— Where’s Frank?
Earlier in the evening, when Frank had come out of that cave he calls a bedroom and plopped himself in front of the TV while we ate spaghetti, he told us he was going on a date. It was a virtual date. I don’t understand how things work anymore. When I was Frank’s age, a date was something you did by going to a girl’s stoop, staring her straight in the eyes, and asking if she wanted to go to a movie. That’s how it worked when I went on a my first date with Frank’s mom. Almost thirty-five years later, she slurps up a spaghetti noodle and wipes away a dribble of tomato sauce, as beautiful as the day we met, though with grey roots because she can’t get to the salon, us being in lockdown and all. I understand the video chat part of the date. But how do you meet somebody in the first place? And what do you do when the conversation runs out? When the conversation ran out with Frank’s mom, we held hands. Later, when we’d been going out for a while, we turned to other things.
After he finished his plate of spaghetti, Frank dropped his plate unrinsed into the sink and shuffled back to that cave he calls a bedroom. Most of the time, he sits in front of a big computer screen and wears headphones with a mike angled out in front of his mouth so he looks like an air traffic controller. When he chats with people on his computer, he doesn’t do anything as important as an air traffic controller. Nobody’s life depends on what he says. Mostly, he talks about nerdy things that only exist on the internet. To be honest, I don’t know what he talks about. When I’m in our bedroom, I hear his voice through the wall. I can’t hear the exact words, only the muffled vocalizations that elbow their way into the peace of our sleep.
I went to bed early. As I drifted off, I could hear the TV in the living room and Frank laughing through the wall. By the time Maria joined me, I was gone. Thanks to my aging bladder, I’m never gone for long. Sometime after one o’clock, I got up to pee, then stepped out into the living room and on into the kitchen for a glass of water. On the way back, I noticed that the light was on in Frank’s bedroom. I paused for a minute to listen for conversation. I wanted to know how his date went. But there was no sound coming from his room. I rapped on his door, then again, only louder, remembering that he sometimes doesn’t hear us when he’s wearing his air traffic controller headphones. There was no answer, so I eased the door open and leaned into the room. No Frank. I poked at the mountain of sheets and dirty clothes on his bed, but he wasn’t lying underneath. I checked the washroom. I looked for him on the couch in the living room. When I was certain he wasn’t in the condo, I switched off the light in his room and went back to our bedroom.
— Where’s Frank?
Maria smacked her lips and propped herself on an elbow.
— Huh?
— Frank. He’s not home.
— Yeah.
Maria settled back onto her pillow.
— He go out?
— Yeah.
— Where?
— Can you get me some water?
When I came back to the bedroom, Maria had fallen asleep. I set the glass of water on the night stand and gave her a nudge.
— Where’s Frank?
Maria smacked her lips and propped herself on an elbow.
— Huh?
— Did Frank go out?
— Oh yeah, he went on a date.
— In real life?
“In real life” is one of the few bits of internet talk I know. That and LOL. I picked these up from Frank. He texted me and included “IRL” in his message. I had no idea what that meant so Frank wrote it out long form along with a condescending note about how, if I don’t understand something like that, I can always look it up on Google instead of wasting people’s time. I tell him he gets his snark from his mother. But who knows. It could come from either one of us.
— I thought it was a virtual date.
— He said they hit it off, so they were going to meet up at a bar.
— A bar? I didn’t know there were any bars open.
— I think they can serve up to 10 people indoors. More on patios.
— It’s cold though.
— They’re young.
— He wear a mask?
— Jesus, Frank, he’s not a boy anymore. Let him look after himself.
In principle, I agree with Maria: Frank’s a man and not boy. And it’s tough on him to find himself stuck with his parents at the very moment the world turns sideways. Then again, I don’t want him wandering god knows where picking up god knows what and bringing it home to infect his mother. We’ve been so careful for so many months; I’d hate for all that effort to get flushed down the toilet just because my boy got all excited about some girl.
— Maybe I should call him.
— For god’s sake, go to bed.
I tried my best to follow Maria’s advice. I crawled under the covers, sank the back of my head into the pillow, and stared at the ceiling. Thoughts blasted my head like pellets of hail rattling against a tin roof. Worry. Worry. Worry. Bang. Bang. Bang. I’ve always worried about things, not like Maria who seems able to let things go. When Frank first got his driver’s license and took the car out, I’d pace the whole evening and never let up until I knew Frank was back safe at home. Maria said I’d wear out the floor and fall into the downstairs neighbour’s.
Things have gotten worse, and I don’t think it’s me. Objectively, things are worse. I’m not crazy to think that, am I? I don’t imagine specific disaster scenarios, muggers beating on Frank as he’s getting into a car, him blowing a tire and crashing into a light standard. Instead, my worry is more general. I harbour a vague sense of doom. It’s like the knowledge of death. Or the discovery that evil is afoot in the world.
The thing is: this worry is not something that happens in my head. Whatever happens in my head is only a symptom of something more pervasive that overwhelms my body. I feel it in my shoulders. By the end of a day, it feels as if I’m carrying a massive weight that bows me down. When I was in grade school, a teacher shared the story of Angus MacAskill, the giant of Cape Breton, who carried an anchor that weighed more than two thousand pounds. At the end of a day, I feel like I’ve been carrying Angus MacAskill’s anchor across my shoulders.
It was pointless to lie and stare at the ceiling. I threw back the covers and went to the living room. I gazed out the window at the construction site across the road: another condo to block our view of the sun. A single light from the crane cast long shadows across the concrete and rebars.
The clock on the microwave said it was 2:08. I took up my phone and punched in Frank’s number. It rang a few times then went to voicemail. I waited a couple minutes then tried again. This time Frank answered, or at least accepted the call, although he said nothing. I could hear the ambient sounds you’d expect in a bar: muzak, desperate laughter, voices caught in indistinct conversation.
— Frank? You there?
There was an inrush of breath, Frank sucking air, but no answer. The muzak stopped mid-phrase and a loud voice spoke to the room. Again, I couldn’t hear the exact words, but I had the impression a manager was trying to shove customers out the door.
— Hey, what’s your rush? I need to use the can, man.
— Frank?
— Yeah, hi.
— It’s late.
— Oh.
There wasn’t much more conversation. Frank said he’d be home in a bit. I asked him how long “in a bit” is. He said “a bit” and hung up.
I crawled back into bed but, again, nothing happened. I went back to the living room window and stared down at the construction site across the road. Once, not long after the first lockdown, all the workers had vanished from the site. The next morning, two men appeared in hazmat suits and carrying metal canisters with nozzles. It reminded me of the DDT my nonno used to douse the vegetable garden. With all the chemicals he ingested, it amazes me we didn’t sprout three heads thanks to a genetic mutation. I got bored of looking at the construction site, so went back to bed.
I must’ve dozed because it was Maria shoving me, saying how Frank was home, in case I cared. God bless Maria and her snark. I slid my feet into my loafers and shuffled into the kitchen where the fridge door was wide and a head stuffed inside looking for something to eat.
— So how was the date?
— Pretty good.
Only it wasn’t Frank who answered. Judging by the voice, it was a young woman.
When I switched on the light, the woman stood upright, letting go of the fridge door so that it swung shut. She wore a black cloth mask. These days, it’s hard to tell whether a person is being courteous or trying to rob you. She wore a knee-length coat in black and white checks, very chichi. On the only bare wall in the kitchen, we have a nicely framed map of Sicily with Palermo stuck more or less in the middle. This girl, with her dark features and smokey eyes, looked like she could have come from there, southern stock, born to the sun.
— You’re not Frank.
— No, but you are, I think.
The young woman held out a hand. I felt outclassed: she in her fine clothes and me in my fuzzy lambskin loafers, plaid pyjama bottoms, and white undershirt. Dad gut, three-day stubble, tousled hair (such as there is). I gave the woman’s hand a dainty shake.
— Yeah, I’m Frank senior.
— Glad to meet you, Frank senior. I’m famished. Got anything I could eat?
— Hello famished.
— Sorry, where are my manners? It’s Olivia.
I was too taken aback by Olivia’s apparent ease to comment on the fact that, to most people, good manners means not riffling through a stranger’s fridge at three in the morning. But I could be wrong. So much has changed and so quickly that I may have lost track of social conventions. It’s only by luck that I learned about IRL; maybe I haven’t been so lucky when it comes to the new fridge riffling rules.
— How did you get into the building?
Olivia dangled a key and fob from her index finger, then laid them on the kitchen counter.
— So where’s Frank?
— Oh, he’ll be along in a bit. If he can’t get into the building, he’ll text me and I’ll go down for him.
As she answered, I felt a tightness draw around my chest and it took my breath away. I stumbled backwards and would have fallen if I hadn’t settled my hand on the back of a chair. Blood rush into my ears bringing with it the sound of the sea. I swayed like a man on a boat who rises and dips with the swell. Look there, at Sicily, and at all that beautiful blue that circles her. My heart began to race and my eyes welled.
Olivia rushed to my side and asked if I was okay.
— I don’t understand. I don’t understand anything.
— What’s to understand?
— I don’t know. I haven’t got a fucking clue anymore.