My Uncle Frank - 1. Chapter 1

I was already 7 years old when I met Uncle Frank. I remember the day his call came. Dad was on the phone for what seemed hours, alternating between surprise, laughter and hesitant silences where he took the phone into another room and closed the door. He'd seemed distracted all the rest of that day and had remained so until his estranged brother arrived. Even at my young age I understood what a shock it must be to suddenly hear from a family member, your only family member, which you hadn't seen in many years. I also wondered why he'd never mentioned Uncle Frank before.

I wanted to ask him about it but Mom took my sister and I aside and explained that Dad and his brother didn't really know who their parents were, that they'd been raised in an orphanage, and that was why we only had one set of Grandparents. I had never realized that Grandparents were supposed to come in sets and recall feeling like I had been deprived of something important. Dad had faced many hardships as a boy, Mom continued, and he had sacrificed much to make sure we had a good life. She insisted that we should be good and not bring up things that he would rather forget about.

My Dad was a quiet, traditional man, who wielded his patriarchal authority with a gentle hand. He was never prone to overt displays of emotion or power, but I'd never known him to show any vulnerability. I felt a strange, uncomfortable power knowing that so much of his peace of mind rested on my actions. My sister and I tip-toed around the subject for days.

Frank finally made his entry like some wild comic relief out of a B-movie, screeching to a stop in our driveway in a faded flower-powered VW bus that continued sputtering after the engine had been shut off. Dad was laughing and shaking his head with an expression on his face that I'd never seen before, something between joy and utter trepidation. Uncle Frank burst out of the old van, all tie-died and flared pants, laughing and passing out bear hugs to my sister and I before Dad even had a chance to introduce us. I was struck at first about how little the two resembled one another; Frank as big as his imposing personality, his dangling mane as golden as his Californian tan; my Dad, slight and reserved, his closely cropped hair as dark as the skepticism that seemed to emanate from him as he viewed the little trinkets Frank had brought for the niece and nephew he'd never met. But then I saw it in their eyes. It was an indefinable thing, but one could easily tell they were family.

Myra, just 5 at the time, had immediately fallen in love with Frank. So, I must admit, had I. There was an electricity to our eccentric Uncle, something bigger than his wild exterior, the goatee' and flailing hair and the trendy motifs that, in time, would seem to change with the seasons. He was in hippie vogue that first day and the neighbors had glanced from the windows of their suburban sanctuaries to catch a glimpse of the San Franciscan cast away. Frank seemed all too aware of their dour scrutiny and was apparently relishing it.

There was an uncomfortable moment when Dad's long lost brother embraced him. I'd never seen Dad on the verge of tears, and realized it was something that I really did not want to see. I had to look away. It was like seeing him naked. Dad let the hug linger for a diplomatic period and then patted Frank heavily on the back, like a wrestler surrendering the match. Frank let him go and then squeezed Mom quickly before wondering aloud when the hell dinner was going to be ready. I was amazed when Mom just laughed at the language. It was then that I understood that Frank's magnetism was affecting more than us kids. Even when he was absolutely rude you couldn't help but love him.

He was with us for just a few days that first time. He had "some thing's going down back east", he'd explained in an evasive manner that I would become very familiar with over the years. Dad wasn't sure what "some things" were and didn't bother to ask, but I sensed an air of relief when Frank announced his stay would be brief.

And it wasn't just Uncle Frank's stories that made Dad uncomfortable; those obviously embellished tales of underworld intrigue, Burroughesque stories of other worldly characters, cops and robbers, devils and saints; the crazy crowd at the "Dead" shows, the weeklong parties in the wild places that the man called home, with the wild people he called friends. I know now that Frank was careful to edit his stories back then, for the sake of my sister and I, but even with the sex and drugs omitted, the recounting made Dad squirm until Frank realized he was talking too much and inquired about our lives.

Nor was it just the nonchalant way he shrugged off discussions of business and politics when Dad tried to change to a more serious subject, as if to show Mom that Frank had another side that she didn't know about. It had to be for her because Myra and I would not have cared. To us Frank was a visitor from another realm, a mad emissary who brought laughter and subversive visions as gifts, lovingly disrupting the hierarchal balance of our home.

But I remember that Dad hung on Frank's every word as if there was some avenue of discussion down which he was afraid the man might venture. Was it something about the mystery of their parents? Or some old ghost from the orphanage that had been waiting for Frank to come back before it arose to haunt my Dad? Whatever it might have been, it apparently never surfaced and when Frank said goodbye, Dad hugged him with a little more ease. Mom had seemed completely charmed by Uncle Frank, but she was too obviously relieved as she watched his old VW bus pooting down the street, Frank's arm flailing madly out the window, waving at all the neighbors who pretended not to be watching. Myra actually cried. I pretended not to. Mom went to prepare for dinner. Dad poured himself a drink and sat quietly by the window, his gaze distant, as if focused on a time gone by.

Over the years Uncle Frank would pop in and out of our lives, always calling a day ahead and keeping Dad on the phone for an hour or so before he'd make his rock star entry, bearing new stories and gifts from far regions of the world. I still have a collection of the items he brought from those bizarre realms. A polished shell from a tortoise that he insisted was over 300 years old, an electric Ukulele, a sealed can of air from Jerusalem and volcanic rocks he claimed to be parts of bodies from the victims of Pompeii. Myra gathered her own strange collection and I would often hear her bragging to her friends about the lunatic Uncle who had brought them. They were wonderful oddities that would serve to remind us of him between his seasonal visits. He'd stay for a few days, upturning our lives before he'd offer his typically evasive explanation and depart. He always left a vacuum in his absence that we all tried to fill with inept attempts at humor or pranks that faded over the weeks, until life was back to ‘normal'. The impromptu visits went on for years until, one summer day, they abruptly ended. I remember that particular day well; the day of Franks fall from grace.

Nixon was already gone and the war was basically over. All that was left were the rationalizations and the air was thick with them. Dad said that I was old enough to start paying attention to these things for soon they'd be affecting me personally. I figured eighteen was still a couple years off and didn't share my Dad's concerns about the draft. It was difficult enough dealing with the pressures of High School, girls and rivalries, as well as the emergence of drugs almost everywhere I went. I wasn't so concerned about using them as much as getting busted for doing so. I was into nothing hard, mind you, herb and the occasion whiff of coke. I knew what junk did and it wasn't very pretty. Getting laid was pretty high on my list so I stayed away from the stupefying stuff. It was a different time and I was a different person. Those pastimes have faded over the years and eventually been abandoned.

But it was against that backdrop that Frank arrived. He was riding a grumbling, black Harley Davidson this time, and dressed in a mishmash of indistinct motifs: a beaten leatherjacket, white satin dress shirt with a shining silver medallion at his breast, and camouflage parachute pants that had buckles on the knees. I'd never seen such clothing worn by anyone who wasn't wielding a microphone on a stage. Frank had also sprouted a mustache since we'd seen him last, and not just a little nose brush, like my Dad had added to mature his image. Frank's looked like it might fly away at any moment. Myra laughed and asked if it was handlebars for driving his face around. Mom scolded her for that one, but Frank immediately decided that it was a good name and said from then on he would refer to his mustache as handlebars.

Dad seemed calmer now, around Frank. His career pursuits had garnered him a respectable standing with the company and each pay raise seemed to relax him more, as if the money and status symbols were a barricade against whatever ghosts I sensed lurking in the shadows of his brother's visits.

Frank was different too. He had always been a charged individual, filling every moment with chatter and laughter, as if the silence itself was a threat. But when he crawled off that bike and pulled out the usual gifts for Myra and I, there was there was something behind his eyes; something a little more intense than usual. Maybe he was high, I thought. I was familiar enough with that condition. Or maybe he had something unusual planned, and that thought was a little scary.

"Here kid," he said, and tossed me a tightly wrapped box. I opened it quickly, knowing what a kick Frank got when we made a big deal about his gifts. "The new Black Sabbath," I said, approvingly. That was different, I remember thinking. No shrunken heads from Borneo, or vials of vampire blood from real vampires.

Frank shrugged, as if he was disappointed in my reaction. "Isn't that what you brats are listening to these days?"

"Yeah, sure! It's cool," I replied, not wanting to let him know I had purchased it weeks before.

Myra opened her box and let out a sincere chortle when she extracted a glittering necklace with a dangling heart shaped pendant attached. "Bitchen," she said and then yelped when Mom pinched her ear. Frank laughed and then caught my Dad's gaze.

"How ya been, Luke?" he asked.

"Things are fine, Frank." There was a silent moment between them when it seemed that Dad might have also noticed the strange thing lurking behind Frank's gaze. Then he said, "Come on in. Let's chow," and the tension seemed to vanish.

Mom's dinners had become more elaborate as Dad's professional standing increased, especially when we had guests. It was as if both my parents had thrown themselves headlong into the roles they had assumed: stoic, upwardly mobile provider and patient doting nurturer. I had no complaints, really. I always had a pretty good allowance and Mom was an awesome cook.

Frank ate slowly, not talking much but glancing around the table as if he was sizing something up. He shot me a quick mischievous smile every time I caught him checking things out, but the meal passed uneventfully. It was afterwards that the shit hit the fan.

Mom went immediately to cleaning up the dishes while Dad and Frank sat quietly, their eyes gazing everywhere but on one another. I had just excused myself and was already in the living room, headed for the television, when I heard Frank say, "Well, I must admit, you actually pulled it off."

That's where it started. I stepped out of view and watched from the shadows.

Dad didn't reply. He leaned back into his chair and rubbed his belly, which seemed to be growing bigger with each increase in salary. His gaze was dark, set on Frank as if to say, "whatever you're about to do, forget it." Frank could have taken the body language; he could have let it go. But then again, he was Frank.

"Pretty soon you'll even convince yourself," my Uncle said, with what I thought at first was a wry smile. But I quickly realized that it was a sarcastic smirk and knew I was about to get a glimpse behind the curtain that shrouded their past.

""You're a guest in my house," was all Dad replied, but he uttered those words like a volley across Frank's bow. My crazy Uncle was as usual, undeterred.

"We used to laugh at all this crap, Luke, remember? How did you used to say it? The burbs was where you'd end up if reality got too intense, right?" Dad remained quiet, his eyes fixed on Frank. Frank seemed to size him up and then took on a more diplomatic tone.

"Look, I've got some people in Germany, invited me up to St Petersburg for the summer. You should take some time away from the façade, Luke. Hang out and have some fun before this whole thing consumes you completely. You deserve a break, no? I mean, You've lived up to your-"

Frank never finished that sentence. My Dad was up and on him faster than I'd ever seen him move. He caught Frank by the collar of his shirt and yanked him so hard that the man's hair flared; pressed his face so close that I thought he might be about to kiss him. But he only hissed those same words. "You're a guest in my house, Frank, goddamn you. Goddamn you!"

Mom was suddenly at the doorway, her face twisted in confusion and alarm. "Is everything OK, guys?" She asked.

Dad said nothing. His eyes burnt on Frank with an anger that might have been simmering for decades. The two stayed that way, staring at one another until Frank finally broke the silence.

"We were just having a little chat," he said without taking his eyes of Dad. "I think we should take it up later, perhaps?"

But Dad had other plans. "No, we'll finish this now," he said and pulled Frank up from his chair. It would have seemed funny under any other circumstance, my bigger-than-life Uncle being dragged along by his smaller brother. But there was nothing funny in the sight. The two disappeared into Dad's study near the back of the house, leaving the rest of us to cast ponderous glances at each other.

I could have snuck around to the back yard, to the little hideaway where I occasionally went to puff a joint when I couldn't get away from the house. From there I would surely hear everything that passed between my Dad and Frank. But I was suddenly uncertain that I wanted to know. Years later I would be glad I decided not to. I was not yet old enough to understand the conversation I would have heard.

It was too soon that the door opened and Frank walked out slowly. I'll never forget the expression on his face. The wild thing behind his eyes was gone and had been replaced by a grim resignation. He stood there for a moment, looking paralyzed. Then he caught my gaze and seemed to morph into a facsimile of his old self.

"Hey, kid! Gotta run," he laughed and then turned to cast a look on my Dad, who was silhouetted in the doorway of his study. Nothing was said, but I felt something final pass between them. "I'm outta here," Frank said finally, and then gave me one of his bear hugs before he headed wordlessly for the door. Myra intercepted him and received one last squeeze. The Frank was gone. He hadn't said a word to Mom.

I turned to face my father. He knew that I wanted an explanation; that I thought was old enough to know the truth. But he closed his door and did not come out of the study until long past the time I was supposed to be asleep. I wasn't asleep. I couldn't have slept if I wanted to.

"We need to talk Dad," I said. He was in the kitchen, pouring himself a shot of the brandy Frank had brought from France on one of his visits. He cast a quick glance at me but said nothing.

"You don't think I know about Frank, do you?"

Dad didn't respond at first. He turned the shot glass up to his mouth and then set it down heavily. "What do you think you know, son?"

"I know he's gay, Dad. Even Myra knows. I mean it's not like a big secret or anything. I've never even seen him with a woman. Hell he never even talks about one. That's what this is all about right? You're ashamed of having a gay brother."

Dad let out a choked guffaw and shook his head as he poured another shot. His unresponsiveness provoked me.

"All my life you've taught me about honesty and fair play and then you go and kick out your only brother because you're afraid of... Jesus, I don't even know what you're afraid of Dad. Do you think it's like a disease or something?" Still he said nothing. I moved into the kitchen, to stand before him, to make him face me and explain.

"He's our family too, Dad. OK, he's crazy and unpredictable and his stories aren't always exactly decent, but he's our Uncle and we love him!"

Dad eyed me carefully, nodding his head as if he agreed completely. Then he laughed as he poured another shot. "I forget that you're a young man now, Steven. Seems' like just yesterday you were crawling around the house, pooping in your diaper's and slobbering all over my work clothes." He downed the drink and thought deeply before he continued. "But you don't know anything about your Uncle."

"Then why don't you tell me, Dad? What happened to you guys at the orphanage? I'm old enough to know, damn it!"

But Dad just slipped the cap on the bottle and turned to walk away. He stopped at the kitchen door and seemed lost in consideration. Then he glanced over his shoulder. "Turn out the lights and get some sleep, Steven. We'll finish this conversation another day."

But we never finished that conversation and Frank never again rode in from the wilds to regal us with his wondrous tales of debauchery and freedom.

Dad grew quieter as the years passed. He immersed himself in the role of parent and good citizen. He got awards for his part in establishing the new library and was called upon whenever they needed someone to organize a fund drive or some community event. He took these positions with an energy that seemed to offset the distracted stillness that overcame him during most of the day.

I filled out my civil service, but was never called to duty. I got a call instead from a major University where I discovered orgies and binge drinking, and cramming for midterms. I also found my true love there, a doe-eyed French girl named Lafitte whom I married. I was hoping that Frank might make one of his unexpected appearances for the wedding, but he never showed.

Whatever had happened with Frank had hurt Dad, hurt him someplace deep inside, and I knew that it was something that he would never get over until he could reconcile whatever lay in his past. I even tried to look Frank up, to see if I could convince him to come and work things out with Dad. I checked out the orphanage that they were supposed to have lived as boys. But after weeks of investigation and phone calls all I got was more confusion, and I had to give it up. I had a baby on the way.

My son, Jarred, was born on Dad's birthday. It was an amazing coincidence and Dad had strutted around proudly, admiring his first grandchild and hugging and kissing my wife and I like we were little children too. It was the first time I'd ever seen him cry, but I did not look away. I hadn't seen him so happy in years and I remember wishing that Frank could be here to see the joy in his brother's face.

Three years later, a week before my son's birthday, my father died.

Things had not been going so well between Mom and he. They started going bad just after Myra finally moved out with her new boyfriend. I had been gone for years and she was apparently the only thing holding them together. Dad deteriorated rapidly. It was crushing to see it happen. He began to snipe at Mom, making a fuss about little things. Soon she was calling me at all hours of the night, complaining and making cryptic allusions to Dad's past. But she never brought up Frank.

Then came the drinking. At first it was just innocent nips of wine at dinner. Then the nips went on long after the meal was over and quickly evolved into long bouts with the bottle. He became morbid and quick tempered. He dropped out of all the programs he was involved in and pretended not to be home when his friends would call. He yelled at me when I tried to intervene.

Mom eventually had enough and had come to stay with us for a few days. She'd arrived unexpectedly one night in a taxi, unpacked her things in our spare bedroom and then fell into tears. I cradled her as she had once cradled me, until she was quiet. Then she went to cook. Dinner was already over, but I didn't want to deny her that pleasure. It was one of the few she had left.

That night my Dad ran a red light. He'd been drinking. He swerved to avoid hitting a passing truck and then skidded out of control and struck a telephone pole. The impact broke his neck.

No one could understand what had driven Dad's fall into the depression that had taken his life. Mom fell into her own depression, and could not get out of bed. Over the next few days I saw to the funeral arrangements and finances. I also went though Dad's' things, looking, I told myself, for names and numbers of friends that should be alerted; bills and policies that should be paid off or cashed out. But I was really hoping to find out something about my Dad's life, and about Uncle Frank; about where they had come from and from what fire had come the smoke that smothered their relationship. But there was only the minutia from his "façade", as Frank had once called it, documents and accolades that Dad seemed to collect like trophies.

At last I did find something. It was tucked away in the corner of his closet, covered in by gathering of old socks. I pulled it out carefully and sat on the bed, gazing on it for a long while. It was a photograph. It was old and faded but had been set into a brand new polished wooden frame. In it, a man that must have been my father, was smiling in a way that I only seen once before, on the day his grandson was born. But this man was young and slim and there was vitality in his eyes that I'd not seen in the eyes of man I knew. His long dark hair cascaded down around the lace shirt that covered his shoulders. Standing beside him, like a gentle giant dressed in beatnik chic, his arm draped over my father's shoulders with an intimacy that I did not first understand, was Frank.

"That was taken the year before I met your father."

I turned to see Mom standing in the doorway. Her face was sad, but there was a new lightness to her. The weight of a long kept secret had been lifted from her shoulders. "The year before we got married," she said as she sat beside me. "The year before Luke broke Frank's heart."

I finally understood what I had seen in their eyes so many years ago. "They weren't brothers." I said, amazed. The realization stung me and I did not know how to react. Mom smiled a gentle confirmation and moved close to me.

"They met just after your father left the orphanage. He was eighteen and new to the big city. He was a babe in the woods and Frank was like a magnet to him, a worldly street kid who seemed to know everything about everything, even when he didn't." She laughed at that. I would have too, but my mind was still reeling. She saw this and put her arm around my shoulders. "But your father wasn't suited for the insane life that Frank lived, and Frank couldn't stay in one place for more than a week. After we married, he stayed away for years, nursing his wounds. But then one day he just called out of the blue." She stopped and shook her head apologetically.

"I have to admit that the Uncle story was my own idea. I really didn't want Frank around at first. Everything had changed so. But your Dad... well, deep inside, I know he still loved the man. He still wanted him as part of the family. But Frank wasn't content with the role of ‘Uncle' and your Dad just wanted to leave the past behind. So... well, you know what happened that night. Frank said something stupid and Luke decided he couldn't trust him to keep the secret anymore."

"He tried to get Dad to go to Germany with him," I said. I remembered clearly. Mom breathed deeply and looked away. I realized that she was struggling with another admission.

"What, Mom? What is it?" I insisted. She finally turned to face me.

"Steven, I love you like the world, baby. So did your Dad. But... well, when I became pregnant with you, honey, we had just met. We really liked one another, but it wasn't love. It became so over the years and by the time Myra came along our life was good together. We were content. But when we first met, Luke was still masking everything Frank did, trying to live up to the expectations of the man he adored.

"Years after you were born, after things were going well, your father told me that he had just been using me that first night, using me to get back at Frank for something. Maybe some infidelity? Who knows? But a few months after that first night, Luke found out I was pregnant and..." She stopped again and placed her forehead against my own. "Do you understand, honey?"

I understood too well. But could say nothing. Mom sensed what was going on in my head and hugged me tightly as reluctant tears began to fall from my eyes. I let them run their course and then turned to her.

"Can I copy this?" I asked.

Dad's funeral service was a gathering of the local who's who. I didn't even realize how many people he had been involved with, how many programs he'd organized and lives he'd touched. I, his son, felt like I'd barely known the man, and with every person that took to the podium to share a story about my father, I felt like I'd somehow deprived myself of something important.

Too soon was my father's body laid beneath the earth, while his spirit soared in the hearts of all that attended. No one would remember him for the darkness of his final days. No one, but those closest to him, would ever know the hard choices he'd made in his youth.

I waited for a long while after the crowds had already left, long after I convinced Mom and family to go on home; that I'd been along soon enough. I knew there was one thing yet to be resolved. The time passed. And passed. I was just about to leave when I heard a low rumble in the parking lot.

Frank's entrance wasn't as grand as it once had been. He stood on the path to my father's grave, glancing around as if he wasn't sure this was the right place. But I knew he was checking for witnesses, that he wanted this last moment to be between himself and the man whom he had loved. He saw me, then, and his face brightened. I had to smile too, and shake my head. He had a new look.

He was bald now, and his mustache, still grandiose as I remember, was gray and drooping. He had gone completely leather, spiked boots and black oval shades to match. But this was no costume I realized. This was Frank now, he had become this grim visage. When he took off his riding glasses, I saw in his eyes a glimpse of the dark roads he must have traveled since my father had kicked him out of our lives.

"Steve," he said after we had appraised one another.

"Frank," I replied, trying to not feel like a kid again, waiting for him to pull some gift from a pocket in his road worn jacket. But I was already reduced to my youth, standing under the appraising gaze of this mysterious man whom I had admired since he had first entered our lives.

"Guess I'm late," he said and then turned to face the grave. He stayed there for minutes, gazing quietly down on the stone that marked my father's resting place. When he turned to face me again his face was wet and I thought he might fall to ground. He sat instead, on one of the chairs that had been set for the services and his face fell into his hands. I let him release his sorrow for some time before I approached. I held out what I had been fiddling with for hours while I waited.

"This is for you, Frank."

Frank looked up finally and analyzed the gift in my hand before he took it. He held it in his hands a minute before he tore the silver wrapping paper. The sound that came from him could have been a chuckle, but it was so soaked in sadness that it pained me to hear it. His face changed as he gazed on the photograph and I'd swear I saw my father in his eyes, gazing through a sudden fog of melancholy and regret. He looked up at me, finally, and understood.

"She told you?"

"Everything," I acknowledged.

Frank nodded slowly and slipped his glasses on. We stayed that way for some time. Not speaking. Letting the quiet stand between us. "We could've had a good life together, Luke and I," he said finally, his voice choked. "We could've seen the world." He turned to me then and cupped my face in his large, wrinkled hands. "But then, I would've never met you, brat. And that would've truly been a loss." He ruffled my hair like I was still seven and began to walk away. "Say goodbye to Myra and your Mom, ok?"

"Why don't you stay for dinner?" I called as he kicked his Harley to life. Frank paused a moment, his face twisting as he considered the idea.

"Maybe some other time, kid," he said at last. "I got some things going down... somewhere." Then he throttled his way out of my life.

"Frank!" I called. But he was already gone, leaving a void in his absence that it would take some time for me to fill.

My Dad was a good man, a family man. I know I'll never really understand the hardships he must have faced or the sacrifices he believed he had to make for the sake of his family.

And I love my Uncle Frank. I hope he'll look us up again, someday. I'd love for my son to get to know the man in the photograph in our family album, holding my father in a brotherly embrace.

END