Upon returning home, Frankie headed up to her bedroom while Marcus retreated to his room with Geraldine. Geraldine was still awake and engrossed in a book when he walked in the room. She barely took her eyes away from her reading to notice he had entered. Marcus quietly took of his shoes and socks at the foot of the bed and then changed into his satin pajamas.
Getting into bed alongside Geraldine, he finally said, “Frankie’s in love.”
“Well, she’s at the age” Geraldine replied, still not looking at Marcus as she turned the next page of her book.
“With Alex Rowley,” Marcus said, resting his head on his satin pillow.
“Who?” asked Geraldine, still more interested in her book.
“You know, the guitarist from that band—the kid who took her to the ball; the one who fell asleep on our couch until the wee hours of the morning,” Marcus explained.
“Ah, the boy you don’t like,” replied Geraldine.
“He’s not good enough for Frankie!”
Finally Geraldine closed her book and set it on the bedside table. “They’re young, Marcus; they’ll grow out of it. You remember what it was like to be young and in love. Besides, this is good for Frankie.”
Marcus lifted himself up on his elbows and asked, “How so?”
“Sooner or later this kid’s going to get between the legs of another pretty girl and it will be ‘bye-bye, Frankie.’ Frankie will be heartbroken, but she’ll learn and grow from it,” replied Geraldine.
“I don’t want to see Frankie hurt.”
“You can’t protect her forever, Marcus; you’re going to have to let her go,” said Geraldine. Frankie let go of you—her daddy—now it’s time for you to let go of her.” She reached over and turned off the table lamp. “Like a bad cold, we’re going to have to let this run its course.”
In the darkness, Geraldine rolled on her side away from Marcus, while he stretched out on his back, thinking of Frankie. He didn’t know why he was having such a hard time with her new relationship. Frankie had had boyfriends before, and many of these young men had made her happy. It was a joy for him to see her happy and playful. Maybe because at the time, it was simpler puppy love; this real, hardcore love was dangerous for young women. He had seen women wrecked by love and he saw Alex Rowley as a demolition ball. His beautiful daughter was going to be crushed. This was not going to end well, and he knew it.
The next morning, Frankie sat across the kitchen table from her mother, wearing her pajama bottoms and Alex’s T-shirt, which she never did return. Wearing the T-shirt made her feel closer to him. While she dived hungrily into her breakfast of eggs and sausage, Geraldine sipped her black coffee and munched on a piece of white toast and jam.
Suddenly Geraldine gave Frankie a look as though she had never seen her before, but it wasn’t Frankie she was looking at; it was Alex’s T-shirt. “Where did you get that?”
“Oh, it’s Alex’s,” Frankie replied casually.
“He gave you his T-shirt?” questioned Geraldine curiously.
Frankie laughed and said, “It’s a long story.”
Geraldine sat up and took notice. Long stories always meant there was more to it than willing to tell, or for the listener to know. “It seems you and Alex have really taken a shine to one another,” she said, picking up from Marcus’s concern last night.
“Well, yeah, you know,” muttered Frankie, not wanting to divulge any information.
As a woman and a mother, Geraldine knew the meaning. She didn’t share the same concern as Marcus; she was more concerned her daughter was losing herself in a boy. Frankie was so talented and had such a big future ahead of her, the last thing Geraldine wanted was for Frankie to give it all up—as she had.
Geraldine sat back in her seat, watching Frankie. She sipped her strong black coffee and recalled her youth—a young woman, full of life and passion. She too had an aspiring career on the stage, but gave it up for marriage and motherhood. Fortunately, Alex Rowley was on the other side of the Atlantic.
Then the telephone rang.
Frankie leapt from her seat and rushed to the phone. “Hello?!” she yelled into the receiver.
“Good Lord, you don’t have to shout,” replied Alex, sitting on a stool in the recording studio.
Frankie dragged the phone into the coat closet and closed the door so her mother couldn’t hear. “I have something to say to you,” she said, waving away coat hems and kicking away rain boots and shoes. “Wear baggier pants!”
Alex lit a cigarette. “Are we now talking in secret code? Don’t wear your dress over your head.” Alex laughed.
“I’m serious. Tell your tailor to make your pants looser,” scolded Frankie.
“All right,” Alex chuckled and then said in a deeper, sexier voice, “but even balloon pants won’t make that much of a difference.”
“Don’t get carried away. Remember, I’ve seen your package,” said Frankie.
“Ouch! You do know how to hurt a guy,” he replied and then changed the conversation. “What are up to?”
Frankie laughed. “Sitting in a closet, talking to you.”
“Why are you sitting in a closet? Aren’t you allowed to talk to me?”
“Yes, but I don’t want people eavesdropping on our conversation. Where are you?”
“Studio,” he said, casually leaning against the wall. “Robbie and Peter are working on some song with the producer, so I’m just hanging out, waiting.”
“Why are you waiting? Get in there!” said Frankie strongly.
“Why? I’m not a songwriter,” he said, “besides, I’d rather talk to you.”
“Alex, you’re more talented than those fools.”
Alex laughed and then puffed on his cigarette. “No, I’m not. I’m just the court jester.”
“Why do you say things like that? You need to give yourself more credit instead of hanging out by yourself in a corner.”
Flicking ashes from his cigarette, he started growing annoyed with the conversation. “Why are you pushing me, Frankie? Because Daddy will like me better if I wrote more songs?” he asked in an angry tone.
“No!” Frankie exclaimed, “Because you’re capable of so much more, Alex. I have been around this business since I was a little girl. I know who’s talented and who’s full of shit. You, my friend, are talented. I just want you to see that in yourself and stop seeing yourself as some punk court jester, that’s all.”
Alex grinned, inhaling on his cigarette. “You’re worse than my mother. In fact my mother has never been that hard on me. All she cares about is that I pick up my underwear.”
“Well, then your mother should have encouraged you more,” said Frankie.
“Are you challenging my mother?” questioned Alex teasingly.
“Like you do my father.”
“Ooh, feisty,” Alex said, extinguishing the cigarette in an ashtray, “I miss that.”
Outside the closet, Marcus walked into the living room and stepped over the telephone cord that extended under the closet door. He met Geraldine in the kitchen and saw Frankie’s half-eaten breakfast. Taking a seat at the table he said, “Let me guess—Alex called.”
Geraldine sipped her coffee. “Yes. Our daughter is in the closet talking to her lover.”
“Please don’t call him that,” Marcus said. “I haven’t eaten yet. Plus, I have a hard enough time hearing his music blaring throughout our house.” He flipped open the paper and immediately saw a headline about the Dark Knights. “Dammit!” he exclaimed, tossing the paper on the table. “It’s like he never left.”
October proved to be a busy month for both Alex and Frankie—Alex on tour in England, Frankie in a mu
sical opening on Broadway. But it didn’t keep either one of them from staying in contact. With the five hour time difference, Alex planned to call Frankie before every concert—six o’clock his time, one o’clock her time. It was a standing date they had, and neither one of them missed a call unless Alex was on the road or stuck in a press conference.
The time worked well for Frankie and she always planned to be waiting by the phone for his call. Alex rarely disappointed and if he missed a call he made up for it by calling her twice. For Alex, it was the bright side of his day. He didn’t mind touring, but it was the circus surrounding their act that irritated him.
Although Alex liked women a great deal, the screaming fans began to wear on him. He grew paranoid every time someone screamed his name and was tired of being manhandled whenever he walked into a building. He could barely go to the bathroom without security guarding the door, and even then he had his suspicions. Of course the fans not only affected his personal relationships, they changed how he felt about women. With women constantly throwing themselves at him, he not only lost respect for most women, he started to lose respect for himself.
Even Sarah proved hard to shake. He liked Sarah; she was a cool girl, but ever since he met Frankie, he just didn’t feel the same about her. But sweet Sarah took Alex’s withdrawal from the relationship with great patience and tolerance. She understood that he had a busy schedule and wouldn’t have much time for her. Alex didn’t have the heart to tell Sarah that he had met someone else, so he just avoided the subject entirely.
Their intimacy grew complicated. Sharing a bed with Sarah was difficult for Alex. He wasn’t in love with her, but she was there and available any time he wanted sex. Afterward Alex would always climb out of bed and dress into his pajama bottoms. He just couldn’t bear lying in bed with Sarah, so he would head to the kitchen, light a joint, and set the kettle on the stove for a cup of tea.
One night, Sarah followed him into the kitchen. She wrapped her arms around his waist and kissed his shoulder. “It would be nice if we could just lie together for a little while.”
“Sorry,” he said, stepping away and dragging on the joint. “I’m just a little worked up.”
Sarah jumped onto the kitchen table and spread her legs open. “Well then, you can use of some of that energy here.”
The tea kettle whistle blew and Alex attended to it instead of Sarah. Sarah crossed her legs. “Do you want to tell me what’s up with you?” she asked.
“I just have a lot on my mind,” he replied, pouring hot water into a tea cup. “Do you want a cup?”
“Sure,” she said.
Alex poured Sarah a cup of tea, handed it to her, and then walked out of the kitchen. She followed him with her eyes. His behavior was so strange; she couldn’t figure him out. He was home, and they made love almost every night, yet somehow he was so distant. She said nothing, not wanting to pursue an unpleasant conversation.
The aroma of pot roast wafted through the Robinsons’ front door when Frankie returned home from rehearsal. She hung her coat in the hallway closet and then rounded the corner to find her old boyfriend Tim DeAngelo, his parents, and Marcus engaged in pleasant conversation in the living room.
Tim rose from the couch. “Hi, Frankie. It’s nice to see you again.”
“Hi,” she said as she walked past, heading straight to the kitchen, where she found Geraldine mashing potatoes. “What’s going on?”
“Tim is home from Brown and we thought it might be nice to have his family over for dinner,” replied Geraldine. “Can you help put the carrots into a serving bowl?”
Frankie reached in the cupboard for a bowl and spooned the carrots out of the pot into the bowl. She said nothing; she knew what her parents were up to, but little did they know there was no spark with Tim and there never would be.
Dinner conversation was a casual discussion of politics—rising tensions in Vietnam.
“It is only to get worse,” explained Tim, while slicing into his pot roast. “The army executed the guy who tried to assassinate McNamara. The violence is starting to escalate and we don’t have any backup from our allies.”
“Why are we wasting time and energy in Asia when there is violence in our own streets?” asked Mrs. DeAngelo. “Look at the race riots here in New York just this past summer—those poor people in Harlem. If you ask me, the US is just as divided as Vietnam.”
“Well, that’s just it,” replied Mr. DeAngelo. “No one asked you.”
There was silence at the Robinsons’ table until Mrs. DeAngelo spoke up. “Geraldine, you make a wonderful roast.”
Geraldine glared at Mr. DeAngelo and said to Mrs. DeAngelo, “And you make an excellent point. Why is it that men always want to make war and not peace? Why do men always have to have an enemy?”
Marcus, Mr. DeAngelo, and Tim stared at Geraldine in silence; none had an answer to her question. Tim glanced at Frankie and cracked a smile. “Because there is always a woman worth the fight,” he said.
Frankie bit into a carrot; it tasted it bitter, or maybe it was the company. “So that’s all it is—machismo? It’s all to try to show who is the strongest of the pack?”
Tim laughed. “Yes, it is.”
When dessert was served, Frankie and Tim carried their servings to the Robinsons’ back porch. It was a beautiful, warm October evening. The harvest moon hung low in the sky. It was very romantic and Frankie couldn’t help but think of Alex.
Tim admired Frankie as she gazed dreamingly at the moon. “It’s been a while . . . over a year, huh?”
Frankie turned her attention back to her plate and took a bite of chocolate cake. “Yeah,” she said. “Sounds like you’re doing well at Brown.”
Tim reclined in his seat and took a sip of coffee. “Yes. Made the dean’s list last semester and the varsity rugby team.” He paused and then asked, “Are the rumors about you and Alex Rowley true?”
Frankie dropped her fork onto her plate with a clang. “It’s nobody’s business.”
“Frankie, you and I are old friends. Am I a nobody? I guess I’m not a somebody like Alex Rowley.”
“Tim, you and I are friends; we always will be, but it’s not the same. Things change; I’ve changed.”
“You look the same to me,” said Tim.
“See? That’s the problem. Everyone’s looking on the outside.”
“So Alex Rowley changed you on the inside?” Tim chuckled. “I don’t get it. Is his pecker bigger than mine? Does he have moves I don’t? Let me know, so I can learn. I can be your man; you just need to tell me what I need to do.”
Frankie stood from the table. “You say you’re my friend, and what do you do? You insult me!”
Tim grabbed her hand and encouraged her to remain seated. “Sorry, you and I have known each other for years; you’ve known him for a couple months. I don’t understand. What does he have that I don’t? The only thing I can think of is fame and money. What can he offer you that I can’t?”
This time Frankie laughed. “Offer? What do you think this is—the nineteenth century? Do you think women are to be bartered for? Do you think we are nothing but a prize to be worn on some man’s arm? I’ll tell you, Tim, I am no man’s prize. I am no possession. Get it? Did my father offer you a dowry for my hand? There are no barters or deals to be made for love. No!”
“Frankie,” Tim sighed and then shook his head. “I don’t care what you think, but I’ll tell you this: Alex Rowley won your heart. All I am asking is how.”
She shrugged. “Did you ever meet someone and know immediately that your life would never be the same without them in it?”
He looked at her intently. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but it’s not you.”
“We can still be friends, can’t we?”
“Sure,” he said and then looked around uncomfortably. “Explain to me something as a friend. A guy gives a girl everything, does everything by the book, and yet he’s still not good enough. Can you give a pal some advice for the next girl that comes along? What did Alex do for you?”
Frankie looked at the moon and reflected on the first time she had met Alex. “I don’t know. All I can say is, it has nothing to with fame, money, or even looks. We just get each other. We just knew each other without trying to figure each other out. It’s like we’re connected somehow.” She turned to Tim. “I’m sure one day you’ll find the same in a girl.”
Tim nodded, but he was far from sure. From Tim’s perspective, no one could ever replace Frankie in his heart.
Later, after Tim and his parents left, Frankie entered the living room where Marcus and Geraldine were watching The Man from U.N.C.L.E. on television. Tipsy, Geraldine took a sip of wine and looked over her shoulder at Frankie. “I thought you and Tim would have gone out after dinner.”
“No,” Frankie replied matter-of-factly. “I’d like to ask you both if there is anyone else you’d like to hook me up with. Martin Escapone has a son my age, so I expect dinner with the Escapone’s next week. Did you check with Stanley? Maybe he has some young, single clients you’d like to introduce me to.”
“Don’t be wise, Francesca,” scolded Geraldine.
“I’m just saying, you disapprove so much of Alex, bring on the other boys. Let’s see how they measure up,” said Frankie.
“And what are you doing, Frankie? You’re a pretty girl, sitting at home—alone—on a Saturday night. Do you think that Alex is sitting at home alone?”
“He’s working; he’s on tour,” defended Frankie.
“Honey, he’s playing you. That’s what that kind of boy does—makes sure you’re sitting at home alone, while he’s out playing the field.”
Saying Goodbye (What the World Doesn't Know) Page 18