Be Frank With Me

by Julia Claiborne Johnson

  Dedication

  FOR

  CHRIS, WILL, AND COCO,

  who make me laugh every day

  AND

  EILEEN SCHNURR,

  who would have loved to see this

  Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue: February 2010

  Part I: Who Is Frank? Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Part II: Our Adventures Begin Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Part III: In the Manner of Apollo Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Part IV: What Have You Done with Xander? Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Part V: After the Rains Came Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Part VI: The Fire Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  February 2010

  BECAUSE THE STATION wagon blew up in the fire, Frank and I took the bus to the hospital. When I told him we’d get there in less than half the time in a taxi, Frank said, “I only ride in taxis with my mother. You are not my mother, Alice.”

  This was a fact. Once the kid latched onto a fact there was no point in trying to talk him around to practicalities. “Fine,” I said. “We’ll take the bus.”

  We hadn’t been on the bus very long when Frank said, “People are staring at me.”

  “So? You’re fun to look at.” This was also a fact. Frank was pretty in the angelic way ten-year-old boys are sometimes: skin all pink and white and smooth, outsized dark eyes with ridiculously long lashes, freckles spilled across his nose. He had red hair, but not the crazy, curly orange kind that gets kids cast in television commercials when they’re four and ostracized on the playground when they’ve grown to a pasty, lumpy eleven. Frank’s was the Irish setter auburn you almost never see in real life, shiny-smooth and heavy, with a way of falling across his forehead that made you think there was always a stylist standing just outside the frame, keeping it perfect. Casting agents would have gone nuts for him in the early days of Technicolor.

  But his looks weren’t what had our fellow travelers transfixed, certainly not in a place like Hollywood where gorgeous kids are so common that you even see them on city buses. No, what got people staring was Frank’s look. Before we left the house that morning he’d shellacked his hair like a mini Rudolph Valentino, put on a wing-collared shirt, white tie and vest, a cutaway coat, morning pants, and spats. Also a top hat, which he balanced on his knees while we rode to the hospital because, as he’d explained to our bus driver when the man admired it, “A gentleman never wears his hat indoors.”

  I was the only person on that bus who understood what a sacrifice it was for him not to wear the hat. Out in the world, Frank needed to be 100 percent buttoned up, buckled down and helmeted, even if it were a hundred degrees outside. Seasonally inappropriate is what mental health factotums call his way of dressing, while people into fashion call it style.

  “Alice, can you make the people staring at me stop staring at me?” he asked.

  “I can’t,” I said. “Close your eyes so you can’t see them.”

  He did, and put his head on my shoulder. I almost put my arm around him, but stopped myself in time. When he leaned against me I caught a whiff of fire and maybe a little brimstone. Frank usually smelled like a mix of lavender and rosemary and little boy sweat so I guessed the smoke had gotten its fingers into his wardrobe, even if the fire hadn’t. I’d have to take all his outfits to the cleaners. I’d have to rent a U-Haul.

  “They’re just staring because you’re the only kid on the bus dressed in a morning suit,” I added.

  “I chose this ensemble because I am in mourning,” he said. He sat up and turned his face toward me, but kept his eyes squeezed shut.

  “Your mother is going to be fine,” I said. I hoped I wasn’t lying. “For the record, that kind of mourning, the feeling sad kind, is spelled m-o-u-r-n-i-n-g. Morning like a morning suit is spelled m-o-r-n-i-n-g.”

  “I am not a good speller.”

  “We all have our strengths and weaknesses.”

  “I imagine Albert Einstein was a bad speller,” Frank said, settling against me again. “A bad speller, with terrible penmanship. Despite these shortcomings, Albert Einstein won the Nobel Prize for Physics in 1921. Do you think Einstein’s mom cared about his spelling and penmanship?”

  “Probably,” I said. “Mothers are like that. It’s their job to sweat the details, don’t you think?”

  When Frank didn’t respond I realized he’d fallen asleep. I was glad to see it. The ride would be long and he hardly slept, ever. He had to be exhausted. I know I was. Which wasn’t going to make it easier to handle whatever we found once we got to the hospital. Frank’s mother had been held there for three days of psychiatric observation after the fire.

  Frank’s mother was M. M. Banning, the famous literary recluse.

  Long before she’d become famous or a recluse, Frank’s mother or my boss, the nineteen-year-old version of M. M. Banning, a college dropout from Nowheresville, Alabama, wrote Pitched, a novel that won her a Pulitzer and a National Book Award by the time she turned twenty. It became the rare book—there must be only a handful—that still sells about a million copies a year, thirty years after its publication. Pitched revolved around a handsome, enigmatic, and unnamed baseball player who dazzled the world before going off his nut. It was short, simply written, and ended with someone dying, a magic combination that made it a fixture on every junior high school reading list in America. Over time the book became a touchstone for disaster, too, a handy symbol for anyone with a story about a failed athlete or other cursed soul. Toss a copy of Pitched on that character’s bedside table and the audience knows to think uh-oh.

  After Pitched, M. M. Banning never wrote another word as far as anybody knew.

  PART I

  WHO IS FRANK?

  June 2009

  ( 1 )

  MIMI’S PRICKLY,” ISAAC Vargas told me when he asked if I’d go to California to work for M. M. Banning while she wrote her long-awaited second novel. I’d been his assistant for the past year at the publishing house in New York City that had brought out her literary blockbuster back in the late 1970s. As a junior editor, Mr. Vargas had pulled Pitched from a pile of unsolicited manuscripts and had been M. M. Banning’s editor ever since. In theory, anyway, since there had been no more manuscripts to edit after that first one. Or even much communication between the two of them. When she’d called, Mr. Vargas hadn’t talked to M. M. Banning since before I was born.

  “Mimi’s in a tight spot. She has to get this novel written, and she has to do it fast,” he explained. She wanted an assistant to help her navigate computers and keep her household running until the book was finished. “She needs somebody smart and capable, someone we can trust. I thought of you, Alice.”

  It was a lot to take in. Pitched had been my mother’s favorite book in the world. If I closed my eyes I could still see her girlhood copy of it. She’d handled that paperback so much its covers felt like they were made of cloth. Its yellowed pages had stiffened and were missing little triangles of paper that had gone brittle and broken off whe
re she’d turned down corners. The blurb on the back cover read: A sensitive work of incredible insight, a writer of startling gifts. One of the premiere voices of this or any generation. An instant classic!

  Underneath that was a photo of young M. M. Banning. Cropped carrot-red hair, big chocolate eyes behind heavy masculine glasses, wearing a cardigan sweater that engulfed her, looking more like a scrawny preteen boy in Dad’s clothes than a young woman on the cusp of her twenties. My mother was such a fan that she stole her father’s cardigans and glasses every Halloween in junior high so she could trick-or-treat as M. M. Banning. I think she would have dressed me in my father’s sweaters and eyeglasses, too, except by junior high my father wasn’t around for us to steal from.

  “Ha!” Mr. Vargas said when I told him about my mother. “What’s funny is that Mimi borrowed my glasses and sweater for that photo shoot because she didn’t like anything the stylist brought for her to wear. She told the hair and makeup person to give her a crew cut. ‘What you want is a pixie,’ the woman told her. ‘No. What I want is to look like a writer,’ Mimi said. ‘Not like some girl who got elected to homecoming court to make the prom queen look prettier.’ When I told her I loved the photograph, Mimi said, ‘You know who’ll hate it? My mother. That’s what I like best about it.’”

  “Did her mother hate it?”

  “I don’t think her mother ever saw it,” Mr. Vargas said. He stroked the stubble on his chin and looked out the window. “Listen, don’t tell Mimi any of that business about your mother. She has a complicated relationship with her fans. And her mom. I think there are times when she wishes she’d never written that novel. Which reminds me. Did I tell you Mimi has a kid now? Named Frank. First I’ve heard of him. Imagine that.”

  In the foreword of the latest edition of Pitched that I bought at the airport bookstore to reread on the plane to California, scholars floated many theories about what had silenced one of the premiere voices of this or any generation. M. M. Banning hated writing. Loved writing, but hated critics. Felt suffocated by her sudden, outsized fame and wanted no more of it. Had stored up a trove of manuscripts to be published after her death, when she’d be past caring what anybody else thought about her. Hadn’t written the book in the first place—that it had been a sort of long-form suicide note penned by her brilliant, dead brother.

  A mystery kid she was raising on her own? Not a one had volunteered that.

  I bought a notebook at the airport bookstore, too. There wasn’t much of a selection there, so I’d been stuck with a pink one with a unicorn on its cover and a pack of crayons Velcroed to its side. I left the crayons on the seat beside me in the airport departure lounge for some kid to find. “Who is Frank?” I inked across the top of its first page while I waited for my plane.

  For that matter, who was M. M. Banning? Her name was as much a fiction as her book, Mr. Vargas told me. The publisher had decided the name she came equipped with, Mimi Gillespie, lacked gravitas. So she invented “M. M. Banning,” a name of indeterminate gender better suited to a bank president than a college dropout. Once the book was published and became a hit, Mimi Gillespie was as good as dead. Except to Mr. Vargas, who remembered how she was before she was famous.

  M. M. BANNING lived in Bel Air, in the kind of place I’d only seen before in magazines—stone facade framed by palm trees to the street, all glass everywhere else. It wasn’t the kind of house I’d think of buying if I happened to be a celebrity obsessed with privacy. I wondered if M. M. Banning woke up some mornings wondering how on earth she’d ended up there.

  According to Mr. Vargas, ending up in Los Angeles had never been part of the plan. When she was twenty-two, he told me, Mimi had left New York to oversee her book’s adaptation into a movie. “I’ll just be gone a few months,” she said.

  Everything had gone well at first. The film version of Pitched won an armload of Academy Awards, one of them for the screenplay she’d worked on as a consultant. Mimi attended the ceremony on the arm of the up-and-coming actor who played The Pitcher, an exquisite cipher named Hanes Fuller, who appeared on-screen shirtless more often than not. The press called them “today’s alternate-universe Arthur Miller and Marilyn Monroe” because she wore glasses and cardigans and was stunningly average-looking, while he always seemed to have his chest hanging out.

  At twenty-three, she’d married the movie star. By twenty-five, they’d divorced. Instead of coming back to New York, she’d moved to the glass house and disappeared inside. Or tried to. Before she’d unpacked her boxes, M. M. Banning’s more fanatical devotees had tracked her down and pressed their faces against the glass to peer inside. I’ve read your book. I feel your pain. Come out and play.

  M. M. Banning put up a stucco wall iced with razor wire to keep her public at bay. Fans and the occasional photographer still lurked outside its perimeter hoping—what? That the reclusive novelist would come out to pose for the literary equivalent of a photograph of a yeti? That one day she’d be lonely enough to invite a lurker inside and they’d become best friends forever?

  When the airport cab dropped me at the gate I was relieved nobody was around watching with binoculars as I punched in the entry code in the keypad. 21 22 00 0. The gate swung open and I scuttled through, then huffed up the steep driveway with my bags. I stood at the door for a minute enjoying the irony of the word “welcome” worked into the rush doormat at my feet. My mother would have died from the excitement of knowing I was there if it weren’t for the inconvenient fact that she was already dead.

  “Los Angeles is paradise on earth, Alice,” Mr. Vargas had said as he’d scrawled the keypad’s code on a Post-it for me back in New York. “You can’t blame people for being seduced by it. Have you ever been?”

  “Never,” I said.

  “Everybody should go once.”

  “How many times have you been?” I asked.

  “Once,” he said. “Listen, I know Mimi has a reputation for being difficult, but if I weren’t fond of her I wouldn’t send you. She’ll love you if she’ll let herself. In the meantime, don’t let her scare you off.”

  I wiped my feet on the mat and squared my shoulders. Don’t let her scare you off. I practiced my smile. Businesslike, but with enough warmth to keep me from coming off as too Nurse Ratched. I mumbled lines I’d worked on during my flight. Nobody knows single motherhood better than I do. It was just me and my mom growing up. . . . No, I’m good, I ate on the plane, thanks. Just a glass of water, I’ll get it myself, tell me where. . . . So this must be Frank! Only nine years old? You seem much older.

  Little did I know.

  I probably stood there longer than I should have, because the recluse herself opened the door before I could ring the bell and demanded, “Who are you? I’ve been watching you on the security cameras since you came through the gate.”

  I was so surprised I gasped “M. M. Banning!” like a toddler might squeal “Santa!” if she stumbled on the guy in the red suit and fake beard sneaking a cigarette out back of the mall during his break. To be honest, I’m not sure I would have recognized her if I’d passed her on the street. In the years since that book jacket photo had been taken, her hair had grown out into a grayish-brown ponytail, she’d developed a big furrow between her eyebrows, and her jawline had gone soft. But her eyes were the same fathomless brown, so dark that the iris and pupil seemed one. She still wore glasses and a cardigan, too, except now the cardigan made her look less like a writer than a middle-aged librarian. A vengeful middle-aged librarian brandishing a portable phone.

  “You’d better be the girl Isaac Vargas sent,” she said, “because I have the police on speed dial.”

  I WASN’T ALWAYS an M. M. Banning fan.

  When I read my mother’s battered copy of Pitched for eighth grade English, I confess I didn’t see what the fuss was about. “I hate how the guy is just called ‘The Pitcher,’” I complained to her. “Why doesn’t he have a name?” My mother said she guessed the author did that to make the story feel universal, to
help readers imagine the character as their own brother or son. “I don’t have a brother or son,” I said. “It just makes it easier for me to imagine him as a water jug with a handle.” My poor mother. Her favorite book, trashed by her only child. What can I say? Junior High Alice preferred Jay Gatsby, with his million-dollar smile and mansion and all those beautiful shirts.

  I reread Pitched as coursework in Twentieth-Century Lit when I was a junior in college, soon after my mother died unexpectedly of undiagnosed heart disease. It was a different book to me then. That time it tore me apart. I confessed in class that I’d cried my eyes out when I finished.

  “You realize now,” my professor commented drily, “that youth isn’t wasted on the young. Literature is.”

  WHEN M. M. Banning called Mr. Vargas, I was sitting at my desk just outside his open office door. They talked for almost an hour. He said very little other than “uh-huh, uh-huh,” “Oh, no,” and “I’m so sorry, Mimi.” The gist of it was that she’d been swindled of her fortune by a crooked investment adviser who’d just been thrown in jail for life that March for bilking the rich and super-rich across America. By June, she was on the brink of losing not just her house but also the copyright to her book, collateral she’d given high-end loan sharks who marketed themselves as money managers to the rich and clueless.

  “They had an office on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills,” she told Mr. Vargas. “They sent a car for me. They had nice office furniture. I wanted to believe they could save me.” That was the thing she said that really broke his heart. “My wife’s oncologist had nice office furniture, too,” he told me. A few months after I came to work for him, Mr. Vargas’s wife had died of pancreatic cancer. That fall, his daughter Carolyn shipped out to an expensive private university on the West Coast. On top of all that, the publishing company he’d worked for his whole career had been acquired by a media conglomerate. When he answered M. M. Banning’s call Mr. Vargas said he’d half-expected Personnel, phoning to tell him he’d been downsized. Instead, a second book from M. M. Banning. Good, bad, or indifferent, it would be a best seller. His career was saved, at least for now. And to think she’d called him looking for salvation! Mimi didn’t know it yet, but she’d thrown all of us a lifeline.