Frannie in Pieces (12 page)

I reach down and, when I feel the solidness of stone, let my body sink. As my knees bend yet again, I lose balance and my butt hits the step with a thump, but none of this disturbs my view or attracts the man's attention. I sit there transfixed. Eventually the man becomes landscape, his body blends in with the rocks, misty fumes from the cove in his back mix with the cloudy air.

Below me there's nothing. The crater eats the steps, the jagged edge bites into them like shark teeth. I don't have the energy to retreat. I need to be horizontal. I do.

Turning sideways, I stretch out. The step is
narrow; the stone riser tight against me provides the unpleasant sensation of being laid out in a sarcophagus. Definition: stone coffin.

Above me, visibility zero. Can't land a plane in a grainy haze.
The blues are hardest. Save the blues for last.
Under me the stone softens to my curves, and I twist a half-turn, tugging my pillow more snugly under my neck. I'm in bed.

I keep my eyes on Mel,
waiting for the right moment. He lays his six vitamins on the counter next to a glass of orange juice, drops two slices of rye bread in the toaster, then switches his attention back to the coffee maker, scooping in eight spoonfuls, then closing up the smart glossy bag, making sure the twists at the top are secure so his beloved Colombian coffee that he orders over the Internet stays absolutely fresh.

“Uscita,”
I say.

He flicks the switch on the coffee maker, opens
one cabinet to get the sugar-free jam and granola and another to get his bowl. He has a favorite bowl, like a little kid, blue ceramic. Now that he has all his breakfast parts lined up and ready to salute, he begins assembling.

“Uscita.”
I throw it out louder, making a stab at the pronunciation. The first time I said, “Us-seeta,” and I accented the back end. This time, “Oochee-ta.” I put the emphasis on the middle. Who knows how it's pronounced?

“Are you talking to me?” he asks, astonished.

“Yes.”

He shoves the spoon into the jam jar and stands there. “It's just that you never do. What did you say?”

“Uscita.”
This time I chime the syllables, each in a different tone but with equal emphasis—“us-kee-ta.”

“I'm sorry. Should I know what that means? Is it a rock group?”

He doesn't have a clue either.

I filter the Cheerios through my fingers, searching for tiny gnats. “I made it up.”

He nods as if that makes sense, grateful for my first attempt at conversation, even if it is gibberish. Resuming his morning ritual, he crowds all his pills onto his palm, smacks them flat-handed into his mouth, and gulps a swallow of juice. I find this daily one-gulp downing of six different-colored vitamins, some as large as a potato bug, daring and a little wild.

“Is there an Irish language?” I ask.

“Irish. That's what it's called. Or Gaelic. The Celts, who spoke it, colonized Ireland in 600
B.C
. Even though the island was invaded by the Vikings and subsequently by the English, and the primary language is now English, people in Ireland think of Irish as their native language. It's taught in the schools.”

More than I need to know. Surprise. Mel could bore the icing off a cake. Besides, I know about Celts. Dad mentioned the Celts a million times—
my box is carved with Celtic knots. I just didn't realize they still spoke the ancient language. “I bet there are some fishing villages where they still speak only Irish.”

“Probably. Why?”

“Why what?” Holding a Cheerio to my eye, I try to see through it.

“Why do you want to know about Ireland?”

“Did you sleep well?” I inquire.

Mel is way too curious, but my attempt to reroute him backfires. “Yes,” he says, after a long pause, and during this time I can see the wheels spinning in his brain. I see all the serfs jumping into a moat, leaving only
moi
on the bridge to the castle. Frannie is being nice. What is going on? “Why are you interested in Ireland?” he repeats.

“Someone from camp is from there.”

“That boy.”

Might as well use Simon. He called me Fanny, I can call him Irish. I shrug.

“Is it also because of your dad? He was Irish.”

I'm not discussing Dad with Mel.

“So you're half Irish.”

Duh. I pass on that, too. I hobble to the refrigerator.

“What's wrong?”

My legs. They are so sore that the muscles in my calves are twanging. As for my left hip, when I sat down, I swear it screamed
no
. Why didn't I realize this before? I mean, I realized it but didn't. On the stairs this morning I was crippled with pain, but I guess I dismissed it as general exhaustion, a side effect of sleeping in boots. As I massage my hip, the pain travels south. I follow it, kneading, until I locate a sore spot where my hip and leg join up. “I hiked at camp,” I tell Mel, but the second I say it, I know that doesn't begin to explain it. At camp I'd pooped out after a short ascent, lolled in moss, and returned on my butt. Hardly exertion. This trauma is clearly linked to that steep descent: plunge, squat, straighten, stone step to stone step. Even in recall I feel the shudder.

“What?” says Mel.

“What? Nothing.” He caught me drifting, mulling my strange adventure.

“Do you want to see a doctor?”

“I'm fine. Just creaky.” I open the milk and sniff. Is it fresh? Hard to be sure. Tilting the container to get a drop on my finger, I overshoot the mark. Milk runs over my hand onto the counter.

“In the Middle Ages there was a job called taster. The person tasted all the food first so the lord of the castle didn't get poisoned. That's what you need,” says Mel.

“You can be my taster.”

He bursts into laughter—a laugh that rolls and rolls and rolls until it peters out into a sigh. There is something sad about how happy I make him by cracking a lame joke. I concentrate on wiping up the milk, swiping the sponge across the counter. I swipe again more slowly, noting the arc of my arm across the countertop, the sponge in my hand.

“Your bus is here,” he tells me.

I'm thinking about the busboy, wiping the table, laying down the placemat.

“It's honking, Frannie.”

I am in the bus, munching a granola bar, with Barbie One sitting behind me braiding my hair, when I tap Mr. DeAngelo on the shoulder and instruct him to let me out. Right here, at the gas station coming up, I'll call my mom, I have a sudden and terrible toothache. When he resists—he's not allowed to drop a person off willy nilly—I remind him that I'm not a camper but a counselor. I am not his charge, so he swings the bus into self-serve. Barbie One refuses to release my pigtail, but I pry off her hand, get out, and phone Jenna.

Unfortunately, I have to wait for her and James in the ladies' room, which stinks. I can't risk hanging around the pumps—one of Mom's friends might arrive to fill up. A dashed-off e-mail—subject “Your Daughter”—and Mom would know I'd skipped out on my job.

As soon as they pick me up, I leave a message for
Harriet that I have a toothache. I'll be in tomorrow.

“Why did I hold my nose when I left the message for Harriet?”

Jenna giggles. “I don't know.”

“I think I got my nose mixed up with my teeth. You don't sound clogged when you have toothache, do you?”

“What do you think, James?” Jenna walks her fingers across his shoulder and pokes his neck, as if her finger is doing a high kick. From the backseat, I have an unobstructed view of the finger stroll.

“No,” says James. “Although you might if your mouth was swollen.”

I didn't want him to come along, but as Jenna pointed out, otherwise who would drive? He clutches the wheel with both hands and cranes his head forward like maybe he's checking out the front fender or searching for stray babies crawling across the road. He drives in gasps, frequently hitting the brake for no apparent reason. Jenna sits sideways so she can admire him and talk to me.
“James made osso bucco last night.”

“Wow, that's great.”

“I wasn't that happy with the quality of the meat,” says James.

“What was it?” asks Jenna.

“Shank.”

Her brow furrows, as if she's pondering…as if she has an opinion about shanks…as if, after serious consideration, she's going to recommend another piece of cow for osso bucco.

“But you're a vegetarian,” I remind her.

“Not anymore, she's not,” James says. “There was marbling in the meat.”

“I loved it. I thought it was perfect.” She offers me limp, oily, red things from a plastic container. “Sun-dried tomatoes, want one? They're totally delicious.”

“No, thanks.”

While we're stopped at a light, she pinches one between her fingers and feeds it to James. At least I assume that when she dangles it in front of his
face, his tongue shoots out and she drops it on. From the backseat, I'm spared that sight. “Mmm,” Jenna says, although he's the one eating. Then her hand pops up with a napkin, which he takes, uses to wipe his mouth, crumples, and hands back to her.

I peek over the seat. They have a picnic. A bottle of water, sun-dried tomatoes, cocktail napkins, and biscotti, which Jenna now offers, and I accept.

When we finally arrive at Dad's (after stopping at Starbucks because James needs an espresso), the place looks unfortunate. Curly moss has grown wild, more pasture now than front yard. The
FOR SALE
sign has a
SOLD
slapped across it.

“Frannie, who bought your dad's house?”

“I don't know. I didn't know it was sold.”

“Do you want me to wait?” asks James.

“If you don't, how will we get home?”

“I mean, do you want me to come with you?” He hunts through the biscotti bag.

“Oh, sorry. No.”

“We'll be right back. Won't we be right back?” Jenna appeals to me.

I nod.

“No problem, Pickle.” He selects a biscotti, eyes it from both sides, and crunches while Jenna explains, “He likes them crisp, almost burned.”

Severely sore muscles cause me to moan as I unfold from the car and attempt to straighten up. I do not quite make it to vertical. Jenna watches. “What's wrong with you, Frannie?”

I wave her off—it's not worth discussing—and pull her around to the back of the house. It's unbelievable how much my hip aches. “Isn't he sweet? Isn't he just the sweetest,” she crows while I walk as if I'm wooden. “Weren't we wrong about him?”

I locate the key hidden under the shingle, but Jenna grabs my hands. Her eyes beseech me. “Frannie, don't you like him? Wasn't that considerate of him to ask?”

“To ask what?”

“If we wanted him along. That practically makes me cry.”

“He called you Pickle.”

“I know.”

“Isn't he into Italian food?”

“So?”

“It's the same thing as the rosemary and à la mode.” I angle the padlock to insert the key more easily. Jenna holds it steady.

“I don't get what you're saying. God, this lock is heavy. James is so strong. I think it's from chopping or carrying around iron skillets. You should try to squeeze his biceps. I hope he's not mad at me.”

The key clicks. I lift off the padlock and we enter the studio. Above the drafting table, next to Dad's paintbrushes, the wall is bare. “It's gone.”

“What?”

“That watercolor. Don't you remember the little painting of grapes?”

“I never knew those were grapes. Do you think he's mad at me?”

“Why would he be mad at you? Jenna, this is important. The painting was on paper with scalloped edges, the size of a placemat. I think it
was
a placemat—that was why Dad liked it. I'm sure that's why he liked it—because it was a painting on a placemat.” I examine the wall. “It was here, I can tell it was here.” I show her the holes where the pushpins were stuck.

“I remember the painting, Frannie, but are you sure those were grapes? I thought they were little balloons.” Jenna sits in Dad's chair and spins.

“Jenna, don't.”

“What?”

“It seems weird, your spinning in his chair.”

She grasps the drafting table to stop herself. “Sorry.” She starts to handle some paintbrushes, then catches herself. “I hope he's not mad.”

“Why would James be mad?”

“Usually when I tickle his neck, he takes my hand and kisses it. Sometimes he says,
‘Bellissima.'
”

“Bellissima?”

“‘Beautiful' in Italian.”

“Well, I was in the backseat, maybe he didn't want me to throw up. Jenna, listen, this is serious. This is life or death.”

“Sorry.”

“Stop saying sorry. It makes me crazy. Those were grapes. They were all watery, kind of impressionistic, and it wasn't anything Dad normally liked because it was pretty—he was always carrying on about how great art wasn't sweet or pretty, it didn't remind you of lollipops or lambs, it should shock or jar you.”

“What's that mean?”

“I know what it means.”

“Are you sure?”

“I understood my dad, okay? He liked that watercolor because it was on a placemat—remember how he loved the Laundromat that not only had washing machines, but also sold red velvet cake, and the mobile phone store with a manicurist?—but they were definitely grapes and they reminded me—”

“Of what?”

“Last night, in the puzzle—”

“In the puzzle?”

“I was in the puzzle, Jenna. That's why I can't walk. I had to hike down steep stone steps. I've been in three times.”

She seizes my shoulders and shakes me. “Frannie. Tell me, you've got to tell me everything.”

I push her away and duck under the table.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for the drawing.” I crawl around, move stacks of newspapers, and feel behind things. Dust. Cobwebs. An old fork. Stray nails. No painting. Jenna has to assist when I try to stand. “This is awful. It was here when I came with my mom. Maybe the person who bought the house stole it.”

“Frannie, how did you get in the puzzle? How could it have happened? That's impossible.”

“I know, but it happened.”

“Frannie, no.”

“Yes. I can't believe that painting's gone.”

“You're absolutely positive that you didn't have another dream?”

“Last night I swear I was there twice.”

“Where?” James strolls in.

“Nowhere. Nothing. It's not here.”

“What isn't here?” he asks.

“Nothing, we're done, let's go.”

While I'm locking up, Jenna throws me pleading looks. When you've been friends forever, you don't need words to get the message: eyes so wide they're pulsing coupled with the tiniest jerk of the head toward James. Finally we're in the car ahead of James, and in those two seconds before he opens the door and slides behind the wheel, she explodes, but in a whisper, “Can't we tell him?”