In the produce section she found plenty of avocados soft enough for guacamole and filled a plastic bag. She stopped to admire the season’s first Satsuma tangerines and could not resist buying a few. As she was putting them in a bag she heard someone humming and looked up to see Mrs. Greenwoody across the aisle. Frankie recognized her from a newspaper photo.
She had been prepared for the possibility she would meet someone she knew at the market and been ready to make a few minutes of light conversation. But she wasn’t ready to see, less than six feet away, Godzilla herself, Mrs. Greenwoody, examining yellow onions for soft spots. She didn’t look anything like the part she played in Frankie’s imagination: a witchy old broad with stinginess written in the lines of her face. Instead she reminded her of the fairy godmother in Disney’s Cinderella.
Frankie and Glory had watched the movie just the other night.
Remembering her daughter brought Candace to mind and the moment when Frankie had seen her lying on the floor of the clinic waiting room, blood streaming from the side of her head. It could so easily have been Glory.
What if it was a gun and not a rock?
“Mrs. Greenwoody?”
She looked up, smiling. It was obvious that forty years before she had been a pretty girl. She still had a prom queen’s harmless, welcoming expression.
“I’m Frankie Tennyson.”
“Of course you are. If you hadn’t spoken, I think I would have recognized you from the picture on your husband’s desk. Did he tell you I was in the office last week? I’ve been trying to get him on the committee for months now but he keeps turning me down.”
“My brother, Harry, runs the kids’ clinic.” Frankie put a tangerine in a bag. “I was down there yesterday.” She waited for Mrs. Greenwoody to respond but she just smiled and tested another onion for softness. “I saw some of your people there. Demonstrating.”
“Well, yes, it is a free country.” She laughed lightly. “At least I think so. You have to wonder sometimes, don’t you?”
Frankie wished she were wearing her uniform, even her cammies, instead of jeans and a T-shirt.
Mrs. Greenwoody said, “I hear through the grapevine that your brother and sister-in-law may shut down the clinic and go mobile.”
A few nights earlier Frankie, Rick, and Glory had eaten dinner with her brother and sister-in-law. They lived in a remodeled beach bungalow on the flats not far from the clinic and a couple of blocks from the beach. On their tiny rooftop deck they had barbecued steaks and watched the pink and orange sunset. Gaby told them the results of her recent fund-raising. Two donors in Beverly Hills, television producers, wanted to fund a mobile unit and keep it running for a year, giving Gaby time to raise more support money. They’d all been excited about the future this opened up. They were debating whether to keep the Abbott Street clinic open.
“The kids’ clinic does great good, Mrs. Greenwoody.”
“I’m sure it does. I’m not opposed to helping the needy, believe me. But our community has to look toward the future. Just imagine what it would do for the Ocean Beach tax base if there were condominiums along Abbott Street and not that old hotel and the clinic.”
“Why not a factory?” Frankie asked, dropping another tangerine in the plastic bag. “Wouldn’t that make the town even more money?”
“With child labor perhaps?” Mrs. Greenwoody laughed. “I’m not the monster you think I am, Frankie. I love our little town just as much as you do.”
“Yesterday someone threw a rock through the clinic’s window.”
“Don’t I know that? The television people were after me for a comment last night. You’d think I’d thrown it myself.”
“Children were hurt.” A slight exaggeration.
“You must know I deplore that.”
“There was glass everywhere.”
“You were inside?”
“I volunteer there on Saturdays.”
“Good for you!”
“I was there and so was my daughter.”
“Goodness, no one told me that. She wasn’t hurt, I hope.”
“Her friend was.”
“I heard there were no serious injuries.”
“But it could have been very serious.”
“Well, yes, but it wasn’t. And surely you’re not blaming me for it?”
“Your committee encourages violence.”
She held up her hand. “Excuse me, Frankie. I just have to stop you there because you couldn’t be farther from the truth. We’re a property owners’ association. That’s it.”
“Does that mean you will speak out against the violence?”
“Absolutely not.” Mrs. Greenwoody shook her head, bouncing her faux blond curls. “You and I are both realists. We know that publicity only encourages the lunatic fringe. They want attention, but I’m not going to give it to them. I told the television people I had no comment, now or in the future.”
Mrs. Greenwoody looked over at Frankie’s grocery cart. “I’ll bet you’re having a party today. Football? I never liked the sport, even when my husband was alive. Too violent for my taste. But there’s room for everyone in this world, isn’t there? Have a lovely day, dear. Enjoy your friends and tell your handsome husband I’m going to keep after him until he joins my little committee.”
Frankie watched Mrs. Greenwoody turn the corner toward the checkout stands. She looked down at the tangerine in her hand. She had put her nails through the skin and squeezed. Juice filled her palm and dripped onto the floor.
In the car she rolled up the windows and screamed until she had no voice left. Silenced, she dived deep into her imagination where nothing held her back and to herself she said the logical and persuasive things she should have said to Mrs. Greenwoody. She let her rage out and called her all the names she deserved. Hypocrite. Phony. Coward.
And then she just sat in the hot car and let the truth sink in. She should not have allowed Mrs. Greenwoody her pale excuses for not speaking out against the violence at the clinic. Frankie should have argued with her and not having done so made her just as bad as the woman she despised. Though their excuses were different, neither of them was willing to speak the truth. She closed her eyes, felt the drumming pulse of her headache at the base of her skull and the peculiar disconnection of her body parts. For some time she did not trust herself to drive.
Chapter 22
By two thirty the great room was full of guests, some watching the game, some enjoying the view from the deck on the flawlessly clear Sunday in October. Frankie retreated to the bar, going through the motions of washing glasses and serving drinks, arranging plates of wings and mini-pizzas, sliced ham and roast beef and chicken, tomatoes and lettuce and cheese and all the condiments in the world. Behind the bar she tried to appear busy because as long as she looked like there was a job she had to do, people pretty much ignored her after saying hello. The word had gone out that Rick’s wife was having a hard time.
She watched the clock.
Glory seemed happy, relating to everyone her clinic adventure with both the bear and the bedraggled Zee-Zee tucked up under her arm. Her manners were impeccable and she remembered everyone’s name and said please and thank you. She ate chips and guacamole as if she were ravenous. A dollop of clam or onion dip the size of a serving spoon landed on the front of her tee.
Frankie watched from behind the bar as Melanie cleaned her up.
Who is the real Glory? The chatty little girl who illustrated her adventures with three-syllable adjectives and bold gestures, the girl who colored butterflies with her friend, or the one who went to school and talked about shooting Colette?
For that matter who was the real Frankie? The Marine, the wife, the mother? The coward and failure? The basket case?
Neighbors from down the hill, the Langs, arrived with their two lanky boys who dug into the guacamole first thing, double dipping with pita chips the size of salad plates. Frankie made more and watched them go at it afresh. In the last few minutes of the game, the s
core was tied and overtime seemed a sure thing. Guests came in off the deck and perched on the arms of chairs and couches, wherever there was room. Glory sat on Melanie’s lap.
You’re too old for laps, Glory. You said it yourself to the General.
Frankie carried a chair out of the guest bedroom and put it next to Melanie’s.
“You don’t have to sit on anyone’s lap.”
“She’s fine with me. We like to snuggle, don’t we, Glo?”
“I brought you a chair.”
“I’m watching football.”
“You don’t even know the rules.”
“Yes, I do!”
“Up.” She snapped her fingers and pointed to the chair in a perfect imitation of her father. “Sit.” She saw on her daughter’s face a look she recognized as her own.
“Honest to God,” Melanie said, “we’ve got heaps of room, don’t we, sweetie.”
“Oh. Heaps. Really? Sweetie?”
“We don’t want to miss this.” Melanie had flawless skin as if she’d never stood in the sun and her round blue eyes, perfectly lined and mascaraed, had never seen anything ugly. She squeezed Glory’s shoulder. “The Chargers could win this one, couldn’t they?”
“Shut up, Melanie.”
Someone gasped but Frankie didn’t care.
“Shut up and leave. I don’t want you around my daughter anymore.” She almost added, or my husband, but managed not to. “And why are you here anyway? Don’t you have a boyfriend somewhere?”
Melanie looked behind Frankie. Rick stood a few feet away.
“What do you want?” Frankie asked him. “You want to cuddle too, sweetie?”
No one in the room was watching football now.
Rick put his hand on her shoulder. “This doesn’t matter, Frankie.”
“What do you mean it doesn’t matter? I see what I see. Am I supposed to shut my mouth and pretend I don’t see what’s right in front of my eyes?”
“Let’s go upstairs.”
“I don’t want to go anywhere. Didn’t you hear what she said?” Frankie spoke sugary-sweet. “ ‘The Chargers might win this one. Wanna cuddle, sweetie?’ ”
“Shut up.” Glory leapt away from Melanie. “Shut up, shut up.”
“What’s that down the front of you?” Frankie poked Glory in the chest. “Is that onion dip? And guacamole? My God, you are disgusting.”
Rick’s hand tightened on her arm.
She jerked aside. “Go upstairs and take a shower. Don’t come down until you’re cleaned up.”
“No.”
“That’s an order, Glory.”
“I won’t go. I don’t have to. Do I, Daddy? Do I have to?”
“I’m speaking to you. Me, your mother. Do as I say.”
“I don’t want—”
“I don’t care what you want.” Frankie stopped and stared as Glory reached her whole hand into the bowl of clam dip and smeared it across the front of her T-shirt. As the room watched, she covered her face with smears of sour cream and clams and ran her fingers up into her hair and then tugged it down so it covered her face in sticky dreads.
The sour smell of clams overwhelmed Frankie’s senses.
“My God,” she cried. “You stink!”
No one spoke. No one moved. A voice in Frankie’s head began to wail and she grabbed Glory’s arm, felt her skin give like the skin of a tangerine.
“I didn’t mean that, honey. I’m having such a bad day.” Glory tried to twist away but she couldn’t let her go until the look on her face changed and she was Glory again. “I’ll be better, I will, I promise.”
“I hate you. I wish you were dead. I wish you got shot over there.”
Except for the sound of the announcer talking overtime and coin toss and yard lines, the room was perfectly quiet. Convulsively Frankie tightened her grip. Glory’s scream sounded like tires on a hairpin curve. She leaned forward and bit down hard on Frankie’s wrist.
Frankie slapped her face.
Chapter 23
From her kitchen across the street Maryanne watched the cars parked in front of Frankie and Rick’s house pull away and thought it strange that everyone was leaving at the same time.
Upstairs the General was watching the football game with the volume muted. In recent years he had lost most of his interest in football and preferred to take a long nap on Sunday afternoons; but as ever in his life, he was afraid of missing something so he kept the picture on. Deep under the covers and curled on his side like an old tomcat, the General slept more soundly in the afternoon than he ever did at night.
Maryanne was at the sink scouring the copper bottoms of her favorite pans with salt and lemon juice when Frankie rushed into the house, tears streaming down her face.
Maryanne started toward her. “Is it Glory?” It was a fear never far from a grandmother’s heart.
In the living room Frankie fell on the couch, facedown in a pile of rough wool pillows. For a moment Maryanne watched, letting the vision register. How odd, how unlikely, and how deeply disorienting it was to see her daughter break down in this way. She laid her hand between Frankie’s shoulder blades.
“Stop this now and tell me what happened.”
Frankie turned onto her back. Her round and even-featured face was the antonym of exotic, too homespun and prairie ever to be considered more than pretty. But at that moment Maryanne thought she was almost beautiful, an angel of misery with her fair hair half out of its braid, her cheeks flushed as roses and the tears still shining in the light of her frantic eyes.
Maryanne pulled a dark blue lap rug off the back of the couch and covered her shivering body. The kindness seemed to be too much. Covering her face with her hands, Frankie blurted out the story. The epic went on and on and Maryanne stopped trying to follow the chain of crises.
“And then I slapped her, I slapped her face.”
This was the crux of it.
“I’ll make us some tea.”
Maryanne had been expecting trouble since Frankie came home from Iraq. At family meals and drop-ins, the many planned and unplanned interactions that occurred almost every day because they lived across the street from each other, she had observed her daughter and knew that she was unhappy. But, in spite of all she had gone through with the General, she had hoped that Frankie’s problems would resolve themselves without catastrophe. The worst of it was, Maryanne had no better idea how to help her daughter than she’d had thirty years before when Harlan was chasing the dog around the house in the middle of the night, waving a loaded Beretta.
Frankie came into the kitchen.
“I want to sleep. I want to go under and never come up.”
“Have some tea first.” Maryanne pointed at one of the ladder-back chairs arranged at the round oak breakfast table.
Somewhere in the dark ages of childhood, even before Harry’s accident had put him out of the running as successor to the General’s glory, Frankie had set her heart on the impossible goal of pleasing her father, and she had never faltered in pursuit of it. It was like being the mother of Sisyphus, watching Frankie struggle and fail again and again.
Her efforts to balance the General’s importance in Frankie’s life had been clumsy failures. She and her daughter were just too different. Frankie had no enthusiasm for shopping or gardening or cooking, and, during the two days they’d spent at a spa in Ojai, Frankie’s boredom had been embarrassingly apparent. For her part Maryanne never cared for sports though she faithfully attended all Frankie’s matches and cheered appropriately. One year they had sung together in the choir at All Souls, but Maryanne was a soprano, Frankie an alto, and half the time they practiced on different nights of the week.
It was Harry whom she understood. Maybe that was because they’d spent so much time on their own together in the years the General was deployed. In those days she had the patience for Tinkertoys and games of twenty questions and go fish. They’d gone to museums and aquariums, on road trips; and while she put in a vegetable garden, he exca
vated highways for his fleet of tiny cars and trucks. Even now, when Harry was almost forty, a husband and a doctor, they could sit at this table and talk all afternoon about not much of anything, laughing like friends. She had been the first to realize that his accident had been a disguised blessing, allowing him to find his true expression through medicine.
“Where did she bite you?”
Just above the small Semper Fi tattoo she and her Marine Corps friends had gotten after they finished Basic, the inside of Frankie’s arm was fair and silken, faintly blued by the veins beneath the skin. Glory’s teeth had left an ovoid imprint.
“Well, for goodness sake, of course you slapped her,” Maryanne said, disgusted. “I would have done the same thing myself. My God, what’s come over that child?”
“There’s never any excuse for slapping a child, not on the face.”
Apart from the shock and pain of it, a face slap was an insult intended to stomp out confidence and dignity and always a gross demonstration of power. Unlike Frankie, Maryanne didn’t think that was necessarily a bad thing.
“Don’t be so melodramatic.” Maryanne held out a plate of sugar cookies. “Have one of these. I made them yesterday. Children are adaptable creatures. If they weren’t, the human race would have died off long ago. They can forgive far worse things than one slap.” Maryanne did not romanticize childhood or believe it was meant to be one long romp in the park. “Think about it. She put her teeth in you. Like a dog. Your slap taught her a lesson she won’t forget.”
“If she’s bratty it’s my fault. I should have stayed home and done my job.”
“Would a man ever say that? Stop blaming yourself.”
“I was selfish—”
“Enough! You became a Marine Corps officer because you love this country and you went to Iraq because you believed it was the right thing to do. I never wanted you to go but once you made up your mind, I supported you. Feelings of patriotism and honor aren’t restricted to men, you know.”
“But I hurt her, Mom.”
“I won’t get on the pity pot with you, Francine.” Maryanne could not take much more of this conversation. “It’s called action and consequence and it’s the way we learn what we can do in this world and what we can’t.”
When She Came Home Page 13
