It was the last song on the record. There was the sound of the needle crackling just before it lifted off the record then the sound of the turntable clicking off, then silence. Vicky heard only the ticking of a wooden framed clock with a large gilded face sitting on the book shelf. Frank’s breathing was slow and steady. His head was back on the easy chair so she couldn’t see his face and couldn’t tell if he was asleep or not.
Some time passed, maybe several minutes, maybe just a few moments when Frank finally spoke. “Did you ever notice how loud the silence is?”
“Is it because you can hear your own thoughts?”
“I think so. Silence is never really empty though, like the number zero. Most people think zero signifies nothing but the fact is zero is the point at which all other numbers originate.”
“You’re blowing my mind, Frank. I’m sitting here thinking about silence and the number zero and how it all adds up to something really.”
“You want me to change the subject?”
“No, I think it’s interesting. I just ain’t–sorry–I’m not used to having these kinds of conversations when I’m straight. You sure you ain’t been smoking dope, Frank?”
“No,” he said with a laugh. “I’m not stoned, just sleep deprived, which can also produce a state of semi-psychosis.”
“Go ahead. Continue your thought,” Vicky said relaxing more on the couch, as she pulled the blanket up over her shoulder and the pillow tight around her ears.
“Silence is important, even in music. Pauses are notated in music. It changes the whole feeling of a piece of music to place a pause in at certain place.”
“Like zero, right? You stick a zero at the end of a number and it changes it.”
“Precisely. Did you know music is mathematical? It’s made up of patterns and rhythms. Recent research suggests that mathematical abilities and musical abilities come from the same part of the brain.”
“I knew it.”
“Knew what?”
“You got another dream, don’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, I know you’re working on your dream building up your business and all, but I can’t help feeling you got another dream buried deep down inside you. It’s got something to do with music, don’t it? I mean, doesn’t it?”
“You’re incredibly insightful.”
“It don’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out. It’s what you love most. Or it seems like it anyway. Tell me about this other dream. Tell me how you lost it.”
“My mother was an opera singer. That’s where I get my love of music. She always said I had the gift of music. I started taking piano lessons when I was four.”
“You play the piano?”
“I used to. Oh, if I’m in someone’s home and they have a piano, I’ll sit down and tinker a little, but not like I used to. I wanted to be a concert pianist. My mother encouraged me, but she died when I was ten.”
“How hard that must’ve been. I don’t think you ever get over losing a mama at an early age. I was seventeen when my mama died. It was cancer. All the cigarettes and worry, I guess.”
“My mother died of cancer, too.”
“So is that when you gave up music? Was your daddy against the idea?”
“No. In fact he pushed me with my music, pushed me hard. He was that way with everything, sports, academics, you name it. I came in third in this very prestigious piano competition when I was fifteen years old. Third place wasn’t good enough for him.” Frank looked down at the floor for some time, and Vicky didn’t know what to say. There was a noisy silence between them until Frank looked up with questioning eyes and said, “Why am I telling you this?”
“Because I asked how you lost your dream. I’m listening. Please go on.”
“There really isn’t much more to tell. I knew I could never be number one after that. I started crumbling under the pressure and soon my piano playing started to deteriorate as a result. Sometimes I think my father was almost relieved when I got out of music. He knew I’d have more security as a businessman, and in a strange way, I think the music reminded him too much of mother.
“It’s all right, I’m happy doing what I’m doing. It’s just that, as you so eloquently put it, there’s still this other dream buried deep inside. It really doesn’t matter though. What can I do about it now?”
“Well, you don’t have to be a concert piano player, but you should be making music if that’s a dream you got. Buy yourself a piano. Check the classified ads. I’m sure you could find one fairly reasonable. You could rearrange the furniture a little and find room for it. You could take lessons again. Give recitals. You wouldn’t have the pressure this time around. You’d be calling the shots, not your old man.”
“You’ve inspired me, Vicky.”
“I’m glad.”
“What about you? How can we get your dream jump started?”
“It takes money to jump start a dream like mine. I had some money saved, but I… lost it.”
“Don’t worry about that. You can get financial backing. You just need to know who to talk to. You need to find out as much about business as you can. Take some courses at the university.”
“You mean college?”
“Why not?”
“I never was much of a student. I dropped out of high school. I eventually went back and got my GED, but college, I don’t know about that.”
“Look, I can tell just from talking to you tonight that you’re smart. You don’t have to let past failures intimidate you either, you know. You can start all over without all those pressures.”
“You really think I’m smart?”
“I know you are.”
“Huh, me intelligent? Well, I’ll be!” Vicky was feeling something she hadn’t felt in a long time, or at least hadn’t allowed herself to feel…vulnerable and a little embarrassed. “Where is that locksmith?” she said walking over to the window and looking out.
“It does seem to be taking a while,” he said then after a pause he got up and excused himself. Vicky thought he was going to the bathroom at first but instead he went to the kitchen. She heard him clinking around in there, all very familiar noises to her. She smiled as she realized what he was doing. He returned with two wine glasses about one quarter of the way filled with red wine. Frank handed her a glass and sat down next to her on the sofa.
“Since we have to wait, we might as well do something to pass the time. A toast,” he said, raising his glass to her. “To our dreams, the ones we’ve lost and the ones we’ve found.”
“Cheers,” Vicky said, clinking her glass to his. They both took a drink of wine and Vicky was surprised how quickly one small drink went to her head. “What time is it?” she asked, realizing suddenly that she was very tired. Frank swallowed a drink of wine and looked at the clock on the bookshelf.
“Almost two-thirty.”
“Where is that locksmith?”
“Let me call them. I’ll see what’s taking them so long,” Frank said.
“You don’t have to do that. I’ll call them.”
“No, no, you sit right there and make yourself comfortable. I’ll handle this.”
“Suit yourself,” Vicky said taking another drink of wine, lighting another cigarette and reclining on the couch.
She heard Frank go in the kitchen and make the phone call. Agitation rose in his voice as he spoke, letting the dispatcher know how long she had been waiting. He referred to her as “his friend” and this made Vicky smile.
“Forget it! Just forget it! Just cancel the call,” he said finally into the phone before slamming the receiver down. “Damn incompetents!”
“My hero,” Vicky whispered softly to herself before he came back in the room.
“They had three other calls to make before yours and only one guy on duty. I took the liberty of telling them to forget it. I hope that’s all right with you. It’s already almost three o’clock in the morning and Louise is usually up by six. I figure you’ll have
better luck just waiting ‘til then. That is if you don’t mind sleeping on my couch.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I’ll set the alarm for six. We’ve got to get some sleep. Drink up,” Frank said raising his glass.
“I’ll drink to that.” Together they finished their wine. “Thank you. The wine is excellent. A very good Burgundy.”
“Why, yes. You know your wine.”
“It’s my job,” she said handing him her empty glass.
“I’m taking you with me next time I shop for wine.” Frank rose to his feet and carried both wine glasses carefully by the stems back to the kitchen.
Vicky lay down on the sofa. As she lay there she noticed a statue on the end table. She picked it up and examined it. The figure of the long robed man with the funny haircut seemed familiar to her. Her grandma’s neighbor, Mabel Murphy, had a similar statue in her front yard. With Mabel’s statue, chipmunks, rabbits, and other small animals encircled his feet. With this statue, the barefoot man’s arms were outstretched in prayer and a small bird was perched on his right shoulder. Was it Jesus? He bore the same wounds in his hands and feet.
“I see you found St. Francis,” Frank said, entering the room from the kitchen.
“Who?”
“St. Francis of Assisi. My patron saint. I was named after him.”
“So your real name’s Francis?”
“Yes.”
“No wonder the name Frank never seemed to fit you. You’re Francis. Mind if I call you Francis?”
“The last person to call me Francis was my mother.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“No, no, it’s a good thing.”
“Good, then I’ll call you Francis.” Frank smiled. Vicky thought how much she’d changed her mind about his smile. She’d noticed that he only showed his teeth when he was very amused, and either laughing, or on the verge of laughing. The rest of the time he smiled softly without showing his teeth. This wasn’t the cold, calculated smile she’d seen before, but tender, boyish, and almost shy.
“You know, I thought maybe this was Jesus with a bad haircut,” Vicky said, holding the statue up. “Look, he’s got marks in his hands and feet”
“Ah, yes. The stigmata.”
“What’s that?”
“Legend has it that sometimes very holy people will receive the wounds of Christ in their flesh.”
“The wounds of Christ?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Is it true?”
“Francis is a saint.”
“Are you Catholic?”
“I used to be. My mother was Catholic. She raised me and my brother to be Catholic. After she died we fell away from it. Occasionally I still go to Mass.”
“Have you been to confession lately?”
“What?”
“I was talking to a friend about it lately,” Vicky said remembering Father Mudd. “You ought to try it. That is, if you haven’t been lately. They say it’s good for the soul.”
“I haven’t been to confession since I was twelve.”
“So tell me about St. Francis.”
“He was from Assisi, Italy. He lived in the Middle Ages around the late twelfth, early thirteenth century. He came from a prosperous family and he enjoyed a privileged life, lived it up with his friends, did a lot of drinking and carousing.”
“Sounds like my kind of guy.”
“Yes, but he changed. He had this conversion as a young man. He gave away all his worldly possessions, including the clothes on his back which he piled up in the middle of the town square and his own father disowned him.”
“So then what?”
“He heard God telling him to rebuild his church. He had this band of followers that grew they took a vow of poverty and went around helping the poor and needy. He had a special love for the poor. One day he saw a leper walking down the road and he was so overcome with compassion for the man that he ran up to him and embraced him. As he did, the leper changed into the figure of Jesus.
“Francis also had a particular love for nature and animals which is why he’s so often depicted with animals. He’s the patron saint of animals.”
“Wait a minute,” Vicky laughed. “You mean to tell me you of all people were named after the patron saint of animals, a guy who can’t be anywhere near an animal without hacking, sneezing, and gasping for air?”
“Hey, I love animals. It’s their dander I hate. Especially cats and that cat of yours was the worst. Admit it you had a cat didn’t you?”
“I exercise my right to remain silent.”
“You had a cat and according to my calculations you got rid of it approximately one month ago.” Frank got up from his chair and began rummaging through some notebooks on the bottom shelf of his book shelf. “Ah, here it is,” he said pulling out a navy blue three ring binder. “Look.” He flipped the notebook open and went over to the sofa to show Vicky. He pointed to a chart neatly plotted out on graph paper. On the top of the paper in red ink was marked ‘Allergy Flare Ups, 1983’.
“What’s this?” Vicky asked sitting up.
“I charted the severity of my allergy reactions last year. Look, notice the sharp rise during the months of November and the early parts of December,” he said pointing to a red line. “Then notice here around mid-December it gradually begins to decline,” Frank said following the red line with the tip of a pencil to illustrate.
“How very interesting. You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think you need to get out more.”
“No, no, no, you’re trying to change the subject,” Frank said slamming the notebook shut with one hand and sitting down on the sofa next to her. She felt nervous sitting so close to him and when she looked at his face she couldn’t help but smile. He smiled back with a boyish mirthful grin that made his blue eyes sparkle and his whole face light up.
“No, you need to get out more, Francis, darlin’, I’m concerned about you. You keep a chart on everything? How many more charts you got down there on that shelf?”
“You know what I can’t figure?” Frank said changing the subject. “I can’t figure why you didn’t leave Camelot and just tell us all to go to hell. Why did you decide to stay?”
“To piss you off. Did it work?” Frank grabbed a throw pillow off the corner of the sofa and playfully smacked her in the face with it. “Don’t hurt St. Francis,” she said clutching the statue to her chest as she wrestled the pillow away from him and smacked him back in the face.
“I always knew we’d fight again, Vicky, but never in my wildest dreams did I ever think it would be a pillow fight.”
“You’re feeling that wine, Francis honey.”
“With no sleep and very little to eat all day, you’re quite right. Let’s get some sleep.” Frank stood up, yawned and stretched.
“Is it all right if I sleep with Francis–St. Francis I mean?” Vicky asked holding up the statue.
“Sure, if it makes you feel better.”
“Did your mother give you the statue?”
“Yes.”
“Nice,” Vicky said looking at the statue. You’re nice, Francis. I mean, it’s nice of you to let me stay here tonight. I just wish I knew what I did with those…keys.”
“You should be holding on to St. Anthony, not St. Francis.”
“What’s that?”
“St. Anthony of Padua. My little brother was named after him. He’s the patron saint of lost objects. My mother used to swear by him. If anything in our home was ever lost she prayed to him and invariably it would be found. ‘Tony, Tony, turn around. Something’s lost and must be found.’ That was the little invocation she’d say. She claimed he never failed.”
“Oh, well, goodnight, Vicky,” he said with a yawn and a stretch.
“Goodnight Francis. See you in a couple hours.” Francis smiled and disappeared around the corner. With a start and a gasp, Vicky suddenly remembered.
Chapter 19
“
Francis, my keys, I think I might know where they are!” Vicky called out to Frank who came running around the corner, his eyes so wide he looked comical and it made Vicky blast out a laugh, not only at his expression but at the excitement of her own discovery. “That prayer to St. Anthony–I think it worked.
“When I was driving home from work I had my purse on the seat next to me like I always do. I grabbed a cigarette out so it was open. Well, I turned this corner kinda fast, my purse tipped over and everything spilt out onto the floor. I thought I got everything back in my purse, but you know I was driving and trying to grab stuff off the floor at the same time. I’ll bet that’s where my keys are. I bet they’re on the floor of my truck. I’m gonna go look for them,” Vicky said, throwing off the plaid blanket and rising to her feet.
“Wait, I’ll come with you. Let me get a flashlight. It’s dark out there.” Frank hurried down the hall then hurried back again a moment later with tan leather bedroom slippers on his feet and a large flashlight with a long black handle in his hand. Vicky let go a laugh once again at the sight of him. It was his wide-eyed serious expression and his quick sure steps to the front hall closet with such purposefulness. It reminded her of some soldier going off to war in an old movie
“I bet you was a boy scout.”
“Absolutely . Always be prepared,” Frank said, setting his flashlight down for a moment then taking her coat off its hanger. He held the coat open and off to the side, shaking it just a little. The image made Vicky think of a matador taunting a mad bull to come charging after his red cloak. “Shall we go?” Vicky laughed at the sight of him. He smiled a curious smile at her laughter and Vicky thought he must know that his seriousness and uprightness was a source of great amusement and fun poking for others.
“You remind me of Dudley Doright,” she said as she walked over to Frank and let him help her with her coat.
“Come, Nell, I have come to rescue you from that dastardly villain, Snidley Whiplash.”
“You still got your jammies on, Dudley. It’s cold out there. It’s going on three o’clock in the morning. Why don’t you just sit tight? If I don’t find my keys I’ll come back up here. How’s that?”
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