Frank

by Fred Petrovsky

  I shook my head. “How about a quick cup of coffee before you go? Got time? You want some milk and cookies?” I asked Jacob.

  “Yes,” he said, and I sat him at the table and gave him an Oreo.

  “Have you talked to Neil lately?” Emily asked.

  “Not since yesterday,” I said, measuring out the coffee. “Everything okay?”

  “I don’t know. I mean I think so. I’m just not sure. Depends on the day. One day he seems positive and upbeat, the next he’s like a different person. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever get him totally back.”

  She looked at me when she said that and immediately tried to backpedal. She covered her mouth as if to push the words back in.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean that.”

  I knew what she meant. That she was fighting to bring her husband back from a place he’d gone to after the boating accident. But I had already really lost my husband completely. I couldn’t get him back the way he was no matter how hard I tried. She thought she was being insensitive. I saw her as just being honest.

  “The best thing you can do for Neil is to love him. Unconditionally. Without boundaries. Let him go through this. He’ll be fine. You’ll see. After the gallery is sold and things get back to normal for him, I think everything will be fine.”

  “I don’t know. He’s got so much guilt inside. I hardly see him smile. He’s thinking all the time. He’s been getting headaches a lot.”

  “Don’t think it’s your responsibility to make things better,” I said. “Relax. You can’t. Let things alone.”

  I only wish I could take my own advice.

  * * * *

  When Emily left, Jacob and I went in the backyard. He liked to walk around and explore what was to him mostly a new world. He gravitated toward the bushes, trees, and hidden corners, but was careful to avoid Matisse’s poop. It was a beautiful day with one of those incredible light blue skies and a few high wispy clouds. It felt good to be outdoors and away from the pressures of keeping Howard alive.

  Jacob discovered our stack of firewood on the side of the house and tried to climb it. I watched him carefully. Part of me wanted to pull him away, warning him of splinters, scared that he’d slip or that the wood might fall away. It wasn’t the safest place to play. Stopping him was something I certainly would have done when Neil was a toddler. I think Howard and I spent half our time putting limits on him, telling him not to do this or not to do that. We watched and worried over him. Tried to keep him on the right path. Our path, I mean. We should have been easier on him. Looser. Should have let him find his freedom. In a way, if we weren’t so preoccupied with him getting a splinter, things might have been different.

  That’s why I let Jacob find his way to the top of the firewood pile while I kept just enough distance where, if necessary, I could jump to catch him. When he conquered the mountain he looked at me for approval, his eyes sparkling in triumph. But he couldn’t get down. He held out his arms and grunted, his ego bruised by admitting he needed help.

  When we went inside Jacob said, “Hide and seek.”

  “I’ll stay here and count to ten, you go hide.”

  I closed my eyes, and Jacob scampered out of the room.

  “One ... two ... three,” I said loudly, exaggerating each number so he could hear me. I closed my eyes and saw the numbers as I said them. Four. Five. Six. Time sped up and slowed down. Swirls and lightning bolts sailed by. Seven. Everything rewound and Howard was well and walking around, the accident in his future. Eight. Neil was a baby and we were doting parents with happiness in our lives though we didn’t know it. Nine. A time before Howard and my quiet, uneventful life, and a blindness to the fate that my life held. Ten.

  “Ready or not, here I come,” I said.

  I opened my eyes and decided to give Jacob a little more time to hide by lingering in the kitchen and getting a drink. I refreshed my cup of coffee and sat down at the table. I took a sip and considered that this was how things would be from now on. Howard would listen to music, or I’d read him a book. Neil and Emily would visit. They’d bring the kids and we’d have a big dinner, maybe pushing a table next to Howard so he could hear us and participate. We’d grow old in this strange, fragmented way that maybe wasn’t so bad. After all, I had someone to talk to. And in keeping a relationship alive wasn’t that half the battle? I had the best listener in the world. Now that I thought about it, he was a better listener now than before the accident. Maybe that’s what love is. Listening. Sharing. Caring about one another. Was it possible that I could care more for Howard?

  I finished the coffee and set the cup in the sink. “You’re really well hidden,” I called loudly, starting my search. I walked out of the room the way Jacob had gone and tried to listen for him. I stood still and waited. He was sure to give himself away. Nothing. I guessed he went into the back rooms, so I stepped lightly and tried to surprise him. I couldn’t find him. I looked in Howard’s study, in the closet and under the desk. No Jacob. I crept in the guest room so as not to wake Joshua. Again, no Jacob. He wasn’t in the bathroom. I looked in cabinets and every nook and cranny I could think of. I got down on my knees to see the house from Jacob’s perspective. I checked inside the laundry baskets. I called his name and said that I was giving up. “You can come out now,” I said. “You win.” Where was he? I ran desperately outside. Maybe he had climbed the wood stack again, this time falling unconscious. Or maybe he climbed the gate to the pool and was floating in the deep end. A hundred horrible thoughts filled my head. He wasn’t outside.

  Frantic, I went back inside and began searching all over again. I started wondering if I should call the police for assistance and wondered how I’d tell Emily. I stumbled down the hallway and into the living room. I stopped and held my breath. Jacob was lying on top of Howard, his eyes closed. His soft little face was turned to the side, his mouth open, sleeping in angelic pose.

  “Catherine? Are you there?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Is this Jacob on me?”

  “Yes. How did he get up there? He’s sleeping.”

  “Sleeping,” repeated Howard. “I was sleeping, too. Then I heard this funny voice say hello and something about a fireman. I was sure it was a child. Then there was some noise and I felt something putting pressure on my arm. That must have been him climbing up on me.”

  “I’m sorry, Howard. Let me get him off. I’ll carry him into the bedroom.”

  “No,” said Howard. “Leave him here. Somehow it feels good.”

  So I did. I sat down in a chair next to Howard and watched them. Jacob’s breathing was slow and even. Howard seemed content. I was in heaven.

  28: Janelle Orlen

  Catherine Lavery called me out of the blue this morning and wanted to know if I could join her for lunch. She sounded strange. Maybe a bit desperate. I can’t really describe it. She seemed distant and hyper at the same time, not really giving me the chance to decline her invitation. I thought she was a wonderful woman. Seeing her again was definitely something I wanted to do.

  “Say you’ll join me for lunch, Janelle. Won’t you?”

  That was how she put it. How could I say no?

  She chose Angelo’s, a small Italian restaurant in a rather rundown strip mall not far from where I live. I’d never been there, but I’d passed it a hundred times. I don’t know why I’d never eaten there. Never occurred to me. It was a sad-looking place on the outside, with green faded awnings and a cracked sign. Sandwiched between a tiny antiques store and a tax preparation business, Angelo’s seemed like a place out of another time, passed by in favor of larger freestanding chain restaurants. Inside, though, I found it rather charming. It had an old-fashioned Continental feel, with white tablecloths and a single rose on each table. The light was poor, but that was probably on purpose.

  I remember every detail about the restaurant and that moment when, arriving a few minutes late, I stepped into the place and found Catherine already sitting at a corner ta
ble waiting for me. She wasn’t the woman I remembered. The confident, dignified person I knew was nowhere to be seen. In her place was someone much more nervous, tired, and somewhat older.

  “How are you,” she said, standing, holding her arms out. She surrounded me in a tight, long, genuinely warm hug. “I’ve missed you so much,” she whispered in my ear. “I can’t tell you how much you’ve been on my mind.”

  “It’s good to see you, too,” I said.

  “You look wonderful. Even rested. You’ve turned the corner, haven’t you?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  We sat down. She kneaded her chin and shook her head. “I can’t get over how good you look. How are the kids?”

  “They’re fine,” I said.

  “Are their lives back to normal?”

  “For the most part. You wouldn’t believe how resilient they are. Maybe it’s something to do with being young. They just move on. They have too many things to do. I wish I could be like them.”

  “So do I,” she said.

  The waiter came. We both ordered Caesar salads. We talked about nothing specific for a few minutes. The weather. Traffic. Stuff like that.

  Then I said, “What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

  She smiled and nodded, as if to say it was time to move on to more important matters. “I wish I knew. But I can’t talk to anyone. Don’t you have moments of despair? Do you ever go to bed hoping you won’t wake up?”

  “Not for a while now,” I said. “It was bad. You know that. I was someone else. But now, I don’t know, I’m on the other side of the bridge. That’s a good way to describe it. And the girls keep me busy. I don’t know where I’d be without them.”

  “A bridge? I can’t even imagine one. I feel like I’m in the water going round and round in a whirlpool that’s sucking me down.”

  Her eyes welled up, and I saw a deep-down hurt. I reached for her hand, and we sat like that for a while, saying nothing. What was it that was troubling her so much? I didn’t know what to do for her.

  “How is he?” I asked, thinking it was a way to move our conversation to a more manageable area.

  “Oh,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I’m so sorry. Never mind me. Maybe this was a bad idea.”

  “Howard,” I said. “Tell me about Howard.”

  “What would you say if I told you that nothing’s changed? His condition, I mean. He lies in his bed, listening to his CDs. I read him the newspaper. We talk. I give him a shot if the nurse isn’t around. Physically, his body is much stronger from what I can tell. He needs less life support all the time.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I mean how’s he feeling?”

  “I wish I could answer that question myself. Sometimes I put myself in his position and wonder what it would be like. Is that bad of me?”

  “Of course not,” I said.

  “I don’t think I’d want to live like that. I don’t know how he can. All he can do is think. Think this and think that. Over and over. He slips in and out of sleep all day. I think I’d go crazy. I don’t even like standing in a closet for too long. Just thinking about it makes me scared.”

  “Is he happy? Does Howard regret it?”

  “We don’t talk about that,” said Catherine. “That’s like a forbidden topic. What good would it do anyway?”

  I don’t know what came over me, but I got up the courage to ask a question that she probably was afraid to ask herself. “Do you still love him?”

  Her expression was unchanged at first, then she gave a dispirited smile. “I don’t know. Honest, I don’t know. What’s love anyway? It’s a closeness. It’s sharing everything. It’s moving from one place to another with a person. It’s caring for someone.”

  “Do you still care for him then?”

  “In what way? In the spiritual sense? Or in a caregiver type of way?”

  “Any way you want to think about it.”

  “I don’t know. What do I feel? Something more like a duty, I think. He needs me. Needs to be taken care of. That’s a good feeling sometimes. Do you know what I mean? It’s good to know that someone needs you. Depends on you. But when it comes to love, I can’t even think about that. I don’t even know what that is anymore.”

  Our salads came, and we took a few bites.

  “If you don’t mind me asking,” she said in a tone that made me believe we were getting to the real reason she wanted to meet, “how bad do you still miss him?” Then she added, quickly, “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

  “No,” I said. “I want to answer. How much do I miss him? Terribly, Catherine. In the same way I’m sure you miss Howard. The closeness. The touching. The sex, of course.”

  We gazed at each other weakly and smiled.

  “I miss touching him,” I said. “Having him around. The little things, you know?”

  “I know exactly,” she said. “I still have Howard ... sort of. But it’s not like he’s there. It’s not the same. Instead, I have your Frank. Your Adonis. Your lovely handsome husband.”

  “That’s awfully nice of you to say. But you don’t have to.”

  “I feel ashamed to have him. I don’t deserve him.” Then she looked through me and said, “I’m afraid of him.”

  “Afraid?”

  “Don’t hate me,” she said. “But every time I go near his bed I don’t see Howard anymore.”

  “Who do you see?”

  “Someone beautiful who doesn’t belong to me. Someone fabulously young and attractive and sensual. Someone who is pleasing to the touch. Someone other than my husband who reminds me what physical love is all about.” She looked down at the table and moved her fork absently around. “I’m so confused.”

  “Did you think I’d be mad? Is that it?”

  “Mad?”

  “Because you love my husband? My dead husband? The person who’s not my husband anymore? It’s not like you’re stealing him. That’s already happened twice.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I told her about the two great tragedies that had stolen my life. How Frank had gotten lost in the arms of a man. And how a bullet not meant for anyone in particular had taken him. She sat silent as I told her, not eating. I was somewhat detached as I explained what happened. How easy it all came. How absurd it sounded. You couldn’t make up something like this. And as I talked I discovered that I needed nothing greater than to tell her everything. I opened up completely to her and left nothing out. I told her my feelings of rage and confusion and crazed cloudiness.

  Then I told of my acquiescence.

  “You see him as Frank. But he’s not. He’s Howard.”

  Her expression showed that she didn’t understand what I was saying. I’m not sure I did either.

  “That’s what’s so strange about what you’re feeling,” I said, trying to sound as sincere and comforting as I possibly could. “For me, Frank has ceased to exist. I buried my husband. Every thought he ever had, every emotion, every inclination—they’re gone. All that’s left is his skin. And it’s not even him. It’s the least part of him. I’ve let him go. He’s not Frank. He’s Howard now. That’s who he is. But you see only Frank. You’ve pushed Howard aside. It’s so obvious. He’s still Howard.”

  “No. Everything’s changed,” Catherine said in a quavering voice.

  “I know that I’ve changed,” I said. “You’ve changed, too. But in a weird kind of way Howard hasn’t.”

  We took a breath and wallowed in a moment of silence.

  “You know,” she said, smiling, “that’s the craziest bit of reasoning I’ve ever heard.”

  We both laughed a little, and it helped push the tension aside.

  “I couldn’t really say good-bye to Frank until I was willing to understand him, know him, accept him,” I said. “That’s why I so desperately wanted to see Howard in the hospital. Because I hadn’t released Frank. And I wasn’t accepting Howard. It was smart of me, but I wasn’t ready for it. Maybe you need to do t
he same in reverse. Maybe that’s why you want to know about Frank. And why you should. Maybe you can’t accept what’s happened to Howard without understanding Frank.”

  “Either that’s profound or it’s the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard,” she said.

  We laughed again and instinctively reached for each other’s hand again. I liked her so much. She was real. So open. And maybe the only other person in the world to whom I could relate.

  “Do you want to see him again?” she asked.

  “Maybe one day,” I said. “But not now.”

  We sat there a long time, exchanging stories about Frank and Howard, laughing and crying at the same time. She told me about the horrible boating accident. But I think we both enjoyed the simple and small moments the most. Stories about birthday presents and the stupid things that men couldn’t help but do. We talked forever. We shared a bottle of wine.

  Eventually, I had to go.

  “My mom’s going to kill me. I need to pick up the kids. Maybe you’d like to meet them sometime.”

  “Oh, I’d like that very much,” she said, genuinely touched. “I would really like to do that.”

  We walked outside and lingered in front of the antiques store window for a while, pointing at things, remembering new stories. It was so pleasant. I felt like I’d known her a long time.

  I walked her to her car and we hugged a final time.

  “Your turn to call me,” she said.

  “I promise.”

  She smiled and got in her car. A final wave and she was gone.

  I strolled past the antiques store again and looked at the brass lamps, wooden sleds, and old advertising signs. Discarded memories.

  I had so much to look forward to.

  29: Earl Baldwin

  I still haven’t discovered what art is, and some would call me an artist. Go figure.

  I wouldn’t argue with those who want to pull on my beard and take the title of artist away from me. Fine with me. I don’t care about labels in the first place. You can call me anything you want. There are those who fawn over me at exhibitions. They say they identify with my work. That it speaks to them. Moves them. I don’t even hear them anymore. Don’t want to. In fact, I’m not really sure I know what they mean.