But lying down was my first mistake. The hall was carpeted, so of course I fell asleep.
I THINK THE quiet woke me.
My first thought was that Frank had made a break for it. Stepped over me while I was snoozing, wandered through the living room door hole, jumped the wall, and now lay at the bottom of the hill in a million pieces. Bleeding. Which was a good sign, we’d learned from the paramedics earlier in the day, because bleeding people aren’t dead yet.
But Frank was the kind of kid who left a trail—wet footprints, chocolate hand-tracks, scuffed walls, broken stuff. There was no sign of his passage in the hallway. Oh, no. I yanked the bathroom door open and all but fainted on the spot.
Frank was in there all right. Fully clothed, goggles pushed on his forehead and toy submarine clutched to chest. Eyes closed, pale as death, halo of floating hair. Imagine Jules Verne, Angelic Shipwreck Victim. Angels, of course, are known for many things, one of them being that they are dead. How was I going to tell Mimi I’d let her kid drown in the tub while she lay in her hospital bed?
I fell to my knees alongside the tub. “Oh, Frank,” I gasped. “Oh, no, no, no.”
His eyes slitted open. “Is it morning already?” he asked sleepily.
I sat back on my heels, dizzy with relief. “You almost gave me a heart attack, Frank,” I said. “I thought you were dead. What are you doing in the tub with your clothes on?”
“Sleeping. I thought it would save you work if I soaked my clothes while I soaked myself.”
“Are you insane?” I regretted saying that instantly.
“No,” he said. “See? I took my boots off first.” He lowered his goggles over his eyes and went under. He watched my chin while I watched the water fill the goggles.
“Those aren’t watertight,” I said when he came up for air and pushed his goggles up his forehead.
“I know. I was just confirming earlier research.”
“Listen, Frank. I’m sorry I said that you’re insane.”
“You didn’t say I was insane. You asked. One is a statement and the other is a question. You’re not the first to ask me that, either.”
“Okay,” I said. “You need to get out of that tub. I’m going to hold up this big towel to give you some privacy. I want you to take off those wet clothes. And leave them in the tub to keep soaking. That was a good idea, by the way. Just what I would have done, although I think I might have gotten out of them first. Then let’s get you dried off and into your pj’s.”
“‘Let’s get out of these wet clothes and into a dry martini,’” he said. “Robert Benchley.”
I laughed. I was so relieved he wasn’t dead that I would have laughed at anything.
“I’ve been waiting all my life to say that,” Frank said. “Robert Benchley was a famous wag who belonged to a group of Jazz Age writers known as the Algonquin Round Table. What you may not know is that Robert Benchley’s grandson Peter Benchley wrote Jaws. Book and screenplay.”
When Frank stood it sounded like Niagara Falls as the water cascaded from his clothing. If all the grunting coming from the other side of the towel was any indication, getting out of the wet clothes was about as easy as going over those falls in a barrel. “Do you need a hand?” I asked.
“No thank you. Almost finished. Archimedes discovered the way to measure volume of irregularly-shaped items when he stepped into the bathtub, did you know that? The water level rose an amount commensurate with the volume of his body. He was so excited by his insight that he shrieked ‘Eureka!’ which means ‘I have found it!’ Then he ran through the streets naked. I have never been excited enough about anything to consider doing that.”
“That makes two of us,” I said.
Frank took the towel moments later and wrapped it around himself like a burka. “Now into my pajamas,” he said. “Alice, could you put yours on, too? I’ve always wanted to host a pajama party. I’ve never had a friend to invite before.”
I didn’t want to leave Frank alone for even a minute but I wasn’t about to decline that invitation. So I sprinted to my room, changed, and dashed back to the kitchen. There I found the pajamaed Frank at the breakfast bar, cocktail music oozing from the piano and two full martini glasses in front of him. Frank held one out to me.
“Thanks,” I said, cradling the glass in my palm and sniffing it. Club soda.
“I asked for martini glasses for my ninth birthday,” Frank said. “So my mother got me plastic ones.”
“Your mother is a smart woman.”
“You’re supposed to hold your glass by the stem, like this, see?” Frank demonstrated. “That way the warmth of your hand won’t ruin the chilly deliciousness of your cocktail.”
“My hands aren’t warming up anything right now. It’s freezing in here.”
“It’s because we’re missing a door.”
I looked at the hole that had once been sliding glass. “We should cover that, huh? We could use blankets, or a big piece of plastic if we had one.”
“Dry cleaner bags,” Frank said. “I have a lot in my closet.”
I knew this to be true. “We’ll piece them together,” I said. “You get the bags, I’ll find the tape.”
After ransacking the kitchen drawers—bupkis—I found packing tape in a laundry room drawer. When I emerged, Frank was on the kitchen floor swaddled in dry cleaning bags. He was indulging in a much more transparent and dangerous version of his favorite game, rolling-around-in-a-comforter.
“Stop that,” I said, grabbing the plastic and rolling him free. “What are you doing?”
“Playing.”
“You can’t do that with a dry cleaning bag, Frank. This is not a toy. Look, it says it right here on the bag. ‘This is not a toy.’ You could suffocate. And we can’t use these now. You’ve shredded them.”
“I’ve got more.”
“That’s not the point,” I said. “The point is, you’re a smart boy, and this would be a dumb way to die. Come with me, please.” I herded him to his closet to harvest more bags. “Don’t touch the bags. Do you hear me? Do. Not. Touch.”
“What can I do then?”
“You carry the tape. I’ll get the tape measure. Meet me in the living room.”
When I got there, Frank was sitting on the floor, behaving himself. I measured the hole and lay the bags on the floor so we could piece together something big enough to cover it. “Come and give me a hand with this,” I said. “Please.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not? I said please.”
“Look what I’ve done this time,” he said. I looked. The kid had manacled his hands together with the tape. The almost-empty roll dangled from his wrists like a charm on a charm bracelet.
“How’d you manage that?” I asked.
“With my teeth,” he said. “It was easy at first, and then harder.”
“I believe you. I’m going for more tape. Don’t touch anything while I’m gone.”
“I don’t think I could if I wanted to.”
“Good.” I ran back into the laundry room and came back with a second roll of tape and a pair of round-edged children’s scissors to cut Frank loose.
“Vive la France,” he said when I’d freed him.
“Vive la France,” I said. “Now hold the plastic still while I tape it together.” When we had a sheet that was big enough I took it and stood by the door. “I’m too short,” I said. “I need something to stand on.”
“I know just the thing,” Frank said. He disappeared for a minute and returned rolling his mother’s big rubber yoga ball.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said.
“You can stand on it,” he said. “I’ve done it. It’s exciting.”
“I don’t want exciting, Frank. I want stable.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m boring that way. Listen. Bring me that chair over there instead. Please.”
Once the plastic was up, I said to Frank, “Now go to bed.”
“I’m not sle
epy yet. I’m cold.”
“You’ll warm up in bed.”
“I’ll warm up, but I won’t go to sleep.”
I thought about all the times I’d heard Frank knocking around in the middle of the night. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s build a fire then.”
Frank’s eyes lit up. “Where?”
“In the fireplace, idiot.” Bad. I know. I was tired. “I’m sorry, Frank. I’m the idiot, not you.”
“I know,” he said. “My IQ is higher than 99.7 percent of the American public. For some reason it makes the children at school laugh when I tell them that. Can you explain the joke in that to me?”
“There isn’t one. Some kids laugh at people smarter than they are to make them feel stupid.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Why do they think laughing at me will make me feel stupid?”
“Because they’re stupid,” I said.
I’d never lived anywhere that had a fireplace before, so I was more excited than an adult person ought to be to put my Girl Scout training to use arranging the logs and twigs from the alcove by the fireplace on top of wads of crumpled newspaper. “Now, matches,” I said. “Where does your mother keep them?”
“I wish I knew,” Frank said. “She hides them from me.”
I believed that. “How about candles? I could light one on the stove and use it to start the fire.”
“She hides those, too.” Of course she did. I’d never seen one anywhere, ever. Not even a lousy birthday candle. “You could call her and ask,” Frank said.
“Your mother is in the hospital,” I said. “I’m not calling her. Let me think. You know what? We could light a twig on the stove and—”
“You cannot walk through this house carrying a stick that’s on fire,” Frank said. “My mother has said that to me at least a million times.”
I was tempted anyway, but knew I shouldn’t be modeling bad behavior for a lit firecracker like Frank. Also, without meaning me ill, it would be the first thing he’d tell his mother when he saw her again. “I guess we can’t have a fire then,” I said.
“I have an idea,” Frank said. He disappeared down the hall. I gave chase as he beelined to the laundry room drawers where—Eureka!—he found a nine-volt battery and a roll of wire. Then he beat it back to the living room, where he took the round-tipped scissors from his bathrobe pocket—when did he palm those?—and cut a couple of pieces of wire, wrapped one around each of the batteries’ terminals, and touched the loose ends against each other. The touch produced a spark that made the paper catch fire.
“You’re a genius, Frank,” I said. “How did you think of doing that?”
“Oh, I do it in my room all the time,” he said.
WE WATCHED THE flames reduce the logs to ember, then ash. I was so afraid of nodding off that I would have taped my eyelids open if there’d been any tape left. This had been the longest day of my life. How did Mimi function if all her nights were like this? How did Frank? One night alone with the kid and I was practically reduced to ash myself.
When Frank piped up with, “I’m tired now,” I jumped the way mothers catapult from chairs when their toddlers say, “I need potty.”
“Off to bed then,” I said, giving him the bum’s rush to his bedroom.
“I don’t sleep much in my room. If you want me to sleep, put me in my mother’s bed.”
I sighed. “All right.”
In Mimi’s room I pinned him tight under her blankets. “Go to sleep,” I said.
“You aren’t leaving me, are you?”
“Do you want me to sit here until you fall asleep?” The thought of staying awake any longer made me want to cry.
“I thought we were having a pajama party. You have to sleep in here with me.”
“I’m not sleeping in your mother’s bed without her permission. It’s not polite.”
His face went blank. Blanker, I should say. Tired as I was, I hurt for him. “How about this?” I said. “I’ll sleep on the couch in the family room. I’ll be close enough to hear you if you want to talk. That’s what makes a pajama party a pajama party, you know. Being able to talk to somebody else until you fall asleep.”
“That may be so. But what you may not realize is I have a hard time falling asleep. And when I fall asleep, I wake easily. And since I slept some in the tub already—”
“Frank,” I said. “I realize. Close your eyes. Close your mouth. Go to sleep.”
I crept out of Mimi’s bedroom, leaving the door open and a light on in the hall. I fell on the couch and was out maybe fifteen minutes, maybe fifteen days. When I opened my eyes Frank’s face hovered inches above mine. I was so exhausted I couldn’t muster the strength to be startled. “What’s up, Frank?”
“I am,” he said. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“I gathered. So now what?”
“We could watch a movie.”
“It’s too late to watch a movie. Or too early. What time is it?”
“Four A.M.”
“Have you always been like this?”
“Like what?”
I tried to think of a word that wouldn’t wound his psyche for keeps. “Nocturnal,” is what I came up with finally.
“Nocturnal? That implies daytime sleep. I don’t do that much, either. My mother says my brain’s lack of an ‘off’ switch is a sign of unusual intelligence.”
“Unusual,” I said. “Uh-huh.” I rubbed my eyes, sat up and yawned.
“You’re tired,” he said. “Go back to sleep. I’ll sit here and watch you. Or I could borrow your phone to make a movie of you asleep. Like Andy Warhol. His first movie was called Sleep. It was about—”
“Sleep. I get the drift. No thanks. I didn’t come to California to be in the movies. Let’s watch Casablanca again.”
Frank did a quick soft shoe—soft slipper, really—of joy that was so unexpectedly charming that it put me right back in the palm of his hand. He’d never spent a night away from his mother in his life, poor kid. She wasn’t with him now because his hug had turned into a tackle that had landed her in the hospital with twenty-nine stitches in her scalp. You couldn’t blame him for not sleeping. But you had to wonder what his excuse was every other night.
Frank slid the movie in the DVD player and the two of us rolled up in comforters, shoulder to shoulder but individually shrink-wrapped in our own little movie-watching cocoons. Frank fell asleep sometime during the mushy part, where Rick and Ilsa reminisce about the good old days in the Paris apartment when they thought Ilsa’s husband was dead. I stayed awake watching all the way to the end.
PART III
IN THE MANNER OF APOLLO
August 2009
( 9 )
IT HAD SEEMED six months long but July was finally over, which meant Frank was seeing his shrink every other week again. Mimi and Frank were in the two chairs available in the psychiatrist’s outer office—Two chairs? Don’t both parents ever come?—while I lounged against the wall, unsure whether in my role as chauffeur I should stay or wait in the car. When the doctor came to fetch Frank back into her inner sanctum, her eyes flicked to me; but Mimi didn’t make a move to introduce us, so I didn’t say anything, either.
Frank was done up in a three-piece glen-plaid suit, bow tie and pocket square, gold knot cuff links and watch chain strung across his vest. Very Clarence Darrow for the Defense. Mimi had on a turban she must have filched from Frank’s closet, or maybe Gloria Swanson’s, accessorized with a pair of the gigantic black sunglasses favored by very young and very old women in Hollywood who weigh less than a hundred pounds and carry yappy dogs in their purses as ballast.
“What happened to you?” Dr. Abrams asked Mimi. Because not even those jumbo look-at-me/don’t-look-at-me glasses were big enough to cover the greening bruises gravity had started to dribble down her cheekbones.
“Eye lift,” Mimi said.
“Ah,” Dr. Abrams said. “Well, Frank, come on in. I like your suit.”
“Thank you. My mother’s computer bought it f
or me.”
“Well, your mother’s computer has excellent taste. Are you starting to think about getting ready for school?”
“Did you see my cuff links? My friend Xander gave them to me. They represent the Gordian knot, which—” The door closed behind them.
“Getting ready for school? That’s rich,” Mimi muttered. “For a kid like Frank, hell is other children.”
Either Mimi could read minds, too, or all the time I’d spent with Frank had made me slack about managing my facial expressions because Mimi took one look at me and said, “I didn’t tell Dr. Abrams about the accident because it really isn’t any of her business. She’s not my psychiatrist. Have a seat. Read a magazine. Here’s one I loved when I was your age.” She handed me a copy of Highlights for Children, then helped herself to a travel magazine. She started snapping through its pages like somebody looking for a Jell-O coupon she was pretty sure she saw, dammit, in that issue when she read it six months ago and she meant to find it if it was the last thing she ever did. “I don’t need a psychiatrist,” she added.
Like a good lackey, I kept my mouth shut, busying myself solving children’s puzzles, looking for the thing missing from one picture that could be found in the other if you just looked closely enough.
“That’s why Xander calls me ‘Jeopardy,’” Frank was telling Dr. Abrams forty-five minutes later, when the two of them emerged from the inner office.
“Because you know all the answers.”
“Yes. Also because I am dangerous to be around. That’s what is known as a double entendre, a French term meaning ‘a word or phrase that can be taken two ways.’ If he were referring only to the scope of my knowledge, Xander said he’d just call me ‘Quiz Show.’”
“What did you and Dr. Abrams talk about?” Mimi asked Frank in the elevator.
“Buster Keaton,” Frank replied. “Also Xander.”
TO STAY OUT of Mimi’s hair, Frank and I spent most of August revisiting the L.A. sights he’d seen in the good old days of adventures with his mother. Stir-crazy as both of us were, I was all for adventures. On one condition: I could take Frank’s hand and hold it without asking first.
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