“Tears of Green”

The following story contains brief mentions of death and hospitalization.

1960.

     Frank Baxter lived for wealth. He based his career on it, chose his friendships based on it, and sacrificed his dignity for it. In fact, he even went to sleep each night and dreamt about it.

     It was par for the course for a Manhattan stockbroker. He wore the best suits, had the best company dinners and took the best business trips. He could still feel the jealous grips of his coworkers’ hands when they congratulated him on getting promoted and earning “the” corner office — the one that overlooked the famous crossroads sign of Wall Street and Broadway. He often poured himself mid-afternoon martinis and presided above the people on the streets below him; feeling superior from his sky rise that made them look closer in size to ants.

     But Frank Baxter had not always been Frank Baxter. A mere 40 years earlier, he was 9-year-old Francis Badalamenti from the Bronx, whose first taste of greed struck while he was sitting in church watching the congregation drop coins into the collection box. He would watch in awe as he imagined the new bicycle he could buy with all of that money; and then his awe would turn to anger as he began to see the collection box as nothing more than a crucifix-adorned trash can.

     The same feeling struck Francis a year later, when his older brother Anthony was killed in an accident at the docks where he worked as a longshoreman. At his funeral, dozens of friends and family made monetary offerings at the entrance of the room.

     “Why are all of these people giving money?” Francis asked his mother. “Tony can’t use it.” In response, Francis received a sharp slap to his face followed by years of feeling inferior to Anthony.

     As soon as he could, Francis left that world behind and pursued life in the big city. He rarely thought of his past; it felt more like a dream instantly forgotten upon waking — even though it still sat just a short subway ride away.

     “Frank!” Jack Brenner burst into his office, starling him out of his thoughts. Frank turned sharply away from the window he was standing at; one of his usual martinis in hand.

     “You scared me, Jack — I thought it was the boss.”

     “Well, if all goes as planned, someday I might be!” Jack helped himself to Frank’s table lighter and ignited a cigarette. “Are we playing poker at your house tonight?”

     “It’s Friday, isn’t it?”

Jack snapped his finger and pointed at Frank. “We’ll see you at eight.”

Frank raised his glass in response and in a literal puff of smoke, Jack disappeared out the door. Frank was just about to freshen up his drink when he heard the door reopen behind him.

     “What is it now, Brenner?” Frank joked as he turned back around, but instead found an intern from the mail-sorting room standing before him. The boy adjusted his dark-rimmed glasses and spoke up.

     “Um, Mr. Baxter, there’s a letter for you… it’s marked urgent.” The boy was out of place and clearly intimidated: a petty fact that Frank felt empowered by. He was so busy basking in the class disparity that he failed to sense that there was any urgency at all.

     “Put it on my desk,” Frank said as he nodded in its direction, even though the boy was holding the letter well within arms’ reach. He obeyed, and slinked away without a word. In Frank’s mind, he was doing the boy a favor by speaking to him; like a movie star addressing a fan. For the boy, it was one of many inconsequential footnotes in his day — he’d never heard of Frank Baxter, and he’d already forgotten Frank Baxter.

     The rest of the day was comprised of meetings, phone calls, one business lunch (“I’m buying,” Frank insisted), and after-work cocktails with the company heads (“Put theirs on my tab,” Frank bragged). That evening, on the way back to his State Street apartment, a voice called out to Frank.

     “Spare change?” It was coming from a disheveled figure silhouetted against the brick walls he was passing to his right. Frank did not slow his pace nor shift his gaze. Again, the voice pleaded: “spare change?” He couldn’t tell who the voice was coming from, and he didn’t want to. He tried to put out of his mind the fresh bundle of one hundred single bills he’d withdrawn from the bank for tonight’s card game. That’s life, Frank decided, as the voice grew more and more distant.

     When it was a quarter after eight and Frank was certain all of the men were present, he wasted no time in showing off his latest acquisition: a top-shelf bottle of Old Fitzgerald — and didn’t begin pouring until he was able to savor every last “ooh” and “ah” from the men. As he garnished the glasses, Jimmy, a young stockbroker and new addition to the group, approached him.

     “This really is a swell place,” Jimmy said, giddily, as he admired the panoramic view and modern interior. “When Helen and I get settled we’d like one just like it.”

     “Don’t bother,” Frank scoffed. “There are enough beggars on these streets to staff a dozen Salvation Armies.” Jimmy offered a nervous laugh, and joined the others. Soon, more cigarettes were getting lit across the card table, and the game began. Frank lost his hundred dollars before the first round ended.

     12:31 p.m., Monday morning.

     Back at the office, Frank was contemplating his martini when his secretary’s voice buzzed through the intercom.

     “Call for you, Mr. Baxter.” She didn’t sound like her usual bubbly self — instead, she sounded as though she was about to become the bearer of bad news. But Frank’s mind was on his drink.

     “Take a message.”

     “It’s somebody named Annette Badalamenti… she says it’s urgent.”

     Frank’s heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t spoken to his sister in 30 years and he couldn’t imagine what she could possibly want from him now. Hesitantly, he decided to take the call. “Put her on.” There were a few moments of silence, and then —

“So you didn’t get my letter?”

The sound of Annette’s thick Bronx accent immediately sent Frank back in time. He remembered the two of them playing kick the can outside their brownstone in moth-eaten clothing and tattered shoes. He remembered that crisp September afternoon when a group of affluent city kids rode up in their bicycles and began teasing them for their poverty, and how one of them narrowly missed Annette with a rock that hit Frank in the eye. Frank was bleeding and so badly wanted revenge, but they were too fast on their bikes. “Never be like them,” Frank’s mother spoke in her native Italian as she pressed a cool washcloth to Frank’s eye. “Some people will have all the riches in the world and never know happiness.”

“But why?” Frank asked.

“Because I need an operation.”

Frank was back in his fluorescent office.

“Francis? I said mother needs an operation.” Annette spoke with panic in her voice. There was a long pause.

“How much?” Frank asked.

“The doctors say it’ll cost two-hundred dollars to remove the appendix.”

Frank winced at the recent memory of losing half that much in the blink of an eye at Friday’s game. There was another pause. “Let me see what I can do.”

“We’re at St. Barnabas… please hurry,” Annette said.

Frank hung up the phone and didn’t stop walking until he reached his bank. A million thoughts were rushing through his mind — but none as vivid as the cool washcloth. The memory was comforting, and so were those of his mother. Suddenly, the years of resentment for Anthony began to melt away revealing the flooring realization: Anthony wasn’t the favorite; Frank was. His mother was just trying to defend herself against any chance of another heartbreak.

“Next.” A bank teller’s voice snapped Frank out of his trance. He was at the front of the line and approached the window in hurried desperation.

“I need to withdraw two-hundred dollars, please,” Frank gasped, out of breath, pressing his identification to the glass.

“Sir…”

“Bills in any increments will do.”

“Mr. Baxter, your account is empty.”

No, it couldn’t be.

“Well, I can take out a loan, can’t I?”

“In fact, Mr. Baxter…” the teller took off his round eyeglasses and spoke earnestly to Frank. “You’re one-hundred dollars overdrawn. If you aren’t able to make up the amount within the next two weeks, we’ll be forced to close your account.”

Frank felt the marble floor open up underneath him. Without any other choice, he slowly walked toward the bank’s exit — but not without muttering to the teller, “It’s Badalamenti.”

Outside, the sobering daylight illuminated a world he hadn’t fully seen before. From the busy street corner where he was standing, he could look up and see his office window — except now, instead of looking down at the ants, he was one of them. Right when he needed his precious money the most, it had failed him.

And for the first time in his life, Frank Baxter shed a tear.