Frannie in Pieces (14 page)

I jump up. “You know what? I'm going home. Thanks for lunch.”

Jenna and James chase after me, with Jenna begging, “You can't walk home—we have to drive you, Frannie, please.”

We ride down the elevator in James's apartment building in silence. I push
ONE
instead of
LOBBY
so the trip feels endless. We have to wait while the door opens, we look out, realize it's the wrong floor, the doors close again, and James hits the button labeled L. “Why are you sure it's Ireland?” he says when we hit the lobby.

“Because my dad and I are from there. Way back when. Because the box has Celtic knots carved in.”

I bang through the doors and hope they slam on him as I hear him say, “What does that have to do with the price of olives?”

“Olives? What do olives have to do with anything?” My arms fly out like bat wings as I rage across the parking lot.

“What's your problem?” he shouts.

I whirl around. “I know my dad. Why would he give me a puzzle of Italy? He wouldn't.”

“It's Ireland,” says Jenna. “I'm sure you're right, Frannie.”

“Maybe you don't know your dad,” says James.

“I know my dad!”

“It's true, James. Frannie and her dad were really, really close.”

I want to scream. There's nothing about Dad that I don't know. I get his brain. The sun is beating down, and the heat off the pavement fries my feet right through my rubber soles. “I forgot sunblock,” Jenna whines. She's obsessed with her lily-white skin because she burns to a crisp in no time flat.

James speaks reasonably, as reasonably as to a five-year-old. “All I'm saying is, why was that sign in Italian and why was everyone speaking Italian?”

“Everyone wasn't, only that lady.”

“Are you sure? You know, the next time you go into the puzzle, you should take an Italian-English dictionary.”

“Shut up, okay?” We're next to the car straddling two spaces and the discarded pizza box. I bet the people in the car had a huge fight and were too angry to park properly. They more abandoned the car than parked it. I bet they were coming home to stuff themselves with pizza, and the car got abandoned rather than parked and no one was hungry anymore. In fact everyone had a stomachache without consuming a single slice. A really big stomachache, the way I do right now.

James picks up the box and throws it in a trash can. Am I supposed to think he's a good person as a result?

As I get in the car, I hear him whisper, “Why is she so angry?”

“Shussh,” says Jenna.

Why
am
I so angry?

“We'll do it up there.”

I follow the direction of her finger to the hayloft, a platform of crisscrossed planks with tufts of straw poking through here and there. Seen from where we're standing, the loft floor, which extends halfway across the barn, is our ceiling. I imagine, between those old slats, a foot trapped. A little girl skips across, her foot plunges through. Stuck forever: a little girl's foot in a white ankle sock and a black patent leather shoe. Wouldn't it be surreal to have a whole ceiling studded with little girls' feet?
“Are you listening, Frances?”

Harriet has taken to calling me Frances. I suppose she thinks of it as a form of discipline.

“Of course I'm listening.”

“We'll launch the parachutes from that window,” she says. The loft window has no glass, only several boards hammered over it. It's huge.

“Looks dangerous.”

“It's not dangerous.”

Rickety floor, giant loft window. Is it only the illusion of dangerous? Oh well, life is an illusion, whatever that means.

“It's all explained here, under ‘Egg Drop.'” Harriet thrusts a book into my hands. She chatters on about how, for someone with my experience, it will be a breeze, she's bought all the supplies. She throws out an arm—here they are, stacked on the table: tissue paper in every color, a mountain high; giant bottles of Elmer's glue; boxes of toothpicks; paintbrushes. With that, General Honker aims herself at the barn door and strides out.

In my absence (which I managed to extend for a week, will explain later), Rocco has named his lizard Leo and built him a home, a box furnished with several rocks, twigs, and pine needles. Campers huddle around, beaming down at Leo, while Rocco spins tales. “While I fall asleep, he sings in my ear.”

“He should be in a circus,” says Pearl the Tiara Girl. “An itty-bitty circus with itty-bitty animals.”

Lark buzzes by. “Did he tell you that Leo can fly?”

“He might have mentioned that,” I say, while scouring the index for “Egg Drop.”

She scoots back, shoves her face into Rocco's, and barks, “Well, he can't.”

“Lark, you know what? This isn't your group.” I shoo her out the door past a boy named Seymour who is tormenting the Barbie twins, Beatrice and Amber, by shouting, “Barbies have boobs.”

Far off, down at the lake, kids climb into canoes. Paddles wave every which way, campers nearly
beheading their boat partners as they try to follow Simon's instructions. Nature Man, knee-deep in water, wades from boat to boat, correcting each camper's grip, demonstrating how the paddle works. On the dock sits the ENP. I'm guessing she's painting her toenails because 1) when I arrived this morning, a pileup of kids was begging to carry her polish, and 2) it looks like it judging from the way she's sitting: One leg is bent so her thigh hugs her chest; her head bends down over her toes. Every so often her arm swings out to a camper standing next to her, then swings back. I assume the camper is holding out the polish so she can dip the brush in.

On the tennis court, kids take turns as a machine fires balls at them. They miss often but occasionally connect and send balls soaring. There's a moment when all heads rise, following the trajectory until the ball bounces into the foot-high weeds surrounding the decrepit court. Harriet, visiting there now, applauds each player's disaster.

As I turn back to the barn, Beatrice runs into me, throws her arms around my waist, and clings. “Don't leave us.”

“Why would I leave you?”

The campers gather, shoving to be the one closest. “Hazel says you don't like it here,” says Amber.

“Is that true?” Brandon asks.

“Why would you think that?”

“I didn't say that,” says Hazel.

“Because she threw away the collage,” says Isabel. “She” is Harriet. “It's in the big black garbage bag behind the barn.”

“Because you make faces,” Pearl says. Hazel whacks her on the back to shut her up, but Pearl gives no ground. “It's true, she does. Like you're bored or hate us.”

Rocco offers the lizard. “You can hold Leo.” He's got it gripped around the middle. Poor thing. Held in such a tight fist, Leo's diamond-shaped head with its large headlight eyes bulges out one end while the tail droops out the other.

“Loosen up. He can't breathe.”

“Yes, he can,” says Rocco.

“Do you want to kill him?”

Rocco sucks in his cheeks as he gives that thought. Obviously I've suggested something that isn't out of the question. “Give Leo to me.”

I put out my hand, and Leo pads on. He rests there, perfectly still. Every so often his eyes blink. It seems like a conscious choice,
Now I will blink,
thick lids descend and rise. He looks wise.

“All right, everybody. Today your activity is to go outside and find something beautiful. Anything that you think is beautiful. When you come back, you have to explain why it's beautiful. Get going.”

Later, outside, amidst the treasures they've collected—pinecones, leaves, rocks, wildflowers—all spread across the top of the picnic table, I settle down to read about the Egg Drop. The Barbies have attached themselves; I wear one on each side. Kneeling on the bench with their dolls beside them, they hunch over the book. I scan the instructions
and provide them with the gist. “To make parachutes, we thin the glue with water, cut the tissue into shapes—”

“What kind of shapes?”

“A flower?”

“It could be a giant flower or a butterfly, whatever you want. Then you paint every inch of the tissue with glue.”

“Check it out and kiss it.” Seymour grabs Beatrice's Barbie and grinds her face into the book. Beatrice pummels him.

“That's enough, Seymour, get lost.” I straighten Barbie's prom dress, fluff the ruffles, smooth her hair, and return her to Beatrice. “When the tissue dries, it's stiff, so when someone drops the parachute from the hayloft, it holds its shape and catches the wind. It should float down.”

A meaty arm sweeps across the table, wiping it clean. “A lot of debris here,” says Simon. He swings a leg over the bench to straddle it and sets his butt down. He upends a paper bag. What looks like a
hero sandwich wrapped in foil falls out.

“What are you doing?”

Simon looks down at himself as if he expects to discover it. “What?”

Figure it out, I'm not telling you.

“Is this seat taken or something?” he inquires after a minute.

“That is not debris. I sent the Eagles to find beautiful objects. Art in nature.”

“Those leaves?”

“And rocks and pinecones and flowers.”

“We don't care,” says Amber.

“I thought you were the nature counselor—don't you know anything? Are you such a clod that you can't see the beauty and uniqueness in a leaf?” I scramble around, picking up things, although it's hard to tell the difference between what's been lying on the ground and what was knocked off the table. Nevertheless I smooth the leaves and arrange the pinecones as if they are on display and have good and bad sides. Simon sits there and chews.
Oil from the hero drips down the side of his hand and his large tongue laps it.

“Want some?” He holds out half the sandwich.

I shake my head and give him my most withering glare. He picks up a leaf and takes a bite. A hearty bite. The Barbies squeal.

Simon chews, swallows, and takes a swig of water to wash it down. “I eat art,” he says.

I don't know what to say, I really don't. Is art a joke? Is everything a joke? I bet he would plug in his iPod and veg on raucous music right in the middle of the Egyptian Temple of Dendur, even though it's the most spiritual place on the planet. Dad and I would sit silently for an hour in the majestic glass room that the Metropolitan Museum built to house it. “I bet you've never heard of the Temple of Dendur.”

“You win.” He takes another bite of leaf and chews slowly.

As the Barbies holler to everyone in the vicinity that Simon eats art, he finds a napkin in his paper
sack. He has white spots. On his left cheek. I notice them just before the napkin swipes it clean.

“Mold.” The word pops out.

“Mold?”

“On your face. There were little white fuzzies.”

I've injured him. I know instantly because he breaks out in a swaggering smile. Yep, wide cocky grin, but the eyes hurt. Just like Mona scoop-necked Lisa. Just like Dad said. The eyes are the key.

Simon stands up. He stuffs the remainder of his sandwich and the crumpled napkin back in the bag. He's broken out in red blotches that are not from the sun. “Funny,” he says.

He's accusing
me
of funny?
He's
the jokester.

“But there were these spots. Oh, it was probably that white sunblock you use.”

“Nope, shaving cream. I probably didn't wipe my face after I shaved this morning.” He takes off toward the lake. The ENP stops him. Laying her hand on his arm, she ogles adoringly, tilting her
head much farther back than necessary (if you ask me) to make him feel taller. He accompanies her to the cabin porch, hoists a large carton onto his shoulder, and, like a sherpa in Nepal, follows her.

So big mystery solved. No mold. Shaving cream. On Dad's face. It must have congealed while he lay there.

Barbie One pulls my sleeve. “What about the egg?”

“After you make the parachute, you glue toothpicks together to make a basket. Paper it with tissue and glue the basket to the parachute.”

I remember, one leg forward, one back, Dad folded over, limp as tissue. “Then you glue the basket to the parachute, and put an egg in the basket. A raw egg. When you drop the parachute, you hope the egg doesn't break.”

“Will it?” asks Beatrice.

“Probably.”

Mom hands me a hammer.
“Smash the ends, honey.”

In case you don't know—why would you?—when planning to use a tree branch in a flower arrangement, splinter the ends. It can drink water more easily.

While I do this, Mom untangles the branches from one another, carefully so the twiggy offshoots don't break and the red berries don't fall off. It takes patience and is remarkably tedious, which I point out, and to which she predictably replies, “They
cost money.” Money is a major motivator with Mom—that is, saving money. She considers it a holy virtue, even though she is not religious. If she were, “Thou shalt save” would be right at the top of her own personal ten commandments.

Mom's hair is falling into her face. She keeps blowing upward to get willful strands out of her sight line as she expertly twists wire around the branches, creating a wedding spray to decorate an arbor, the sacred place a bride and groom will marry (so they can get divorced five years later). Working since early morning, she's completed dozens of identical centerpieces and a few gigantic flower fantasies as tall as I am. She's up to her ankles in leaves and cuttings.

Suppose this is my last day on earth and I don't know it?

I've been thinking about that for days, ever since I solved the mold mystery. Dad waking up, making coffee, walking into the bathroom, lathering up, dying. Wake, brew, walk, lather, die.

Mom wipes her hands on her apron. “Just a few more branches, Frannie.” She guides Andy and Carmen as they manipulate a particularly large creation out the door and into the truck. “Be sure to tell the Wilsons that the berries are poison,” Mom says. “We don't want to kill Emmett.” Emmett is their cat.

I break off a berry and put it on my tongue. It sits there.

Meanwhile I read the small print on the insecticide spray:
Kills 16 different kinds of bugs, including slugs and caterpillars, but is safe to use on fruits and vegetables.
I wonder if I should give up fruits and vegetables. I like lettuce.

Does it seem odd that, on the one hand, I'm so worried that I'm going to die that I read the small print on plant spray while, on the other hand, I coddle a poison berry on my tongue? Does it seem like a petite contradiction: to be thinking of killing myself and afraid of dying simultaneously? What is that?
What is that?

Maybe if I'm dead, I won't be afraid I'm going to die. It would be such a relief not to worry so much.

Mom walks back in. “I heard about the poison collage.”

I tuck the berry into my cheek. “That's over, we're doing parachutes.”

She stiffens. “Parachutes. You can't drop those campers in parachutes, what from trees? That's, that's—” She's having an attack of the sputters. “You can't build parachutes, do you understand? That's completely dangerous. That's insane, that's what it is, insane. Does Harriet know? Oh, God, she's going to call me. What was that poison thing anyway? What in the world were you thinking?”

“Art. It's called art.”

“That's something—”

“What?”

I'm waiting for her to say it—that's something your dad would do—but she doesn't. She throws up her hands in despair. “Why are you doing this?”
The implication is “to me.” Why are you doing this to me?

“Mom, they're tissue-paper parachutes. You put an egg in them. They don't carry people, they carry eggs.”

“Oh.”

“Harriet's idea.”

“Oh.” She smiles sheepishly. She picks up some wire, fiddles around, spinning it between her fingers. “I'm glad to hear that, Frannie. How's that boy?”

I can't answer because there's a berry on my tongue.

She leans down to whisk up debris under the table, dumping it into an already bulging garbage bag. I take the berry out of my mouth.

Mom grabs my hand. “What's that? A berry. You put a berry in your mouth?”

“Just testing.”

“Testing? Testing what? That doesn't make sense. Don't do that.” Mom smacks her hand into
her forehead. Her face is flushed. “Do you know how much you mean to me? Do you, Frannie?”

God, she overreacts to everything.

“What would I do if—”

I distract her by clamping the stem of a rose between my teeth. I'm a Spanish dancer. I wag my head so the rose flops up and down.

“I'm serious, Frannie.”

I keep wagging.

Her shoulders slump, her arms hang by her sides. I remove the rose. “Are you tired?”

She shakes her head.

“Are you all right?”

She goes to her mini fridge for a bottle of water. She presses the bottle to her forehead and to each cheek before unscrewing the top and gulping some. I take the hammer and splinter another branch. Maybe she'll follow my example and get back to work. Come on, Mom, do what I do. “So how is that nice boy?” she asks again. “The one at camp.”

“I never said he was nice.”

“Are you sure? I thought—”

“He ate a leaf.”

She smiles. “Why?”

“Because he's a Neanderthal.”

“Maybe he likes you.”

Maybe he likes me? Is she talking to a baby? Maybe he likes you, honey, that's why he threw a rock at you. I change the subject. “Was Dad ever in Italy, Mom?”

She plays with her bottle of water, swinging it back and forth. She takes another swig. Her cheeks inflate. She's buying time. Finally she swallows. I study her face. Scrutinize it. Hmm, a hint of amusement. Gear up, here comes a frenemy moment—she'll say something super-innocuous about Dad, a futile attempt to conceal her condescension from me, truth finder.

“So was he in Italy?”

“He was, he absolutely was.” She grins.

“What's funny about it?”

“What made you ask?”

“I don't know.”

She cracks up. She's tickled to death at the thought of Dad in Italy, and when she's finished chuckling, she ruffles my hair to the extent that hedge hair can be ruffled. Her face softens as if she's ooing and aahing over a kitten, as if I'm Emmett.

“What's so funny?”

“Nothing. What made you ask, sweetie?”

“No reason, absolutely none.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Tough.”

Mom takes a step back. “Don't be rude.”

“I hate this place.”

“My shop?” Mom looks around.

I rip my hand down a branch, spraying off twigs and berries. “I hate where I am.” I spit out the words. I spit them right at her.

Mom looks at the naked branch, and the berries rolling around. She's going to start screaming about what a nightmare I am, about the waste of money
and how hard she works and something about the stupid wedding. But she doesn't. She puts out her arms. “Come here.”

“No.”

“Frannie.”

“I don't want you.” Why doesn't she get that? I back out of the workroom and make it out the door in time to flag down the truck as it leaves the lot.