“Between the cold and the brandy I’m plum tuckered out,” Vicky said with a yawn upon entering the warmth of Frank’s apartment through his sliding glass patio door. She figured it wasn’t just the cold and the brandy but her nerves that had worn her out as well, and she was grateful for the sudden onslaught of sleepiness. It made her care less about Frank and her doubts, leaving her with a welcome relief from the self-consciousness that plagued her all night. Her only thought right now was to satisfy this need for rest.
“You gonna be able to sleep now, Francis?” Vicky said with another yawn which infected him and she noticed his terribly blue eyes were watery and a little droopy after the yawn.
“At least I have something to stare at if I can’t.”
“That’s right, you get to sleep under the stars tonight.”
“There’s a song about stars on the ceiling, one of the Big Bands, Glen Miller, I think. Something like, ‘Why do I have the feeling there are stars on my ceiling? I know why and so do you.’” Frank sang the line. “Anyway it’s a love song. I wish I could remember the rest.”
“You gotta great singing voice, Francis. Gotta do something about that musical talent.”
“You’re right. Speaking of music, remember I asked you to listen carefully and pick out which of Gustav Holst’s Planets was your favorite. You didn’t tell me.”
“I think it was Jupiter; the real happy one. Part of it was real pretty, like a hymn almost. I think it was Jupiter anyhow.”
“The one that goes like this?” Frank hummed a few bars.
“That’s it.”
“Bless your heart, Vicky, Jupiter’s my favorite too,” Frank said approaching her suddenly, grasping her face between his hands, and giving her a loud noisy kiss on the forehead.
“Thank you for another interesting evening,” Vicky said, unable to look at Frank who was still holding her face in his hands. She wondered if he could feel the scar on her left cheek
“And thank you for the stars. I’d like to give you something in return,” he said, at last releasing her face from his grasp and backing away slightly. “Come for dinner. Believe it or not, I’m a pretty good cook.”
“All right. I’ll make some Brandy Alexanders for desert. No warm milk, I promise; just a little crème de cocoa, half and half, and a little nutmeg.”
“I’ll supply the Brandy. When’s a good time for you?”
“Is midnight too late for supper?”
“That seems to be the only time we can synchronize our schedules, doesn’t it?”
“I’m guessing we ought to make it a little earlier in the evening. That way I get to see you in something other than your P.J.’s. Let me check my work schedule for next week and I’ll give you a holler.”
“Great. Go home and get some rest,” he said retrieving her coat and purse and seeing her to the door.
Vicky had no trouble falling asleep that night, but she didn’t stay asleep. Anticipation of something wonderful kept waking her up.
Chapter 20
Frank opened a cabinet above the stove and pulled out a metal colander which he placed in the sink, humming along with the opera music he’d turned way down low when Vicky knocked on the door, just low enough to be heard subliminally. “Stand aside, this is hot,” he said, potholder in hand as he carefully moved the pot from the stove to the sink and poured the steaming noodles into the colander.
“I thought all bachelors used tennis rackets to drain their spaghetti.”
“You mean like in the movie The Apartment with Jack Lemmon and Shirley Maclaine? Great film!”
“I guess that’s where I got the idea. It was some black and white movie I seen on the late late show one night when I was half asleep. Sorry, I mean, I saw on the late late show.”
“Well, not only do I not use a tennis racket to drain my pasta, I make my own sauce,” he said returning to the stove and stirring another pot with a long handled wooden spoon.
“You mean it ain’t Ragu or Prego or something out of a can?”
“Tell me if this tastes like something out of a can?” he said, his hand held under the tip of the wooden spoon which was coated with the thick red sauce. He gently blew the heat off then turned and offered the sample to Vicky. It was strange, him feeding her like this, Vicky thought as she sucked the dollop off the tip of the spoon.
“It’s very good. You’re quite a cook. For a guy, I mean.”
“Not really. I just follow my mother’s recipes,” he said filling up two fine china plates with spaghetti and sauce.
“So she was the good cook then?”
“Outstanding,” he said carrying the plates to the table.
“Her recipes and her music, two things your mama left you. She died too soon didn’t she?”
Frank said nothing, only nodded a little sadly to her from the dining room, but the spark and warmth that were in his eyes when he greeted her disappeared for only a second, returning as quickly as they had vanished. “Shall we eat?” Frank said smiling as he motioned Vicky to the dining room table.
The table was set with silver, two crystal goblets, one large and one small at each place setting, and fancy linen napkins folded neatly like the ones at River Inn. A crystal carafe of wine, a large bowl filled with salad, and a tray of bread sat waiting there. He held her chair for her, unfolded the napkin and placed it in her lap.
“Well, ain’t you just Prince Charming in person?!”
“Mmmm. This is delicious,” Vicky said as she placed a bite of spaghetti in her mouth. “Are you sure you don’t have a jar of Ragu stashed back there in the corner where I can’t see it?”
“So you doubt Prince Charming can cook as well as slay dragons?”
“A man who can cook and slay dragons is just too darn good to be true. And like my grandma always told me, if a deal seems too good to be true it probably is.”
“All right, so I never slew a dragon.”
“I knew it.” There was an awkward lull in the conversation, and Vicky didn’t know what to do except raise her wine glass to Frank and say something about the fine dinner and his excellent culinary skills. He touched his glass to hers and gave her that searching scrutinizing look that always made her nervous.
“Francis.”
“Yes.”
“I have something to ask you.”
“I’m listening.”
“I want to learn. Could you help me?” Vicky’s tongue was all tied up with her thoughts.
“What exactly is it you want to learn?”
“I want to learn about the finer things.”
“The finer things?”
“Yeah, you know, high class things, like…”
“Like which fork to use?” Frank said lifting his small salad fork and spearing a piece of lettuce. Vicky nodded. Her face felt warm from the wine and from sudden self consciousness. She followed Frank’s lead, picked up the small fork closest to her plate.
“When in Francis’ place, do as Francis does,” Vicky said taking a bite of salad. It was vinegary and sour in a delicious way, and like the wine, it sent a pleasurable chill shooting through her jaw bone.
“I assume this is for your restaurant business someday?”
Vicky nodded as she chewed a mouth full of salad.
“I have The New Emily Post’s Book of Etiquette by her daughter, Elizabeth Post, if you’d like to borrow it. It’s over there on my bookshelf somewhere. I’ll look for it after dinner,” Frank said.
“Thank you, I appreciate that. But I want to learn more than just what’s proper and what ain’t, I mean, what’s not. See, it’s that kinda thing. How I speak. I wanna better my mind.”
“Go to college, Vicky.”
“The thought terrifies me.”
“Start out slow. Take one class and go from there.”
“What about you? Will you take those piano lessons?”
“I will if you enroll for a class at the University.”
“Are you for real?”
“Absolu
tely.”
“Wait a minute. Don’t say it unless you really mean it.”
“I don’t say things I don’t mean. So, is it a deal or isn’t it?” he said extending his hand.
“It’s a deal.” Vicky grasped his hand and gave it a firm shake. “Even though the thought of it scares the living tar outta me.”
“I can’t imagine you being scared of anything.”
“I’m a good faker.”
“Well, then you can fake your way right into that classroom on the first day and start from there. You just have to do it, Vicky. I’ll help in any way I can. I’ll go with you and help you get registered. I’ll even walk you to the classroom your first day and see you off at the door if that’s what it takes.”
“Just like a mama on the first day of Kindergarten.”
“Right. I’ll pack your lunch make sure you have all your new supplies together.”
“Will you make sure my shoes are shined and will you give my nose a good blow at the door?”
“Sure. Well, maybe not the nose blowing part.” Frank’s bemused look caused Vicky to laugh.
“It’s just an early memory. My first day of kindergarten I was so scared and crying so hard. I remember my mama dropping me off at the door, bending down and making me blow my runny nose into her handkerchief. ‘Keep your chin up, Vicky Lee. Be my brave little injun.’”
“And I can remind you again to be brave.”
“You’d do that for me?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
“But why? Why do you give a rat’s ass if I go to college or not?” Vicky searched Frank’s face, and as she did so there was that strange hope again. That hope which she had so flippantly discarded earlier that evening before she arrived when she told herself they could never be anything more than friends. That hope like an old worn out scrap of clothing beyond repair and too raggedy to even give away because, Lord knows, who would want it; that same hope Vicky found herself searching through the trash piles of her heart for because she might just have left something valuable in one of the pockets. She was surprised at how easily she found it, how readily she retrieved it from the refuse, and how willingly she put it back on again. She certainly didn’t want it so why couldn’t she part from it? She could hide the old tattered garment, her shameful hope, from everyone. But not herself.
Frank didn’t answer her question. By not answering he had answered. Vicky thought so anyway. She thought she saw a glint of something in that cryptic smile, something that flashed for a moment in his eyes and then was gone.
They finished dinner, cleared the table and chatted freely while Vicky made Brandy Alexanders; so freely, in fact, that she nearly forgot who she was with. They talked about college classes and piano lessons. They talked about cold weather. They talked about stars and planets and what type of telescope Vicky ought to purchase.
“Speaking of which,” Frank said during the course of their conversation. “Have a look at my bedroom ceiling. Go ahead, I’ll finish up here,” he said above the sound of running water and the clank of metal pots which he tossed into the sudsy sink.
Vicky left him behind in the kitchen and made her way with great haste and excitement down the short narrow hall to the room at the end. She opened the door to the already darkened room and closed it quickly behind her shutting out all remaining light from the hallway. Since she had last been there, Frank had completed the task of placing the glow in the dark stars all over the ceiling from one corner to the other so now it seemed to Vicky that it truly did resemble the night sky. She stood there alone in the quiet and darkness with only the slight green glow from the stars and the red light from a digital bedside clock.
She heard the record fill the space outside the darkened room with its music, so strange and exciting to Vicky. A sense of mystery and awe, a feeling of anticipation, and warmth from the wine all mingled together and culminated in an audible sigh of contentment. But like most of Vicky’s pleasurable and peaceful moments it didn’t last long. A thought, a worry overshadowed her. The wine hadn’t fogged Vicky’s mind so completely, however, that she forgot who she was with that evening, whose darkened room she stood inside and just who it was who waited outside for her. It was idle chit-chat they made all evening, simply small talk. Eventually they would run out of things to say because of who they were.
She decided then and there she should leave. She would make up some excuse. She would tell him thank you very much for the dinner and would go back downstairs to her apartment where she belonged. She would give up this silly hope, so wretchedly shameful to her. She didn’t want it. She would give it up once and for all.
On her way out the door she ran headlong into Frank and they both gasped in startled surprise then broke into laughter. We still have something in common, she thought. We’re both human beings. It jolts us to bump into someone in the dark, even if we know who that someone is. It was the commonality of their humanity that they laughed at as they stood between the darkened bedroom and the lit hallway. It seemed in that moment that they would always have something to talk about, but Vicky knew that thought was only a trick of the wine and the music. She bit down so hard on her lower lip it hurt. She was resolved. She’d move if she had to. Move somewhere where she could have a cat.
“So what do you think?” Frank said looking up at the ceiling.
“I was just admiring it. No telescope needed for these stars.”
“No telescope needed. See, I told you I didn’t think they were tacky,” he said turning his eyes from the ceiling to her. She could see in the dim half-light that strange expression on his face that she wasn’t sure how to read, yet sometimes it seemed to be desire. All her usual ability to read others was gone with Frank. She was never sure what she saw in him. She knew she had to leave before her defenses dissolved anymore.
“Francis, I…”
“Come with me,” he said interrupting her as he placed his hands on her shoulders, turned her around, and steered her down the hall.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” He continued to walk her into the living room until they stopped in front of the most comfortable seat in the house, a plaid soft cushioned armchair, where he handed her the open album cover containing the English translation of the libretto to La Boheme. He squatted down next to her chair.
“We’re right here,” Frank said pointing to a line of text. “It’s just a little way into the first act,” he whispered as if they were watching the live performance
“It’s a little confusing trying to follow along in English when they’re singing in Italian.”
“And it’s even more confusing when you think that the story takes place in Paris, France.”
“As opposed to Paris, Kentucky.”
“Exactly, so really they should be speaking in French, not Italian.” Frank smiled a certain smile she had come to recognize one of amusement. They read on together in silence, his hand again on her shoulder. After a time, Vicky began to get used to the pace, rhythm, and timing of the operatic voices as she read along in English with the occasional aid of Frank’s pointing index finger.
A scene sprang to life in her mind. It was her own self Vicky saw, only smaller and frailer, dressed in olden time clothes swooning as her candle and her key fall out of her hand and onto the floor. Rudolfo touches Mimi’s hand in the dark as together they look for her lost key. Rudolfo sweetly tells Mimi how cold her little hand is in his. He tells her about himself. Vicky’s eyes skipped ahead of the music across the pages of the libretto. Mimi is telling Rudolfo about herself. She’s a poor girl. She makes flowers and sells them. She’s a sad girl it seems and she has a secret sickness. She coughs. Mimi and Rudolfo are falling in love, so quickly, right there in Rudolfo’s small flat.
Vicky stood up suddenly. It was either that or sink deeper and deeper into the comfortable plaid chair. “I have to go.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now.”
“But why?”
“I thought you liked it.”
“I did at first, but not anymore.”
“I can put something else on.”
“No, it’s okay, maybe some other time. I gotta go. Dinner was great. Really. You’re a wonderful cook.” With quick deliberate steps, Vicky hurried to the door.
“Vicky what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“But your crème de cocoa …”
“You can have it.”
Vicky let herself out with just one quick glance back at Frank. The look on his face was as confused as her thoughts.
* * * * *
A couple of days later, Vicky paced up and down the little hallway of her apartment, talking to herself, trying to figure out just what to do about the Frank problem. “Son of a bitch,” she called him. “Snake in the grass,” she blurted out. “What’s his gig, anyway? He ain’t for real. He can’t be. Does he mean to make a fool of me?” She tried to work it all out in her brain in quick logical steps like the restless stride that moved her back and forth down the hall. “And then there’s my other problem: too many people know where I live. I can’t have ex-customers hunting me down,” she said, remembering how two of them had shown up at her door earlier this week, angry that she had nothing to sell them, accusing her of turning narc, and pissed that they had to drive across town to Eddie’s. She managed to get rid of them without too much of a scene, but what about next time? If she moved no one would ever find her again, not if she didn’t tell anyone.
She’d move on. It’s what she always did. Maybe she’d find a little house out in the country and she’d get a big dog with lots of room for the both of them. She didn’t need Camelot any more with its’ fake towers and turrets and its’ empty promises of happily ever after. “It’s settled. I’m moving!” She grabbed the newspaper off the kitchen counter and hurriedly paged through it until she got to the classified section and scanned the print until her eyes landed on the words “houses for rent”. She grabbed the pen she always kept in her pants pocket and circled the bold lettered words.
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