Frank

by Fred Petrovsky

  “Thanks. But I don’t think so. Somehow I think this is enough.”

  We had an awkward moment saying good-bye. I didn’t know whether to shake his hand or hug him. I think he had the same reservations. Instead, I just walked away, smiled and gave a little wave. It felt fine.

  “Bye,” he said.

  I drove away and thought about Frank and the day I’d forced him out of the house and the sound of the garage door closing after him and all the tomorrows we would never share. I pictured him and Mike together.

  Healing could be so tiring.

  23: Evelyn Meadows

  As soon as I got off the phone with Dave Hueger I searched for his address in the phone book and drove quickly to his apartment. I didn’t go in. He’d been rather adamant on the phone about me not joining him on his trip to see Howard. I couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t his choice anyway. I suppose it was a great honor for him to have been selected for the first interview with Howard.

  But I felt lonely and abandoned. If it wasn’t for me, Dave would never have even known about Howard. Why hadn’t I been called? All along I’d thought that Howard and I had a special relationship. We spent so much time together. Didn’t that mean anything? Over time, my fondness for him had grown into something resembling love. Not love in a sexual or possessive way. Something more along the lines of an attachment. That’s a good word for it. I needed him. I hope he needed me. I had taken care of him for so long and so well and what was my reward? I’d been swept under the rug and paid off. I was nobody. All of that bothered me. I can’t deny it. But there was nothing I could do about that now. Terribly, they had taken my love for Howard and replaced it with a sleaziness. They’d lured me in and paid me all that money and that was all I had left.

  I parked a half block away and waited. I didn’t really know what I was going to do. Maybe I’d confront him when he came out. I sat there behind the wheel and rehearsed a speech I’d say to Dave and whoever picked him up. I wanted to tell them none of this was fair, and that if Howard knew how I was being treated he wouldn’t approve of it. I’d threaten to make things public. What things, I didn’t exactly know. They’d kept so much from me, and I’d just gone along with it. I was a patsy. A fool. Besides, what could I say that hadn’t already been made public? But maybe they’d believe me anyhow.

  I was sitting there feeling sorry for myself when that public relations fellow from the television news conference came to get him, fitting him with some kind of a hood. I don’t think they saw me. I’ve never followed a car before in my life. Well, other than a few times when I followed a friend someplace and they knew I was following them and so slowed down and made sure they could see me in the rearview mirror. But following someone who is ignorant of your presence is another thing. And keeping them unaware is almost impossible. Thankfully, I don’t think they were watching for anyone. If they had, I might have been spotted a few cars back weaving through traffic. It was tremendously stressful. I had to keep speeding up to make lights, then violently slowing down so as not to get too close.

  The car drove south and into the older part of town. When it turned off into the warehouse district I became nervous. Without any cars between us, how could I not be seen? I lagged back as far as I could and pretended to be lost. When the car turned I crept to the intersection and looked to see where it had gone. Then I’d turn again and make my way slowly. I was perspiring profusely.

  Thankfully, the car stopped at a small, unassuming single-level building. I felt like crying because I knew Howard was in there. He was so close. I could almost see him. I could feel him. I wanted to run in immediately and see if he was okay. I watched them get out of the car. Then they went inside.

  I sat behind the wheel and waited, wondering what was going on in there and how Howard was and what kind of progress he’d made. But mostly I wondered about that woman who claimed to have been Howard’s first wife. I thought about the time she’d visited Howard in the hospital. Who was she? Maybe she wasn’t really his first wife. Maybe that was just another of the many lies they’d told me. In all the news shows and newspaper articles, I’d never once heard mention of Howard having an earlier marriage. In fact, now that I thought about it, everything about her visit to Howard was strange. The way she behaved. The way she looked. The age difference between her and his current wife, Catherine Lavery. The way she had seemed to introduce herself to Howard when she said, “I’m Janelle Orlen.” The oddly phrased “Thank you for frank,” that Howard said to her. As I once suspected, he may well have meant the name “Frank.”

  All the lies pushed against my stomach and made me sick. I didn’t feel as if I could trust anyone. And then it occurred to me: Everything was an illusion. I couldn’t trust anything I couldn’t touch. I had nothing to show for my years. I felt spiteful and angry. Who was I and what did I have? Nothing. I was a lonely woman growing older every minute. I had no one to care for me. No one loved me. At night I’d go home to the quiet of my cold apartment and walk quickly past mirrors so I wouldn’t have to see my face. Before Howard was taken from me, I had a certain amount of self-esteem. I was helping people, I told myself. But all that was gone now. My days were filled with circular thoughts about the lousy mess my life had become.

  * * * *

  The closest I think I ever really got to being in love was when I was much younger and spent two years in New York City getting an advanced nursing degree. I didn’t particularly like the city. It was either too cold or too hot, too noisy or too smelly. Cars and people ignored traffic signals and were usually rude without being provoked. Everything moved too fast. Still, it was exciting. Walking down the avenues lined with ridiculously tall buildings gave me a sense that I mattered. There I was, in the busiest city in the world, the center of the world’s finances. I felt important.

  I lived in a small apartment complex north of the school. I’d walk about ten blocks to the school. The same ten blocks every day. The same buildings. The same corner food vendors. The same flower and magazine stands. I hardly ever talked to anyone as I walked. After all, I was a single woman. I felt as if I were in a jungle surrounded by threatening animals.

  One day, though, I had woken late and hadn’t had time to grab a bite. I’d always been a big breakfast eater. It was my habit to eat a significant meal. Some cereal, toast or muffin, a half grapefruit or melon of some sort. A tall glass of juice. I barely had enough time to brush my teeth. I walked briskly and so still had time to stop at one of those small freestanding mobile silver vendor stands.

  “Orange juice please,” I said to the Spanish-looking man who stood inside the cart.

  “Large or small?” he asked.

  “Large,” I said.

  “You want top widdat?”

  “Yes, please. Do you have a straw?”

  “On the side,” he said, motioning at a tray with condiments, napkins and a straw dispenser.

  While he poured my juice I noticed that a young man stood behind him close to the street. He looked to be about nineteen years old, and he leaned against the back of the cart, his proud nose in profile. The traffic moved behind him and the morning sun surrounded his shoulders. He was beautiful. I guessed him to be the man’s son, or maybe a younger brother. I couldn’t tell. But while the man put the top on my drink I couldn’t look away. He didn’t see me. He seemed to be lost in thought, but his expression was one of wistfulness. What was he thinking? His eyes were raised toward the sky, but I could tell he wasn’t looking at anything. His sleepy gaze told me that his mind was somewhere else. He was thinking about why he was there and if this was all his life would ever amount to. He was wondering how long it would be before he had his own bagel and doughnut stand. He was looking ahead to the future and figured that it did not hold much promise for him. He was thinking that maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to have quit school. Maybe he should have studied more. I imagined him thinking all these things because he was serious and appeared so sad. I wanted to lie next to him and comfort him by running
my fingers through his hair.

  The man gave me my orange juice. I said, “Thank you,” and continued on my way. I wanted to look back but didn’t. What was his name? I thought about him all day. How long would he stand in silhouette like that? What exactly was he thinking about?

  I made it a point to stop there the next day. I held my breath as I turned the corner and approached the stand, hoping he’d be there. He was. Like the day before, he stood behind the man. This time he was busy wiping down the cart. He sprayed the metallic surface with a blue liquid and used a gray rag to polish it. He looked at me as I approached. I was stunned. His jet-black eyes entered my soul, and I grew weak. I made it to the window and asked for orange juice again.

  Each day I stopped at the same stand. And each day he was there, but always in the background. I never heard his voice. After a few days he recognized me. He would smile, exposing his brilliant white teeth, and nod. I hadn’t the courage to say anything.

  Then one day he wasn’t there. Maybe he was sick. Maybe he was running an errand. But the next day he was gone as well. And the next. A week went by, and he didn’t return. I felt ill. Finally I asked the man, “Where’s your helper?”

  “Helper?”

  “The young man,” I said, motioning behind him to where he had always worked.

  “Aureliano? He’s not here no more.”

  I took my orange juice and walked on, devastated. If only I’d said something.

  After a few months of walking by the stand every day in hopes of finding him there I changed my route and walked another street. I never saw him again.

  I don’t think a day has gone by that I haven’t thought about Aureliano. I’ve spent a good amount of time picturing us together and constructing complex lives together. If we’d gotten together it probably wouldn’t have worked out between us anyway.

  And here I was again, standing still while another man was taken from me. I shouldn’t feel so sorry for myself, but all I have is a life full of regrets.

  I think I fell asleep there for a while. When I woke the car was still parked by the building. I don’t think I missed them. A car passed me from the other direction, and I pretended to be looking for something behind my sun visor. Then I saw them come out of the building again, that news conference spokesman fellow and Dave, who was still wearing that absurd black mask.

  I started the car, backed away and drove a block down where I parked behind a building. I stayed for about ten minutes. Enough time for them to leave. When I felt it was clear I drove slowly back to the building. The car was gone. Everything was quiet. Now was my chance, I told myself. I could drive directly to the building and walk in. If I was lucky I’d find my way to where Howard was, and I could hold his hand and cry over him. Maybe that’s why I didn’t do it. I didn’t want there to be a scene. I imagined people looking up as I walked in and surprised them. They’d say, “Who are you? You can’t come in here!” They’d try to grab me, and I’d be trying to move quickly down hallways, opening all the doors, calling Howard’s name in a desperate attempt to find him. If I was lucky enough to discover him, I’d be a basket case. I’d be holding onto him, crying, and they’d be pulling me away.

  But now I knew where he was. It was almost enough to know that I could see him. That it was in my power to reach out to him. For some reason, knowing where he was made me feel joyful inside, and that was a feeling I had not experienced in so long. And the knowledge of where he was gave me powerful information and a sense of control, another sensation I thought I had lost.

  I had something else on my mind. Something more important. A connection I wanted to make. I drove home and did something I should have thought about a long time ago. I took the phone book out of the cabinet and looked up Janelle Orlen’s name. Then it all made sense. The way she’d acted. Her age. Howard’s “Thank you for frank.”

  The listing said “Orlen F & J.”

  * * * *

  When she answered the phone I suddenly didn’t know what to say. I almost hung up. But I put on my brightest voice and said, “Hello, Janelle?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Who is this?”

  “You probably don’t remember me,” I said. “Evelyn Meadows. I was the nurse at the hospital when you came to visit your ex-husband, Howard Lavery.”

  “The nurse in the room? Oh.” I heard surprise in her voice. “Of course I remember you. Hello. How are you? Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine,” I said, and tried to think my way through the conversation. What did I want with her? “How are you? I just thought I’d call and see how you are doing.”

  “That’s nice of you,” she said. “How’s Howard?”

  “Oh, I’m not with him anymore, sorry to say. I’m taking a sabbatical.” Then I started rambling on about how much I’d enjoyed taking care of him and things like that until I blurted out what was really on my mind. “Back when you came to the hospital I was under the impression that you were Howard’s ex-wife.”

  She hesitated, then said, “I am.”

  “Howard’s or Frank’s?” I hated myself for saying it as the words left my mouth. Who was I to press her? I hastily added, “I’m sorry. Never mind. It’s none of my business. I’m awfully sorry. I’ve been under a lot of pressure.”

  I think I heard her inhale and could almost picture her dropping the phone and the blood rushing from her face.

  After an interminably long silence she whispered, “Frank’s. How did you know?”

  “I shouldn’t have called,” I said. “I don’t know what I expected out of you. It was a poor decision. Selfish of me.”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “Do others know?”

  “No. I’m sure they don’t. I just sort of put a few things together. A guess.”

  “You know,” she said, “I’ve thought about you from time to time. I was jealous of you. Hated you. Being with my husband as often as you were, I mean.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know. They didn’t tell me.”

  “Would you like to have lunch with me tomorrow?”

  What had I gotten myself into? My heart soared.

  * * * *

  We met at a small coffeehouse where you could get virtually any kind of coffee, espresso, or cappuccino, as well as a few sandwiches and small salads. I arrived before she did and took a small table outside in a shaded patio area. I thought about what I would say but couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t sound false.

  I saw her before she saw me. She held herself straight and walked slowly. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun and she wore little makeup. I smiled and waved to her. “Over here,” I called. When she saw me she perked up and waved back, weaving her way around tables.

  I instinctively stood up and embraced her. She was frail. Even though I barely knew her I felt badly for her. Being a nurse, death was an everyday part of my life. I’d seen hundreds of patients fall away from me and comforted their loved ones. I rarely allowed myself to get personally involved or attached. You couldn’t survive otherwise. But as soon as I held Janelle Orlen I felt my emotions rising. I stood and hugged her tightly and felt her hug me back. “I’m so sorry,” I heard myself saying. “I’m so very, very sorry.”

  When we sat down I unburdened my heart. “I never knew,” I told her, and it felt good to tell someone. “They told me he had had brain surgery. They made up a hundred lies, and I believed them all. I had no idea.”

  Our hands met over the table. “I know,” she said. “I didn’t like it then. Don’t particularly like it now. But I think it was necessary. You have to think about his new family.”

  “What about yours?”

  That’s when she told me about her three young daughters and how her life had changed. She told me how he had died and about her descent into grief and depression. I could only imagine. No, I couldn’t. It was bad enough to have had her husband and her children’s father taken away. On top of that, she was faced with knowing that her husband wasn’t really dead. H
is body was alive and now owned by someone else.

  “How did you survive, you poor thing?”

  “I’m still learning how,” she said, then asked, “Tell me about Frank.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I mean, tell me about him. You were with him so long. You took care of him.”

  “But it was Howard.”

  She looked down at the table and moved a fork. “I know,” she said. “But tell me anyway.”

  “I wish I had known Frank,” I said. “He had a handsome body. He responded to me. I spent a great deal of time in physical therapy with him, massaging him, turning him, caring for him.”

  We talked for a long time. I asked her how her children were doing, and she told me stories that broke my heart. She showed me a picture of her family from last year. It was a gorgeous family portrait. Frank was smiling widely, his eyes open and alert, an aggressive soul showing through. Janelle sat next to him looking happy and carefree. In front of them were their daughters, all cut from the same cloth as their parents. They looked at the camera with innocent expressions, none of them aware that in just a few months their father would be dead. Janelle told me that her daughters didn’t know the true story. As far as they knew, their father was in the ground, all of him. “I’ll have to tell them someday. Maybe soon,” she said. “I’d hate for them to hear it on the news.”

  I asked her about her husband but, surprisingly for how open she’d been so far, she was reticent. All she said was, “He was a good father.”

  “How did you meet?” I asked, wanting to know more, trying to draw her out.

  “Okay if we don’t talk about it?” she asked.

  “I understand,” I said.

  We talked a little while longer. She told me about her counseling and about how her children were handling the loss of their father. I explained how I’d grown attached to Howard and how I had allowed them to take him from me. Then our conversation drifted to a slow conclusion.