation in my toes and it worked its way up. Then my knees were on fire and my chest and I bet my eyes were blood red. I began picking the toys up off of the floor. I walked over to the toy chest with my hands full of figurines. I dumped them into the chest, which had the letters C T H scraped into the wood. I scratched those letters on it when I was six. They're my initials Cody Tyler Haley. There were still some toys on the floor that I was going to pick up after I dropped off the first batch but I guess I must have stood in front of the chest looking at my initials for too long or something because Jeff became furious and ran towards me yelling, “What are you doing you crazy idiot? You're not picking those goddamn things up quick enough.” Then he grabbed his wooden board from the corner. It was about two feet long and six inches thick. The sight of that board made my palms sweaty and I swear I started to shake. I reached out and held on to the toy chest. I felt my feet being lifted off the floor and Jeff began to pull my legs toward him. I was being split in half. I thought my little arms were going to be pulled out of their sockets. I couldn't hold on anymore. My fingernails streaked across the top of the toy chest as I tried to claw into it. Suddenly, Jeff let go of one of my legs and grabbed one of my arms. As soon as he did, my face hit the floor, blood started spilling from my nose decorating the floor with big red polka dots, one of my bottom teeth had gotten cracked, and a lump began to swell on my forehead.

Frankie was crying during Jeff's fit of rage and he had his hands up to his ears. “Please God, let Frankie stop crying before Jeff goes after him,” I pleaded. Jeff still had hold of my arm and leg so when he dropped me I fell about three feet to the floor. He started to walk towards Frankie screaming “Stop that crying you little asshole! You have motherfucking toys that you leave all over the goddamn place and a clean diaper and you're still crying. What is it? Is all this not fucking good enough for you? Huh?” He was saying all of this while flinging his arms in the air like someone possessed. I couldn't let him hit Frankie. I don't know where I got the strength from, but I picked myself up off the floor and staggered towards Jeff and Frankie. I raised my left leg and aimed. Jeff howled a sharp OWW! as he felt the stinging in his calf. He turned around like a madman and said, “Now you've done it.”

My mom had just walked in carrying groceries. She heard Frankie crying and she saw what a bloody mess I was. The loud crash of a jar of strained peas hit the floor, which sprayed unto my momÕs sneakers and white linen dress. The jar was followed by the soft thud of a pack of diapers. She grabbed Frankie off the floor, and begged Jeff to let me go. “For God's sakes, Jeff, he's just a kid,” she said. He let go of me and then he punched her. Just like that—he punched her. After she was hit I grabbed Frankie before she dropped him. My face hurt. I pinched my nose to stop the bleeding. I had remembered Mom always telling me that it helps a bloody nose. He chased her into their room so I really don't know what happened next, but I heard a frightening commotion.

Frankie looked a little bewildered by my appearance. I was a mess. We walked through the hallway on the long red rug past Mom's room to our room. I put Frankie in bed and covered him with our faded Batman sheets. I closed the bedroom door then I laid down next to Frankie. Before I closed my eyes I looked around the room. It was empty. The white walls were bare except for a little framed mirror hanging on the wall opposite the closet. The hard wood floor seemed to be rising upward as the ceiling with one measly light bulb hanging from its center, seemed to be pressing downward. I closed my eyes and went to sleep. It was only two o'clock in the afternoon but it felt like 2 a.m.

The years flew by like that. My clothes always covered my bruises. My chipped tooth and various lumps were blamed on typical little kid accidents like falling down the stairs while pretending to be Spiderman or falling off a bike or skateboard. I didn't even own a damn skateboard. There were some days when we all escaped Jeff's wrath but they didn't outnumber the terror-filled days.

Frankie was a smart kid. By the time he was twelve years old and in the seventh grade, he was reading Hamlet, Julius Caesar, and The Catcher in the Rye. He loved it. He could write essays on those books and everything. He was in Robinson Junior High School while I went to Lincoln High which was only a few blocks away. That made it really easy to meet up with him after school so we could walk home together. I always stood across the street in front of the school entrance where all the kids came out after school was over and waited for Frankie. He could always spot me because of the yellow and black hiking knapsack that I always used to carry, as if I was going on a trek across the damn United States or something. Once there was this fancy car parked out front of Frankie's school, so I ripped a piece of loose-leaf from my notebook and wrote on it in big letters FRANKIE HALEY. I stood in front of the car holding up that paper like I was his chauffeur waiting for Frankie to come out. I knew he would get a kick out of it. As soon as he saw me standing there he started cracking up. He was hysterical. He grabbed the paper, crumbled it, and punched me in the stomach—playfully of course; he'd never hurt anybody. “You're a comedian,” he said.

As we were walking, he started talking about Hamlet and how a ghost appeared to him to tell him that his father was murdered and how he had to avenge his father's death. Frankie went on for a while as we walked past O'Mally's candy store where I stopped to get a Snickers bar. I got Frankie a Twix candy bar—he liked that better. This Hamlet kid seemed pretty messed up with his mother marrying his uncle and all. Anyway, Frankie started telling me about this kid in his class who said that Hamlet was crazy because he started walking around without any shoes on and even killed a guy behind a curtain thinking he was a rat. Frankie insisted that Hamlet wasn't crazy. “He just had a plan that's all,” Frankie said. “Well, what do you think?” he asked me.

“About what?”

“Was he crazy?”

I didn't want to tell him that I never read Hamlet or that I hardly went to class and that I made phony doctor's notes on the computer at school with some hospital or clinic name printed on it and signed it doctor so and so or that when I did go to class I daydreamed about nothing in particular or slept with my eyes open or that my grades were somehow just enough to get by. I didn't want to tell him that. I put my arm around his shoulder and said, “Listen Frankie, you're a smart kid. If you think the guy wasn't crazy, then he wasn't. Your opinion is most important. Don't let this kid tell you that you're wrong. Your enemy is not always right but he's not always wrong just because his opinion is different from yours.”

“Thanks Code.”

I had this crazy poem in my pocket at the time. I had actually paid attention in English class that day because the teacher had us read this poem. It disturbed me. I ripped it out of my textbook but decided to keep it in my pocket instead of throwing it out at least until I figured it out. I heard someone yell Frankie's name from behind. It was one of his friends from school. “Hey you wanna play some stickball?” Kevin asked him.

“Yeah,” Frankie replied.

“O.K. but don't stay out too late Frankie,” I said.

“Thanks Code. Can you take my knapsack home with you?” He handed it to me and ran off with Kevin in the opposite direction from which I was walking. They met up with the rest of their friends on the corner and walked toward McCellen Avenue, where they always played stickball. I looked at them and wondered if he had ever told any of them about what went on in our house. I knew he didn't. He wouldn't tell anybody. Besides he hardly got hit at home and my altercations with Jeff or the Dark Shadow as Frankie and I used to call him, were not as numerous since I'd gotten older and bigger. Our house was on Forrest Avenue—only one block from McCellen Avenue. Frankie and I always took the long walk home.

I don't want to tell the whole story because I'm going to get all sappy and maybe start crying and I'm not doing such a good job of keeping my eyes dry as it is but, Frankie never came home that night. He was out there on McCellen Avenue and some kid hit a homer. He ran out in the intersection that for God's sake I warned him about. The cops said it was a Jeep Cherokee. They said it was a hit and run, but Kevin got the plate numbers. The guy ended up doing time for DWI and all that other stuff.

When I saw ol' Frankie at the funeral I felt the loneliest I had ever felt. He didn't look the same but I guess they never do. I left early. I couldn't take it. I went home and when Jeff and Mom walked in, I went ballistic. “Why'd you have to be such a jerk all these years huh?” I asked Jeff. “He wouldn't have been out there if he wasn't afraid to come home, you asshole! One of the few people I loved and…and…” I couldn't finish my sentence. I couldn't hold the tears back any longer. I sobbed out of control and slumped down to the floor holding my head in my hands.

“Now calm down Cody,” Mom said. “We are all going to miss Frankie, but we have to keep going.”

My mind started to scramble.

“These things happen,” she said with a lump in her throat.

My mind started to fry.

Jeff spoke: “Now Cody we're going to get over…”

That's when my mind exploded. I bolted up off of the floor and punched Jeff square in the jaw and kicked him while he was on the floor. I told Mom not to touch or help him and I threatened him not to lay a hand on her. I ran out of the house. I ran until I was out of breath. I ran into a four-story walk-up and ran up to the roof. I stood there for a while panting like a dog. I was still crying. I took a seat on the floor, wiped my face off with my tie, and leaned back on the roof's edge. I still had my black suit on and there I was sitting on the roof of a building that I didn't even live in looking like the damn FBI or something. I put my hand in my right pocket and pulled out that crazy poem. I was still walking around with that thing everyday since that afternoon that I last saw Frankie. It was called “My Papa's Waltz” by some guy named Roethke. Some jerk in class as well as my teacher said that it was a poem about family. They said that it was about a father and son who were having a grand ol' time dancing around and what not. I don't know what they were reading but I just didn't see that. It started something like:

The whiskey on your breath
could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.

I thought to myself when I read it that this "father is drunk off his ass." Not only that he had his poor boy around him and the kid was dizzy and hanging on like death. Like Death.

The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.

Here's where it all unfolds. Why is this poor kid's ear scraping a buckle if his father was only dancing with him? Even if the kid was standing close to his father his ear would be pressed against the buckle not scraping it! Scrape! That only happens when his belt is off his waist and he's hitting you with it and making sure you get a couple stings from the belt buckle. I would recite the rest for you but it's too depressing.

When I stood up again, I saw this homeless guy walking…well, staggering on the sidewalk. “Poor bastard,” I thought. Some kids came running down the block. They came from the direction the homeless guy was walking towards. They were playing manhunt, which is like freeze tag except you don't get three chances to be frozen before you're out of the game, you only get one chance, and once you're tagged you're gone.

They were running and playing. I saw a bottle of liquor in the homeless guy's hand and something shiny in his other hand. I whispered softly, “Oh God! What is he going to do to them?” I saw an empty soda bottle on the floor of the roof and I threw it at him. I yelled, “Get away from them you sick bastard!” He dropped his liquor and the shiny object and ran. The kids ran in the other direction. I ran downstairs to the street to make sure nobody got their hands on his weapon. When I got there I saw a broken bottle and a silver harmonica.

Something hit me like a flash of light. I didn't like what I was becoming. I asked God and Frankie for help. Something told me to go home.

When I got there Mom was sitting on the brown plaid couch staring at the television. She stared at the blank screen as if it were telling her something. I sat next to her and held her as she stroked my hair with her warm hand. I don't know why she stuck around Jeff so many years. She'd gotten her fill of beatings too. It wasn't her fault I guess. I wanted to ask her why we hadn't run away and moved to Australia or something, but we didn't say anything we just cried until we fell asleep right there on the couch.

Jeff wasn't there when I woke up. I found out he wasn't there when I had come in the night before either. He left. I don't exactly know why he decided then and there to leave. I guess he knew that we were broken and that he couldn't break us anymore than we already were. I don't know what possesses people like him to do what they do. In life—it happens, you know. Maybe some day we'll be sitting around talking about life and we'll figure it out.

Mom still lives out here in Boston, just not in the old house of course. There were too many bad memories there. You know her right? She is the lady that's always watching you while your mom is at her job and I'm at work in the post office. She makes funny goo-goo faces at you right? I bet you hate that. She said that she's making some baby sweater for you that says Franchesca on it. You looked like him from the day you were born. Hey since we're on the subject, How's he doing up there? I figured that maybe you ran into him since you came from the same place he's been staying for the past couple of years. Anyway, I'd tell you more, but you're too young to understand any of that. I'll tell you all about it when you're older.

Back to the Top