Night Work

CHAPTER 11

After the September tour the holidays came and went without incident. Frank and Vincent focused their attention on wining and dining a new crop of potential clients, and helping Gus and his salespeople close the deals that would lay the foundation for the next run of shots. Working primarily out of the office, it was an unusually long down time for them, and when they finally hit the road again in late December, Frank was relieved, knowing that they wouldn't return until middle January.

Things at home had become increasingly difficult since the night of the party, and Frank found Sandy more distant than ever. Because neither of them had found it possible to even broach a discussion concerning all that had taken place, the tension level between them had festered. Four consecutive months of lukewarm conversation, no sexual contact, and mechanical, uninspired social interaction made what little time they spent together nearly intolerable.

The New Year was less than three weeks old when Frank returned from the tour that had begun in Massachusetts and ended in Maryland. Fearing his mood swings and bouts with severe depression might lead to further problems, Frank had spent many of the days and nights isolating himself from the troupe in a way he had never done before. With the Turano situation about to unfold, the difficulties in his marriage mounting, and a drinking problem that had become increasingly difficult to manage, Frank knew that if he didn't get his life back under control soon, he might lose all hope of ever doing so again.

His first night back, Sandy prepared dinner. They sat at the kitchen table, together, yet apart. Where there had once been inane small-talk there now resided apprehensive silence. Pushing his plate aside, Frank lit a cigarette and rested his elbows on the table. Sandy ignored his obvious posture and continued to eat without comment.

"I can't do this anymore."

Sandy glanced across the table at him and picked at a pile of peas with her fork. "You can't do what anymore?"

"Live like this," he said quietly. "I wish you'd get mad, cry – something."

"Am I the only one capable of such things?"

Frank stared at the table. "I feel like we're roommates."

"Yeah, well I'm not in the mood for introspection, okay? Just eat your dinner and go watch TV like you always do."

"I'm not hungry."

Sandy stood up, took both plates from the table and emptied them into the trash beneath the kitchen sink. "Neither am I." She slammed the dishes onto the counter, grabbed a pack of cigarettes and her purse from the bedroom and headed for the door.

"Where the hell are you going?"

"Out."

In springing to his feet Frank caught his chair with the backs of his legs. It tipped over onto the floor with a loud crash. "Sandy, goddamn it, wait a minute!"

His outburst had startled her, and she hesitated in the open doorway, not bothering to turn around. "What is it?"

"Close the door."

"Please, Frank," she said, nearly whispering. "I've got to get out of here for a while. Just a quick drive around the block."

"We need to talk." Frank reached down for his chair and carefully placed it against the table. "Now."

Sandy closed the door and let the wall support her. "I don't have anything to say, Frank."

He went to the cupboard and poured himself some vodka. "Some bad things happened," he said, looking into the glass. "We can work through it."

"Do you honestly think things can ever be the same? Jesus, are you that far gone?"

Frank put the glass down without drinking from it, and opened his arms as if to hug her. "I'm right here."

"I can't," she said, struggling to light a cigarette with shaking hands. "For months you've acted like I wasn't even here. I can't remember the last time you tried to touch me."

"We've both been distant."

Sandy exhaled a stream of smoke into the center of the room. "I'm not like you. I can't just shrug things off."

"Does it look like I've shrugged this off?" He finally sipped his drink. "My whole goddamn life is falling apart. You're the only decent thing left in it."

"There's nothing decent left in your life."

"Some bad things happened – "

"Stop saying that." She walked back to the table and sank into her chair. "I always thought I could trust you."

"Of course you can trust me."

She looked up at him, eyes moist. "You brought me there knowing full well what would happen."

"Nothing happened until you decided it would."

"The fantasy of me playing the whore turned you on," she said, voice trembling. "You wanted it, I gave it to you, and you couldn't handle it."

"Neither could you."

"I was drunk, I was flying on coke."

"You were horny."

Sandy glared at him. "Do you think I enjoyed being mauled?"

"You weren't raped, Sandy," he said. "I was there. Granted, you got in over your head with the drugs and the booze but you didn't have to go along with all the rest. That was a decision you made, nobody else."

"I don't know what you want from me," she said, wiping the tears away. "What else am I supposed to do to make you happy?"

"To make me happy?"

She put her elbow on the table and let her forehead rest in the palm of her hand. "I went through with it for you."

"Bullshit," he said. "You were trying to punish me."

"Maybe myself," she admitted wearily.

"I didn't make you go to that party," Frank told her. "You wanted to go."

Her hand slammed against the table. "Don't you do that to me, you sonofabitch. Don't you dare do that to me!"

Frank turned away and swallowed the remainder of his drink. "You'll never see any of those people again."

"Unfortunately, I still have to live with myself."

He looked at her dejectedly. "I don't want to lose you."

She smoked her cigarette desperately, as if only allotted a certain amount of time in which to do so. "You left me a long time ago, Frank."

The phone began to ring, and when it became apparent that Sandy had no intention of answering it, Frank did so himself. His face immediately registered concern. "What – just tell me what's wrong." He listened intently, then squeezed shut his eyes and nearly lost his grip on the phone.

"What's the matter?" Sandy asked.

Frank slowly brought the phone back to his ear. "Where are you…? No you – you stay right there. We're leaving now." He hung up and stared at the floor.

"Frank, what is it?"

"It's my father," he said softly. "He's dead."