Red Mask in the Mailbox by Chris GriffithChapter 4:Frank Sinatra and the Lucados
Mr. And Mrs. Fred Lucado bought the house at 5234 Huntington Blvd. on the coldest day of 1949. Mr. Lucado had carried so many boxes, couches, and chairs, his breathing rate had tripled and his mustache had turned to ice.
He slipped on the sidewalk, and fell face first into a wrought iron post on the front porch. Not only did Mr. Lucado suffer a bloody nose, (the blood had also frozen on his face) but he lost the mustache too. It fell off of his face like a loose scab. His hand went to his upper lip and found it clean and smooth as polished marble. He caught his reflection in the storm door and screamed in horror when he saw himself; not because of the blood that dribbled from his nose (although there was quite a bit), but he realized the face he looked upon, was the face of a stranger.
When they buried Mr. Lucado in 1964 his mustache was fully grown despite the chemotherapy treatments. And before he died, he requested it be left untouched. Two days before his death, his wife trimmed it just the way he liked it.
She never knew life could hurt so bad, but there were many sweet memories. Her mother and father died years ago. It was painful, but this was different. She longed for the old man and thought the pain might consume her. A cold stone of loneliness in the pit of her stomach could curl her over and make her cry. Their 32 years of marriage had blown by like a gentle breeze over a sharp blade of grass, quick and sweet. The older you got, the faster time seemed to pass. (Fifty-nine years seemed short if you had only been alive for 60.)
In 1971, on the night Joe Trimpton and his family moved into the house on Huntington Avenue, Mrs. Lucado fixed them dinner. She had brought them chicken and dumplings, green beans, and hot, fresh homemade rolls, with sweet tea to drink. The homemade food had been a welcome change and it tasted good.
Margie Trimpton and Mrs. Lucado became great friends. They sat on the carport in the evenings and talked for hours. She was a trusting lady and Margie told her secret things.
Mrs. Lucado had a pet, a huge Oscar fish. She named him Frank after her favorite singer, Frank Sinatra. Frank’s tank sat on the mantle above the fireplace, and faced a big picture window in front of the house. Frank was a bit cannibalistic and all his neighbors eventually became dinner. He liked goldfish best but ate anything placed in the tank as long as it fit in his colossal mouth. Feeding Frank excited the neighborhood children. They begged Mrs. Lucado to let them throw food in his tank.
Of course, Mrs. Lucado just enjoyed the children coming over.
Frank had sat on the mantle in Mrs. Lucado’s house for five care free, glutinous years until November of '78, when the mailbox pole from the Trimpton home ate him for dinner.
Mr. And Mrs. Fred Lucado bought the house at 5234 Huntington Blvd. on the coldest day of 1949. Mr. Lucado had carried so many boxes, couches, and chairs, his breathing rate had tripled and his mustache had turned to ice.
He slipped on the sidewalk, and fell face first into a wrought iron post on the front porch. Not only did Mr. Lucado suffer a bloody nose, (the blood had also frozen on his face) but he lost the mustache too. It fell off of his face like a loose scab. His hand went to his upper lip and found it clean and smooth as polished marble. He caught his reflection in the storm door and screamed in horror when he saw himself; not because of the blood that dribbled from his nose (although there was quite a bit), but he realized the face he looked upon, was the face of a stranger.When they buried Mr. Lucado in 1964 his mustache was fully grown despite the chemotherapy treatments. And before he died, he requested it be left untouched. Two days before his death, his wife trimmed it just the way he liked it.
She never knew life could hurt so bad, but there were many sweet memories. Her mother and father died years ago. It was painful, but this was different. She longed for the old man and thought the pain might consume her. A cold stone of loneliness in the pit of her stomach could curl her over and make her cry. Their 32 years of marriage had blown by like a gentle breeze over a sharp blade of grass, quick and sweet. The older you got, the faster time seemed to pass. (Fifty-nine years seemed short if you had only been alive for 60.)
In 1971, on the night Joe Trimpton and his family moved into the house on Huntington Avenue, Mrs. Lucado fixed them dinner. She had brought them chicken and dumplings, green beans, and hot, fresh homemade rolls, with sweet tea to drink. The homemade food had been a welcome change and it tasted good.
Margie Trimpton and Mrs. Lucado became great friends. They sat on the carport in the evenings and talked for hours. She was a trusting lady and Margie told her secret things.
Mrs. Lucado had a pet, a huge Oscar fish. She named him Frank after her favorite singer, Frank Sinatra. Frank’s tank sat on the mantle above the fireplace, and faced a big picture window in front of the house. Frank was a bit cannibalistic and all his neighbors eventually became dinner. He liked goldfish best but ate anything placed in the tank as long as it fit in his colossal mouth. Feeding Frank excited the neighborhood children. They begged Mrs. Lucado to let them throw food in his tank.
Of course, Mrs. Lucado just enjoyed the children coming over.
Frank had sat on the mantle in Mrs. Lucado’s house for five care free, glutinous years until November of '78, when the mailbox pole from the Trimpton home ate him for dinner.
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