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“Don’t you ‘woman’ me, Frank Clyde Ullo,” Maggie said, anger shooting from her eyes.
“Meh,” Frank said, shoving his food to the side. His stomach rebelled and he rose. “Pardon me.”
His family looked up at him, concern etched on their faces.
“What’s going on with Pop?” Michael asked his mother.
Maggie shook her head as Frank left the table. He needed to make it to the lavatory so he could puke his guts out. No big deal, right? He hadn’t been able to hold down anything but applesauce for the past few days. He hated applesauce now.
Minutes later, he emerged from the restroom, shaky on his feet, but determined to return to the table. He’d already spent much of his time in bed, and he wasn’t giving up his Sunday lunch with his boys and Tess… even if she and he weren’t talking.
“Pop?” Michael said, rising and coming to his aid. Taking his elbow, his youngest son steered him to his place at the head of the table. “You okay? Can I get you anything?”
Frank patted his son’s arm as he sank into the chair. Such a good boy. Always had been. Ran a bit wild in school, but always so caring, nursing felled baby birds, teaching children how to play hopscotch, and sitting for hours in the yard contemplating God’s world. “I’m good.”
Joseph raised his eyebrows, as if to encourage Frank to let the cat out of the bag. But this cat would scratch and create havoc in his family.
Maggie had tears in her eyes. His boys sat, eyebrows gathered in concern. And his Tess still stared at her plate, taciturn, an unfeeling statue.
“What your momma wants me to say is that I got cancer and I’m dying,” Frank blurted, slapping a hand on the table. “There, Maggie, I told them.”
A collective sucking in of breaths met his ears.
“Oh, my God,” Laurie cried, clasping a hand over her mouth and turning to her husband. Frankie Jr. sat still as dawn, his mouth open, his brown eyes growing angry. His oldest never liked surprises.
Joseph exhaled with a groan. “Dad… ”
“What? Your mother wants you all to know. So there. Now you do.”
“Frank,” Maggie yelled, tossing her napkin on the table, her face crumpling even as her eyes blazed outrage. “What on God’s green earth is wrong with you?”
“It’s the truth. You been nipping at my heels like a dog wanting me to tell them,” Frank said, trying for a nonchalant shrug even as he was wound as tight as a Swiss clock inside. It was out there for all to know—he was dying.
“Not like that,” Maggie cried before heading at a fast clip toward the kitchen. Laurie and Beth came to the same unspoken conclusion, rose and followed.
Frankie Jr. leaned back in his chair. “Christ, Dad.”
“Hey,” Michael admonished, holding up a hand, his black cassock and white collar stark against his shocked face. His youngest son cast a worried look at Tess who still sat frozen in place. Her eyes were wide and because she’d refused to even glance his way, Frank hadn’t a clue what she thought or felt. “Let’s all take a deep breath and a moment to think before we speak.”
The scrape of Tess’s chair against the floor was the only response to Michael’s plea. His daughter flew toward the living room, not bothering to utter a word.
“Well, that’s getting to be a regular thing,” Frank said, his heart sinking at the sight of Tess running. He’d thought her being forced to talk to him a silver lining in his delivering such terrible news. The slam of the front door told him there was no silver lining. There were just stormy, pain-filled clouds hovering over all of them. Maybe Tess more than anyone else. The hurt between them prevented even an umbrella to shield her from the onslaught of the rain that would fall.
And it would fall. Joseph, the oncologist, and Maggie could talk all they wanted of his beating this, but Frank knew his chances were slim to none. He’d ignored the symptoms for too long. He’d started feeling weird before Christmas and because Mardi Gras was breathing down his neck, he’d ignored it, telling himself he was just older, more stressed with the business he’d lost that year. But it wasn’t age or stress. And his casual dismissal had repercussions.
“I can’t believe this is how you told us.” Frankie Jr. shoved his empty plate toward the crystal saltshakers Frank’s mother had given Frank when he’d gotten married to Maggie. She’d said they’d been made in the old country as if that was the most special of things. The shakers worked and that’s all that had mattered to Frank, but now he wondered if he’d missed too much in life, wondered if he’d been too dismissive of what mattered most. Took dying to appreciate living. “Very shitty, old man.”
“What? There’s a better way? You can’t put lipstick on a pig. Ain’t no good way,” Frank said, his stomach cramping and his vision a bit spotty. He really wanted to lie down but couldn’t leave things this way.
“Joseph, you want to explain this? Then someone should go check on Tess.” Frankie Jr. assumed the role of firstborn, his gaze not quite so angry as resolute. Frankie Jr. always met problems head-on. That particular trait made him a fine trial attorney and a fine older brother to his siblings.
Joseph launched into a complicated description of his stage of cancer (not good) and the experimental drugs (not guaranteed) as Frank listened in objectively. Easier to do so than to think about what was happening within his body… though feeling the effects of the cancer and drugs wasn’t an option. Couldn’t wish those away. Joseph finished explaining the diagnosis, the symptoms of the chemo, and the likely outcome (neither good nor guaranteed) as Maggie came back and sat down, reaching for his hand. Tears still in her eyes, she nodded at him. Frank’s heart swelled at the love in her eyes. God had blessed him his entire life. How could he complain when he’d been given so much?
“This is why you asked us to not bring the kids. This is why Granny B isn’t here,” Frankie Jr. said, his expression no longer shocked. Just sad.
“We thought it would be better for you to tell your children yourself. Obviously your father has no tact when it comes to relaying delicate information,” Maggie said. “Your father will tell Granny Bella this evening. We’re taking her leftovers and a napoleon from La Madeleine’s. She’s been bugging us for one, says they’re better than Gambinos or the ones I make from scratch. Maybe that will help somehow.”
Michael rolled his eyes and gave a harsh laugh. “That’s so going to make telling her easier.”
