Frannie in Pieces

by Delia Ephron

  We’re sitting around the table working on the collage while Celeste, the girl who brought in the polish remover, regales us with these many warnings. She finishes with “harmful to synthetic fabrics, wood finishes, and plastic.”

  By now I have the campers trained. They whoop with disbelief. “Are your nails tougher than wood?” I scream like a cheerleader. “No,” they shout. “Does this make sense?” Again they shout, “No.”

  Harriet brings her freckles around regularly, although usually she simply stands in the barn door. “Love to see you all as busy as bees,” she calls. Today she enters and circles the table while we consider how to include Lark’s essay on aerosol (whether or not to cut it up and highlight words like ozone). Harriet has to be impressed. The heavy paper is all patched into one gigantic sheet and one quarter patterned with an artful arrangement of labels and warnings, complete with arrows, exclamation points, and dead flowers (Hazel’s idea), and a drawing of a skull and crossbones. I consider how my dad would present the project to Harriet. “This work is a collision of art and science,” I say.

  “What’s wrong with your hand?” she asks.

  “Oh, this. Just a scrape.” I wave off her concerns about the large Band-Aid across the knuckles that protects the splinter so it won’t dislodge by accident.

  “I’ve had several calls,” she says, “from parents.”

  I’m not surprised. They send their kids to this goofy camp and never expect them to get a real education. Not only are they becoming artists, but they’re being turned from mindless automatons into kids who question Listerine. The parents must be ecstatic. Perhaps Harriet will suggest an art show, framing the work or even getting it hung in the Hudson Glen city hall.

  After Harriet has surveyed our work from every angle, she stops behind me. I feel her breath on my neck, a bit creepy, before she whispers in my ear, “When Brandon’s dad was replacing a flashlight battery, Brandon told him, ‘You could die from that.’”

  I swing around. “He really gets it.”

  “So his father had a little chat with him, and Brandon told him about your art project.”

  “Didn’t he already know? I mean, they’ve all brought in contributions.”

  “Well, they knew, but…” Harriet takes my arm, elevates me out of my chair, and steers me outside as she calls over her shoulder to the kids, “We’ll be right back.”

  “I suppose it’s my fault,” she remarks as soon as we’re outdoors.

  “Fault?”

  “I told you to do whatever you wanted. I should have paid more attention when your mother said…” She pauses.

  “What did my mom say?”

  She presses her lips together while she considers what to reply. “Your mom said that you were a little upset. About your dad. Natural, of course. Beatrice is having nightmares.”

  For a second I can’t place Beatrice, but then I remember, of course, Barbie One. “Nightmares about what?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Harriet chatters on. “Hazel’s mother called too. She took Hazel with her to the beauty salon, and Hazel told everyone they would die from hair spray. Hazel tried to hold her breath the whole time she was there, although, of course, she failed. Isabel won’t use anything that’s been washed in the dishwasher.”

  “Neither will I.”

  “Oh, Frannie.” She throws her arms around me. “That is sad.”

  I push her away. Apparently Harriet has the sensitivity of an army tank, because she doesn’t back off. She rearranges my hair, tucking it behind my ears while she gives me a super tragic look. “Rocco’s dad is the president of this camp.”

  “This camp has a president?”

  “It’s nonprofit and he runs it. So he’s like a president. He’s very important. Rocco has been going around the house saying, ‘This kills, that kills.’ Finally his father asked, ‘What in the world are you talking about?’ and Lark filled him in. I don’t like to get calls from Rocco’s dad, Frannie. This has to stop.”

  “What has to stop?”

  She swoops back into the barn. “All right, everybody.” She claps her hands. “Stop what you’re doing—we’re going to have a nature hike. It’s a beautiful day, no arts and crafts.” She pulls kids out of their chairs. “Leave those glue dispensers right where they are. Simon’s waiting for you.”

  As she herds them out, she plots, confiding as if we’re in cahoots. “We’ll think of some way to get their minds off all this, and we’ll have to throw it away.”

  “It?”

  “This project of yours.”

  I stop in my tracks. What? She wants to get rid of it? What nerve. “Wait.” I catch up and grab her arm. “You can’t do that.”

  “I know, it will be a little tricky.” Again, that conspiratorial tone: “We’ll have to tell the kids that some parents are upset.”

  “Upset? By art! Art is supposed to shock you.”

  Harriet actually laughs. What’s funny about that?

  “If you’re throwing it away, I quit.” The minute I utter the word “quit,” I see the advantages. I can leave over a principle. Mom can’t object to that.

  “Of course you’re not quitting. Frannie’s coming too,” she tells the campers. “Nature will do you good, that’s what you need. Start Frannie’s engine, kids. No laggers, not even counselors.” She whoops a laugh, and Isabel and Pearl drag me by the hands while Gregor pushes from behind as if I were a stalled car.

  The Eagles are waiting with Simon at the bottom of the mountain. Did I mention the mountain? Some people might call it a hill, but it’s a dense tangle of trees on a fairly steep slope about a half mile from the barn, and to me it seems like bear country. Simon greets every camper differently—special slaps, high fives, pinkie locks, finger wiggles, digits dancing on palms. He knows endless variations, and all the campers are thrilled: me next, me next, me next. To Rocco, Simon bends down: “Head buzz, buddy.” Rocco rubs his hand over Simon’s buzz cut.

  When he spots me, Simon jabs his fist in my direction. His fist waits there, suspended. Am I supposed to respond? Am I expected to knot my hand into a fist and bang his knuckles? Sensing it’s the only way to move off his radar, I comply. We knock knuckles. It’s so dumb. I feel ridiculous. Can’t he just say hello? Truly he’s a hyper-kinetic human—perhaps a study should be done of him.

  The ENP is putting on socks. Thick white gym socks, and the way she does it, you’d think she is slipping on a pair of sexy fishnet stockings. “Who wants to give me their shoulder?” she purrs. Several boys crowd around. She pretends to lean on two of them to rise from sitting to standing.

  “Does anyone mind if I pass on this?” she asks.

  “Go ahead, Dawn, there’s fresh coffee in the cabin,” says Harriet. “Frannie’s here—they’ll do just fine without you. I’m going to check on two leaky canoes.”

  As Harriet speeds off, Dawn says, “Purse, please.”

  Hazel hands over a pink shoulder bag she’s been toting.

  “Water,” Dawn commands.

  Brandon, holding a small bottle of Evian, passes it to her.

  “Scrunchee.”

  Pearl, the tiara girl, slides off a red velvet one she’s been wearing as a bracelet, and the rest of the girls argue over who gets to carry Dawn’s things next.

  “Whoever gets to the top, the first boy and the first girl,” says Dawn, “gets to be the next clothes carrier. Simon is going to tell me. I’m counting on him.” She bestows a wide and glamorous smile on Simon. “Have fun,” she calls as she swishes away. “Don’t miss me too much.”

  Simon orders everyone to stand tall, and he inspects. “Okay, looking good. One wiggle and we’ll leave.” He twitches his butt and shakes his shoulders.

  All the campers do the drill.

  “How about Frannie? How about a wiggle from Frannie?”

  He is one second away from saying, “Move your frannie, Fanny.” I sense it. Fact, not opinion: If your name is Frann
ie, as sure as the sun comes up, one idiot after another is going to think he made up the greatest joke by calling you Fanny.

  “Hey, Frannie, give us a wiggle.”

  I jerk my shoulders twice. God, this is humiliating. It satisfies. (Shocker, he didn’t use the “fanny” word). Simon takes off, bounding up the trail, while the kids clamor after, jostling to be the lucky one to hike by his side.

  Did I mention that Simon coats his nose and cheeks with thick white sunblock the consistency of mayonnaise? He probably gets easily fried, because his skin is as white as a volleyball. Imagine a volleyball sunburned. I suppose it’s to be avoided at all costs. In all aspects he’s pale, as if he’s been put through the washing cycle too many times. His bristly hair is so wheaty light that it seems colorless, and his little blue bird eyes are nearly transparent, like colored glass. His grin is wide and on the goofy side, with a half-inch space between his front teeth. The better to whistle with. In fact, he frequently puts two fingers in his mouth and blows. You can hear it from one end of camp to the other. He doesn’t ring my bells—Jenna’s expression. She mainly uses it when we scope out a guy at the mall. Although he might ring yours if you are deeply into pecs and bulging arm muscles, like maybe you fancy a Popeye type. He’s not artistic, I’ll bet you anything. I can’t be into anyone who isn’t artistic.

  With long strides, he leads the way up the narrow trail. As if conducting a guided tour, he identifies trees and wildflowers—big deal, I know them too, from Mom. Now and then he insists that everyone stop and listen to birds. Robins, a woodpecker, a cardinal, a flock of crows—he knows them by their songs. Maybe he is guessing. Would anyone know the difference?

  While initially an easy climb, the trail quickly turns steep and rocky. I grab branches for support and balance. The kids leap along like mountain goats. Wearing flip-flops, I’m at a disadvantage. My feet slide off the rubber soles and my toes cramp trying to grip the thong. It’s not my fault that I fall behind and lose sight of the pack. A relief, actually. They can’t witness my copious sweat. Salty drops drizzle from my forehead over my nose to my lips. I’m gasping—giant nasal inhales, pants and groans. Oh, man, I hate hiking.

  Dad would have carried on about the sunlight. Bright orangey-yellow streaks pierce the tall pines, creating an unusual optical effect. Anything illuminated—a cluster of wildflowers, a camper, a bunch of twigs—glows with an unearthly halo. Frankly I’m more focused on avoiding the low pointy branches covered with prickly needles. Dad could squeeze through a crowd of porcupines and keep his mind on light. Not me. Ducking under one large limb, I stumble, my ankle twists, and I fall sideways into a clump of ferns. Quite an awkward spill—a sort of pitch-and-crumple—but fortunately, by this time I’ve fallen so far behind that no one notices. Where I land is comfy and cool, if a bit gross, a damp mossy den studded with gnarled toadstools the size of babies’ feet.

  Why get up? I have no desire to climb a small mountain. They have to come back this way anyway.

  After a horizontal time-out, I sit up and peel back the Band-Aid to examine the splinter. It’s days later, but that dream is still alive in my head. The funky hotel room, the carpet tickling my feet, the moment at the window when I scraped my hand. I can still hear Dad’s voice like an echo in a canyon growing fainter and fainter.

  I wasn’t there. I couldn’t have been, it’s impossible, and yet I’m still there. How did I get this splinter?

  I stick the bandage back down to protect it, lie back, and review my time in the barn. There are a ton of instances when it could have happened, no question. As I’m running through the possibilities, I feel ground vibration, hear leaves rustle, the crackle of twigs, and distant chattering voices. They’re on their way back. I scramble out of the fern pit and onto the trail. Contemplating the best way to present myself, I decide to lean suavely against a tree.

  Simon shows up first, edging backward, instructing campers, “Make sure your foot is secure; give yourself a second to get rooted before you take another step.” He breaks off a few branches to clear a wider path, tosses them, and steps off the trail to supervise before he spies me. “Hey there, big feet.”

  My feet are big. Size nine and a half. Has he noticed, or is this simply one more of his many strange greetings? Regardless, my feet suddenly loom, large as swim fins. Besides, they’re grimy. Grimy swim fins. Now I do not feel suave. I feel the opposite of suave. As Simon passes, heading south, he dusts the remains of some feather ferns off my shoulder. A startling move. As his hand reaches out, I slap my arms across my breasts, reacting as if he’s going to grope me. And then what happens? An innocent dusting—his hand whisks my shoulder and the green fluff flies off.

  “While we were kicking butt, Frannie was having a snoozerooni,” he calls to the campers.

  “She’s here, we’ve found her,” Lark trumpets. “She was having a nap.”

  “Hardly,” I maintain coldly. “I was scavenging for unusual ferns.”

  The kids appear red cheeked and winded, but happy. There are lots of shrieks as the downward slope provides a momentum of its own. They all travel faster than they intend. Rocco, last in line, shows me a lizard he’s stashed in his pocket. “See this lizard? It’s not a lizard, it’s a wizard.” As soon as he passes, I…well, I intend to bop right down the trail behind them, but I can’t actually move. I want to. My brain is sending messages to my feet—at least it’s trying—but my feet stay put. The trail looks so steep, so incredibly steep.

  I grind my flip-flops into the dirt and try to inch along, but then I hit a protruding root. I can slide out of my flip-flops and step over, but the trail dips sharply right after.

  Again I lose sight of the kids, although for a short while I hear squeals as they slip and slide down the slope.

  Eventually I’ll venture down. Eventually. Right now I’ll take another break. This scenery could be a bunch of jigsaw pieces put together. The trail, the fern bog, the forest of trees in summer bloom. The nearest trunk of a pine begins to fragment—that mossy bit would be a spot of green on an otherwise brown piece, the knot in the oak might appear as curvy lines of gray until two pieces fit together. My foot, digging into the earth for traction, breaks into interlocking jigsaw pieces, some of which have blue knobs where they overlap my jeans or a red stripe, the flip-flop thong. My arms splinter. I feel my head dividing, features fracture—one bit contains an eye and part of my nose, another some shading on my cheek. Humpty-Dumpty sat on a wall.

  Don’t look at the downward slope, that forbidding downward slope.

  I’m going to die.

  If I had to draw this, I’d draw two abandoned flip-flops. That suggests a story all right, and not a cheery one.

  A big fat horsefly buzzes around. Horsefly bites swell and itch like crazy, but I won’t wave it off. Almost any move might send me crashing, a stupendous tumble to the bottom. There I would end, one leg one way, one leg the other, startled and broken like Dad.

  The crunch of pebbles and dry twigs—that might signal the approach of a small hungry bear. The top of his head bobs into sight, the buzz cut so flat I could balance a glass on it, then Simon’s face freshly coated—a slab of white ointment on his nose and cheeks, even a stripe across his forehead. He’s stripped off his shirt—that’s a shocker: a flaming pink hairless chest, pulsing pecs. Do pecs actually pulse? I believe I detect throbbing, yes, that’s my definite impression. His naked arms look positively sculpted and slick from sweat, and that starts me thinking about how I have big circles of sweat under my arms, I probably smell, and he’s undoubtedly noticing.

  “Go down on your butt,” he says.

  I think about that. Trouble is, if I do, I have to sit, and it seems wiser to remain static.

  Simon holds out his hand. I release the tree, grab his hand, wobble back and forth, but his grip steadies me, in fact I feel as if I’m being anchored by iron.

  “Now sit down,” he orders.

  I lower myself to the ground.

  “And mooch along.”


  “Mooch?”

  “Mooch.” I swear I detect the tiniest twitch of his lips indicating that he might be holding a grin in check.

  I try an MLS from this pathetic position with Simon the giant hovering above. A waste of energy. “You go ahead,” I tell him.

  “I’ll wait. No big deal.”

  “Please go on.” I guess he hears hysteria in the high-pitched screech that I not too successfully suppress, because he acquiesces.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  When he’s out of sight, I begin the mooch, moving my feet first and then my hands, scooting my butt up last. I get good at it, descending faster and faster, even learn to keep my butt elevated so it doesn’t get scraped. Just before I hit the home stretch, the path levels to a modest incline. I’m able to rejoin the campers walking. “Hi, there,” I call, relieved not to have been humiliated in front of them.

  “Fanny came down on her frannie,” says Simon. “Let’s give her a cheer.”

  19

  What a jerk. Now Rocco is calling me Fanny every five seconds, like I really care, but it’s so tedious and inevitable that an uncreative person like Simon would crack the oldest joke in the book, and, as a result, all the way home, Rocco is shouting, “Hey, Fanny, where’s your butt?” until his sister nearly pulls his arm out of his socket and Mr. DeAngelo has to stop the bus and squeeze his ample body down the aisle to physically separate them.

  Tonight, working the puzzle isn’t calming. I’m too wired. I gnaw red licorice vines while I hunt through the box for blue-and-white pieces. In the photo they appear to be a dinghy floating in the cove. Why would Simon slather sunblock over his face and then let his chest fry? Who cares what the answer to that is?

  Boat bits, boat bits. Here’s another. Aha, this fits together. What are these coral-and-gray pieces? I start another pile for them. I am surrounded by little heaps of puzzle pieces and a smorgasbord of tasties—vines, peanuts, a bag of chocolate bits, a package of Velveeta. It’s hazardous to stretch or shift positions or I’ll knock one pile into another. I should have said something squelching to Simon. Something squelching like…I don’t know, my mind is blank. Lobster. I could have called him lobster, you know, because of how red he is, all sunburned. Well, that would have been a pathetic retort. I’m always trying to relive the moment. What I should have said instead of what I did say, which, in this case, was nothing. Oops, I pressed a piece of cheese into the puzzle.