Cruel. Merciless. And that was on the weekends when he was happy. If a psycho could do happy. His cop buddies said, “Frank, Frank is just intense.” Right. Other kids go, “My dad took me to the Yankees.” Mine, he took out my teeth. With intensity. The horrors of peace. He bought the farm when I was seventeen. My mom, she took off for Boise, Idaho. Hell of another sort. They buried my father in the American flag. No argument, he was a patriot. I played “Another one bites the dust.” He’d have hated Queen to be the band. His inheritance? A book. Rich, huh? My father died horribly. A slow, lingering, eat-your-guts-in-pieces cancer. His buddies admired my constant vigil. Yeah. I wanted to ensure he didn’t have one of those miraculous recoveries. His last hour, we had an Irish priest who anointed him, said, “He will soon be with God.” The devil, maybe. With any luck. He was lucid in his last moments. Looked at me with total fear. I asked, “Are you afraid?” He nodded, his eyes welling up.
