Chapter 23.
(Friday. October 13th, 1978; Severance Hall.)
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Peggy squirmed, the pressure in her bladder growing as Maestro Klaczko wrapped up his pep-talk to applause and hoots from the young players. A saucy grin spreading across her face, she stood, elbowing the thin, nerdy kid next to her, Dexter Forster, in the ribs, saying, “Good thing that’s over, because I gotta pee so bad I can taste it.”
Dexter laughed, brushing the bangs from his eyes, round with shock. He was cute, and she knew her sassy mouth put him off his game, which was cool. Gramps taught her goofball sayings like that, old-timey and salty. They came in handy because throwing boys off their game gave her power over cute, sweet, nerdy boys like Dexter.
Because girls rule, boys drool, and she liked boys drooling over her.
Feeling sassy, Peg strode backstage, thinking about her grandfather, hoping he was okay. She didn’t stew, though, because he was a survivor who’d beat this rap. And even though Gramps was, like, over sixty and ANCIENT, everyone, family, friends, neighbors, and cronies alike, said he was strong as steel.
They were correct.
Gramps would survive and thrive.
The line at the backstage lady’s room stretched into the hall, so she searched for a stage manager, asking to use a public restroom. Permission granted, a thankful Peggy bolted through the wings and up the aisle towards the lobby. She gulped, glancing at the faces rushing past, ignoring the nervous flutter in her chest.
Yikes. People galore.
She gulped, thinking about the newspaper critics and potential TV crew, looking at the scrubbed faces dressed to the nines. Hundreds hustled past her, ready to sit, with more pouring in.
Yikes to the twenty-fifth power.
From the main stairwell. Her imaginary friend Sax Man flashed her the thumbs up, spinning on his heels like Mister Bojangles from the goofy song she used to like when she was a kid. Tilting his porkpie hat, he leaned on the banister, looking cool and debonaire. Peg shrugged. The goofball was clowning to distract her. She relaxed, knowing he’d probably felt nervous before going on stage, too, yet he chopped down mountains with his sax. If he could survive, she would survive the butterflies.
Glad that Sax Man didn’t follow, Peg entered the lady’s restroom. She giggled, tickled that her imaginary friends had manners.
She’d taught them well.
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Restroom door swinging shut behind her, a relieved Peggy hustled towards the stage until someone called her, and she turned. Her heart leaped. It was Gram, Ted in her arms, standing with Mister and Missis Fratino, Gramps’s union buddy and his wife, who waved at her.
Ben, his once-combed hair already becoming undone, crashed into her legs, hugging her and laughing. She picked him up, struggling to carry him towards the group. To free himself, Ben wriggled, and Peggy let go as they reached Gram, the rug rat jumping up and down, evidentially enthralled by how his hard-soled shoes echoed in the marble halls.
Boys.
Peg turned to Mister and Missis Fratino. “Hey guys, thanks for coming.”
Missis Fratino grabbed Peggy’s shoulders, planted a kiss on her cheek, smelling of cherry lipstick and soap, and said, her voice dramatic and expressive, “I wouldn’t miss this for the world. I try to come to Severance at least once a year, for the opera. It’s so lovely, so classy, so sophisticated. And the music, deary. We heard you warming up. It sounded glorious.”
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Peggy’s ears and cheeks grew hot as Missis Fratino piled on the praise before introducing their granddaughter Rosa, a short, skinny thing a year or two younger than her. Rosa looked like ‘good people,’ as Grams would say, one of her quaint, old-fashioned colloquialisms Peggy loved.
Old people could be such loveable dorks.
Speaking of Gram, she cleared her throat, Peggy’s attention shifting to her. Gram said, “And she plays piano. Maybe you two can play together for the Saint George Christmas party, performing Christmas carols?”
Exuberant, Missis Fratino clapped and threw open her arms wide. “I love the way piano and violin sound together. So romantic. You guys want, the whole family’s invited for Sunday dinners after Thanksgiving to rehearse. We have a piano. The old goats can watch football, we moms will keep them out of trouble, and you girls can practice.”
Peggy’s heart leaped, because Missis Fratino’s Sunday dinners were legendary, especially her homemade pasta with homemade red sauce, not the jars of Ragu and boxed noodles Gram used. But Rosa squirmed, grabbing Mister Fratino’s sleeve, and he bent to listen, nodding as she swept the curly salt and pepper locks from his ear and pleaded.
A few beats later, he stood, shrugged, and placed a hand on Rosa’s head. “She’s afraid she’s not good enough, you playing here and all.”
Peggy laughed. “Forget about it. I’m not bad, but you should hear the rich kids playing. Holy moly, they’re good. Their parents can afford primo teachers from, like, Oberlin or the orchestra. Compared to them, I stink. Doesn’t matter, I just love playing. It’s fun. Let’s do it, the carols?”
The bashful girl considered, bit her lip and, her eyes obscured by her bangs, nodded. “Me too. I mean, I love playing…. er, umm… okay,” she said, her voice rising a half-step on the last word, making it a half-question.
Peg understood: the younger girl was questioning herself. No need, because Rosa was a Fratino, a member of Gramps’s union family, making her kin. So, pasting a crooked grin on her face, Peggy offered her hand to Rosa. “Done deal.”
Rosa smiled, her aura expanding as she relaxed and grew excited, and Peggy sensed Rosa's half-question resolving into a definite ‘yes.’
Peg nodded at her hand. “Well?”
They shook.
And then Peg’s cheeks went cold as she remembered her grandfather. She tugged Mister Fratino’s sleeve, asking, “Hey, you heard from my Gramps?”
His eyes soft, he lay a hand on Peggy’s shoulder, shaking his head. “Nope. Left him in the parking lot after lunch, about two. Your grandmother told us about the police, but ain’t seen him since.”
“Think they’ll arrest him?”
Mister Fratino snorted. “For bloodying the nose of a low-life like Bo Childress? Unlikely. Cleveland Police have much bigger fish to fry, Peggy.”
Encouraged, Peggy asked, “He’ll be here?”
The cherubic man nodded. “If I know Frank, he’ll move mountains to get here. But I suspect he’s in East Cleveland, checking on a friend of ours, some half-baked street vendor we met working downtown. Great guy, but loony. Anyway, he’s got…,” Mister Fratino lifted his cuff and checked his watch, “… over twenty minutes to get here before curtain call. Like I said, he’ll move mountains.”
“Thanks Mister Fratino.” She stepped back, speaking to everyone. “Hey guys, I gotta go.”
“Good luck,” said Gram.
“Knock ‘em dead,” said Mister Fratino, looking uncomfortable in his ill-fitting suit.
“Break a leg,” said Missis Fratino.
“Luck,” said Ben, His voice raised while stomping loud, the slap echoing down the halls.
Boys.
Happy, she spun, fixing to hustle back to the stage… but turned on a dime, and aimed a question at Mister Fratino. “Hey, Mister Fratino, Gramps won, right?”
A spark lit the stocky man’s face, and he nodded. “Knocked that young buck out cold. Amazing, like seeing Ali walloping Frazier, but eyeball-to-eyeball.”
Gram’s face went slack. “He didn’t start it, did he?”
Mister Fratino shook his head. “Nope. That jacka—I mean, that fine, upstanding young fella insults Peggy’s mother on account she married that Puerto Rican fella, calling her foul names. The bigoted jackhole—pardon my implied French—got what he deserved. I mean, insulting a man’s daughter. And then, this dumb mamaluke sucker punches Frank, who knocks him silly, squashing his nose flat as a pancake.” The stocky man rocked back on his heels, belly-laughing. “Stupid is as stupid does, saying goes.”
Peggy’s heart soared in her chest, and she almost floated like a butterfly down the aisle towards the stage.
Go, Gramps.