After cleaning the kitchen, Charlie sat down next to his mother again. This was their time together, not much to say, a few old memories, plenty of dead time, the air conditioner humming. He turned on the TV and clicked the channels with the sound off while his mother picked up one of the few books she read, a coffee table volume called Sinatra!, a praise of the singer’s life.
Here were full-page photos of Frank in classic poses: crooning at the Paramount; wearing his fedora and that cocky smile, a cigarette in his mouth; with Ava at the Copacabana; with Mia on a yacht; Frank in a Tux with JFK; Frank with the other women he’d skewered, and of course his wife Nancy, the damaged one, abandoned when Frank hit the big time.
“Men are such pigs,” the mother said. “The way he left her, that was terrible.”
“Not all men are pigs,” Charlie said. “Not me.”
Because he was her son, he knew she’d agree.