Be Frank With Me - Julia Claiborne Johnson Page 0,6

of boring beat a heart primed to fall in love with danger.

“Frank’s head cracked it,” M. M. Banning said.

“Ouch. That kind of thing happens more than you might think. The glass is really clean, the kid isn’t paying attention. You should put stickers on the glass at his eye level so he’ll see the doors are closed when he’s running outside to play.”

“Since you know so much about what I ought to be doing, will these stickers of yours keep Frank from pounding his head against the glass when the door has jumped the track and he’s frustrated because it’s hard to open?”

“Oh,” I said. “Well in that case, forget the stickers. I’ll have to show him how to get the door back on track.”

“You do that,” she said, sliding the door closed again. Open. Closed. “Stickers. Ha. You’re not from New York, are you?”

“I’m from Nebraska.”

“Of course you’re from Nebraska. The Show-Me State.”

“I think that’s Missouri.”

“Those states in the middle are all the same,” she said, and opened the door to call, “Come here, Frank. Be quick.” She closed the door, using just her pinkie to move it as she squinted through the glass. “This could take a while,” she said, and checked her watch.

“Coming, Ma,” Frank shouted. He freed himself of his shackles, put his belt back on, and holstered his imaginary six-shooter. Took a turn around the yard and stopped to snap a rose from its stem just below the blossom, stroking its petals intently and giving it some clinical sniffs before stuffing it in his breast pocket and then arranging the petal tips to form a sort of pocket square. Plunged through a border of lemon trees interspersed with huge lavender bushes. Ran back and forth alongside a big evergreen hedge, brushing his fingertips along its top. Clasped his hands behind his back and tilted toward the denuded peach tree until the tilt turned into a spectacular pratfall, set to a symphony of Looney Tunes whistles, explosions, shrieks and groans, all loud enough for us to hear through the glass. After that, Frank lay there for a while, first pretending to be dead, then scratching patterns into the dust with his fingers.

M. M. Banning looked at her watch again. “Five minutes.” She opened the door and called, “Frank! While we’re young.” Then she looked at me and said, “While you’re young, anyway. How old are you?”

“Twenty-four. Almost twenty-five.”

“You look twelve.” She said it in a way that didn’t sound entirely complimentary. “I always looked young. Until I didn’t. I bought this house when I was about your age. It was the most expensive place on the market at the time. I’ve forgotten your name.”

“My fault. I should have introduced myself. Alice Whitley.”

“Alice Whitley. I guess you don’t look like ‘Alice’ to me. You look like ‘Penny.’” She pronounced it Pinny.

“Why Penny?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even like pennies. When I was a kid they turned green if you buried them in the yard and tasted terrible when you hid them in your mouth. Ugh. That’s a bad taste you can’t forget. Alice. Alice, Alice. I’ll do my best to remember it. I’m no good with names.”

“I could write ‘Alice’ on my forehead with a Sharpie if that would help,” I said.

She laughed then, a short, joyless bark. “You need to meet Frank. He may like you. He likes young women with blond hair. He doesn’t care if they aren’t pretty.”

That sounds cutting, but she was right. I’m not pretty. What I am is organized and diligent. I don’t complain much. I’ve worked since I was sixteen years old, mostly lousy jobs whose chief benefit lay in teaching me that procrastination is a loser’s game and that you’re better off ignoring insults from the public you serve doughnuts. My hair is pretty, I’ll give you that. It’s thick, blond, and shiny, and grows straight to my waist without petering out. Two of my great-grandfathers were named Vard and Thorsson, so go figure. I’ll let you in on a secret, though. Hair like mine is a burden. I’m always worried my face will be a disappointment when I turn around. Still, I’m not dumb enough to cut it off to punish it for being the best thing about me.

Outside, Frank found one of the green peaches on the ground, rubbed its early velvet against his cheek and tossed it back and forth between his hands before hefting it onto the roof, following its trajectory with his eyes, as