“I’m sorry about that. It seems my son here was having a little trouble with the stove. He went to light the oven and didn’t realize—”
“What, again with the stove? First he clogged the toilet with newspaper, then he left the pot on the burner and almost set the place on fire, and now this. Listen, Caruso, if you can’t control your kids, I’m gonna have to ask you people to leave.”
“I know, Mr. Kempt, I know.” My father wrung his hands. “Again, I’m very sorry. I promise it won’t happen again.”
Mr. Kempt marched to the stove and examined the inside of the oven. He surveyed the mess of pots and lids scattered on the floor, shaking his head. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “I should have my head examined.” After Mr. Kempt left, my father continued to berate Frank.
“You happy now? The son of a bitch is ready to throw us out of here.”
“All right, Bill, go easy, will ya?” my mother said. “He didn’t mean it. For Chrissakes, he’s just a kid.”
“I’m not a kid,” Frank said.
“He’s just a kid, just a kid,” my father said, mimicking my mother. “He’s old enough to know better! He’s gotta learn some responsibility. And he can’t do it when he’s got you protecting him all the time. Right?” He faced Frank. “What are you, a mamma’s boy? You need your mamma to protect you?”
Frank gazed at the floor, rubbing his head.
My father slammed the oven door shut with his foot. “Vafangoooool. Get the hell out of my sight.” He nodded toward the door. As Frank passed, my father whacked his head again. “Stunad.”
My mother stopped Frank and examined his face. “Look, Bill. His eyebrows are singed.”
“That’s what he gets for being stupid.”
“Let me put something on that.” My mother touched Frank’s forehead.
“Hey, mamma’s boy, your mamma’s calling you.”
Frank leaned away from my mother. “Leave me alone.”
“What are you, a sissy?” my father said.
“Go put some cold water on it, honey.”