Fran
Fran
The Change
Fran wasn’t the same since she got back—two months at a Christian youth camp in Georgia had changed her. Personality-wise, that is. Although her appearance wasn’t exactly the same either: her hair was shorter, and she stopped dyeing it a weird red-purple hue. Everyone at the house immediately noticed. I mean, how could you not? She went away with bright magenta hair and came back sporting her genetically natural light-brown color. She also doesn’t drink as much, which is a good thing, I guess, but less inebriated means more serious, which means less fun.
I must say, I missed Fran when she was away. You could always count on her to interject an obscene (but hilarious) comment into a rather boring conversation. Her sense of humor was broad and dry, from dad jokes to a raunchiness that could impress a college senior on spring break. It was a little disheartening to think those days might be over following her return.
The House
Let me back up a bit. I’m Helena. My friend, Joellen, and I live on the top floor of a group house near the university, over on Salem Street. We occupy larger bedrooms, each with its own bathroom. I have a deck off my room; Joellen has an extra-large closet. Fran and Tanya are in smaller rooms on the first floor, and they share a bathroom. Willie (short for Wilhelmina) has a room and a half-bath in the finished basement, which she fixed up with a cute, bohemian vibe. None of us are currently students, but Tanya graduated last year.
Willie is the oldest of our convivial group at twenty-six. Fran, Joellen, and I are twenty-three and some change, and Tanya is the baby of the house at twenty-two. We’ve all known each other from either work or friends of friends, although Fran and I grew up together not too far from here.
For one reason or another, nearly a year ago, we all were seeking housing, and through numerous calls and emails and some legwork by Joellen, we found ourselves moving into this old Victorian, giggling like schoolgirls. A game of Monopoly dictated the room assignments (I won); however, Willie called for the basement right off the bat, and no one else had a problem with this initial arrangement.
The Announcement
So several months ago, Fran announced to the group that she planned to go to a youth camp—not attending it, but as a volunteer counselor for eight weeks. This sudden disclosure happened while we were celebrating Willie’s birthday. Everyone was pretty stoned and intoxicated—especially Fran. She consumes a lot of beer and tequila, which is fun to watch since she’s a skinny chick. I drink gin and ginger ale, Willie likes red wine, Tanya is a rum-and-coke girl, and Joellen doesn’t drink much, but she always has a cloud of smoke around her head. Our de-stressing methods aren’t important; we were just surprised at the timing of her planned trip. We all put on our best fake supportive smiles and poured her another shot. Joellen looked at me with a raised eyebrow.
Fran isn’t religious. She doesn’t go to church or temple or whatever. She doesn’t say grace at meals; however, none of us do—we just dig in. Willie sometimes goes to Christmas mass with her mother, but that’s about it. Fran gave us each a pamphlet for this retreat place: The Sisters of Eternal Compunction. Yeah. Sounds cultish, if you ask me. And it’s in Georgia, like a thousand miles away. The cover was a photo of a blonde girl meditating in nature, surrounded by colorful autumnal foliage with a mountain behind her. She wore an oversized white turtleneck sweater and frayed jean shorts (perfect thighs, why not?) and… I want to say, Crocs.
The Boyfriend
News flash: Fran had broken up with her boyfriend, Bobby, the week before. His real name is Devrin, or something similarly obtuse. Everyone, except Fran, called him Bobby because he literally looks exactly like Bobby from The Brady Bunch, only in an extra-large, older version. He never seemed to mind. I think he thought we were weird and simply smiled and nodded a lot. We all approved of Bobby. He was a chill guy, maybe a bit too conventional, but he occasionally brought doughnuts, which was weird because Fran doesn’t eat doughnuts. Bobby was big. Linebacker and protein powder big, not pizza and cheesecake big. Joellen always mumbled under her breath, “Stay on top,” whenever they left the house to go back to Bobby’s apartment.
Frannie met Bobby six or seven months previously (maybe eight—I wasn’t paying attention) at their physical therapist’s office. She was there getting her glutes massaged after participating in her first-ever bicycle marathon—a 71.6-mile trek she was coerced into joining by her semi-good friend (and professional cyclist) Linda Bey. “It’ll be fun,” Linda said. “It’s easy,” Linda said. Fran’s entire training for the event consisted of three laps around the block the night before. Bobby was at PT for a sprained back, which he acquired by falling from a tree after attempting to retrieve his elderly neighbor’s cat. I shit you not. Chivalry can suck sometimes. They met at the vending machine: a Snickers bar for him, a bag of Sun Chips for her. Bobby began providing Fran free butt massages shortly thereafter.
So Fran was definitely in a funk over the breakup, which is understandable because they seemed to get along well. The other guys she had dated were always concerned with her drinking. I don’t think Fran had a problem with alcohol—she never missed a day of work; she never complained about a hangover; she never threw up on herself or in shared spaces, or anywhere as far as I knew. So she drank like a depressed fish, big deal. Bobby either tolerated it or never mentioned any concern to the rest of the girls in the house. Oh, and sometimes he brought cupcakes. Yeah, Bobby was cool.
The Outlet Mall
The weekend after her announcement, Fran and I went to an outlet shopping center up in Sage County. She wanted to get a few things for her trip—clothes, comfortable shoes, some books. Joellen wanted to come, but I saw Fran make a scrunched-up face at me, so I gently told Joellen it was only the two of us. I was under the impression that Fran wanted to confide in me about something.
We were at the H&M outlet, perusing the outerwear section, when Fran told me her latest news. “I quit my job.” She said it with such nonchalance that I almost offered a knee-jerk response of, Oh, that’s nice. Fran works, or rather worked, as an assistant manager at an auto parts store. She used to meet a lot of guys there. A lot. Before she met Bobby, I think I saw her bring no less than five guys home in the course of two weeks. Not important; she can do whatever she wants as long as it doesn’t negatively impact the rest of us.
“Frannie, why?” I said, after understanding the gravity of her comment. Fran tried on and rehung a puffy jacket before responding. I almost said it looked good on her, but I wanted it for myself, so I didn’t say anything. (I may have used my Oscar-nominated grimace to influence her.)
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “I feel my life needs a change of direction. A clean break of things.” I nodded, but I was also wondering how she intended to contribute her share of the rent.
“How are you gonna pay rent?” I said, trying on the puffy jacket.
“It looks nice on you, Hel,” she said. I looked at the tag and put it back. “You know, the Sisters of Eternal Compunction will pay me.”
“Oh,” I said. “I thought it was volunteer work.”
“Well, it is,” Fran said. “I mean, they’re paying me with room and board and all my meals. I’ll get a TV but no Wi-Fi. And they have cats, which we get to take care of!” She rattled off the “monetary benefits” of the place in rapid-fire to make it seem like it was a lot. It wasn’t.
“What about drinks, Fran?” I said. The Compunction ladies were a mystery to me, but I understood that those kinds of places are pretty dry. I tried on a jean jacket, but it was one of those designed to show off your navel piercing, so I rejected it. I handed it to Fran.
“They give you drinks—all sorts,” she said, not looking me in the eye.
“I mean drink drinks.”
Fran also tried on and rejected the jacket. Neither of us has navel jewelry. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m gonna need to sneak those in.” She sighed. “It’ll be fine.” She ended up buying a canvas tote with a monkey on it; I’m guessing for the specific task of smuggling her contraband. “I need coffee.”
“I thought they provided all your drinks,” I semi-snarkily said.
“No, I need coffee now,” she said and left me struggling to free myself from a clingy cardigan. (They probably changed the sizings again.)
The Coffee Shop
The coffee was good. I asked for a squirt of caramel syrup, and I added almond milk and a couple of ladles of sugar. I’m not much of a coffee drinker—I prefer tea in the morning or maybe an ice-cold grapefruit juice. In the winter, I’ll have hot cocoa or warmed-up chocolate soy milk. Absolutely none of my drink preferences is important to Fran’s story, but what was important was what she told me next.
She was sitting across from me in a booth by the window overlooking the parking lot. (I try to keep an eye on my car.) She sipped her black coffee and fingered the hole of a doughnut. “Why do you even order those? You don’t ever eat them.” My wonderment over the arcane actions of my friend has left me stupefied for a decade and a half.
“I like the glaze,” she said, inserting the aforementioned lacquered finger into her mouth. Sorry, the doughnut goop wasn’t the important part.
“Sure. Okay, but…”
“I broke up with Devrin,” Fran said, with the abrupt change of course of a rodeo bull that’s been lassoed by the mean cowboy man.
“Who?” I said, staring at her finger, which came out shiny wet.
“Bobby,” Fran said, rolling her eyes.
“I thought he left you.”
Fran shook her head. “I broke up with him.” She gazed out the window and smiled at a crying child as his mother dragged him by his tiny forearm. Okay, this is where she said the important bit. “He was sleeping with someone in the house.” This was followed by another insertion of finger into doughnut.
“What are you talking about?” I said. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Yep. He confessed. Had to scrub his conscience clean, or some bullshit like that. You know Dev… Bobby, he’ll do what he wants and deal with the consequences later.”
“Who was it?”
“He won’t tell me.”
“So he was sleeping with one of the girls in the house, but he won’t say who?”
“Correctamundo, Hel,” she said, wagging her glazed finger at me, narrowing her eyes. I couldn’t believe Bobby said such a thing. One of our housemates would never commit such a brazen and disrespectful act toward Fran, no matter how warm and cuddly Bobby is… or seems to be. We’re all like sisters. I reached over, broke her doughnut in two, and dunked the pilfered half in my coffee. (I always end up eating her neglected sweets—it’s how she stays so slim.)
“Sorry, I don’t believe it,” I said through doughnut mush. “You musta misunderstood him.”
“Oh, really?” Fran said, almost bemusedly, despite the seriousness of the situation. “What part of, and I quote, ‘I’ve been fucking one of your friends ’ do you think I misunderstood? And he pointed upstairs when he said it. We were in the kitchen.”
“Well, don’t look at me like that,” I said more contentiously than I had intended. “So it wasn’t Willie or Tanya. Right? They don’t live upstairs. It must have been Joellen. Is that what you’re thinking?”
“I’m not ruling out Willie or Tanya because Devrin pointed up,” Fran said. “He coulda meant it was only one girl, for all I know. He coulda even been fucking someone else in your bed. Who knows what went on in the house?”
“Oh, please, Frannie. First of all, Willie would never…” It was all I could come up with because Willie has said some X-rated things about Bobby to me on more than one occasion. I absolutely could see those two hooking up if Fran wasn’t involved. But not in Fran’s teeny twin bed—Willie’s a big girl; they’d at least need to use a queen.
“I don’t know, Hel. My mind is fried. He’s history, and I just want to go away for a couple months and clear my head and come back refreshed.” We sat quietly for a while. I finished Fran’s doughnut and paid the bill. We weren’t in the mood for shopping anymore, so we drove back home. Bobby’s admission festered in my mind. Despite her insistence that her relationship troubles were behind her, she made it clear (in her patented, meandering, cryptic way) that she wanted me to root out the perpetrator of the carnal misdoings in the house. “Who fucked me over?” was how she finally put it, not with malice but with a perplexed curiosity.
“So you want me to play detective while you’re away?” I said, staring at the Ford Fiesta in front of us with an old, ratty bumper sticker that read, My Other Car Sucks Too—Thanks Obama! We drove a few miles, deep in thought, or possibly meditating, in Fran’s case. If I were to become her personal sleuth, I would need to gauge the depth of her knowledge about the case and see if Bobby had spilled additional details about his crime. I mentally developed a checklist of questions and theories to glean information from Fran:
☐ How many times did Bobby and the mystery roommate do it?
☐ When did they do it?
☐ Maybe Bobby invented the story so Fran would break up with him.
☐ Lately, Joellen has been a little rude toward Fran. Coincidence?
☑ Is he big all over?☐ Does Fran have any physical evidence of his infidelity?
☐ Will there ever be more free doughnuts?
It seemed Fran wasn’t up to talking specifics, so I saved my thoughts for another time. As we crossed the bridge over the Mantuit River (I noticed no fewer than three abandoned automobile tires), I had a change of heart. Playing Sherlock may not be well-suited for my character. “I dunno, seems like I’d be prying into other people’s business.”
“For me, Hel,” Fran said softly. “For closure.” She massaged my shoulder as though this simple act of camaraderie might change my mind. It did.
“Okay, okay,” I said. “I’ll see what I can find out, but I’m not guaranteeing anything.” Fran seemed satisfied with my terms. Maybe I could ask a couple of questions here and there, and that would be it.
“Thank you, Fibbie,” she said in a prepubescent voice.
“You’re welcome, Fabbie,” I said sarcastically. I hated those childish nicknames. Fran made them up when we were eight years old. She wanted us to be like a pair of high school friends in an idiotic television show at the time, Sassy Senioritas—Jennie and Joanie. The show only lasted four episodes.
The History Between Us
I’ve known Francine Ursula Quinn since the second grade. We were randomly assigned seats at school, and Frannie became my neighbor to my right. Our teacher had run out of spelling workbooks, so we had to share. Frannie is left-handed, and our elbows frequently smacked together when we wrote on our worksheets. She found this supremely amusing, and every time it happened, she emitted a laugh so girlish and charming, I knew we were going to be best friends.
It was high school that tested our friendship: we both wanted the same guy. Tobias (Toby) J. O’Connor was a real looker. He had straw-colored hair with permanent bedhead, steel blue eyes, and a dimpled chin. Toby worked out, he had a sporty car, a 2009 Mitsubishi Eclipse (what did we know back then?), and he sold weed after gym class in the boys’ locker room. His female customers met him in the parking lot of Shane’s Sandwich Shoppe after school. Frannie ended up winning the month-long contest because she was a knockout in the 11th grade—no surprise there. Two weeks later, he dumped her for Cindy Parker, a 10th-grade gymnast—’nuff said.
We went to different colleges but still stayed in touch. Frannie dropped out after three semesters. I remember she showed up at my studio apartment with a backpack and a large suitcase holding nearly all of her possessions and a bottle of tequila—a brand that can be found on the bottom shelf of any liquor store. I asked her why she simply didn’t stay in her dorm. She mumbled something I didn’t understand (she was shitfaced by then), and I wondered if the school had asked her to leave. She stayed with me for two weeks, sharing my twin bed and permanently borrowing a pair of pajamas. Eventually, she came clean with her parents and moved back home. She claims she doesn’t remember those two weeks, but I occasionally see her walking around the house in my old pajama pants.
The Last Day of Old Fran
Fran was frantic. She was scheduled to board an Amtrak train to Atlanta the following morning, and she hadn’t packed a damn thing. She spent an hour looking for her favorite sandals, clearly forgetting she had stepped in dog crap a month back, and with nose pinched, deposited them in a recycling bin outside a CVS. When I reminded her of this fact, she looked at me with uncertain recollection, fell to her knees, hugged my legs, and begged me to help her pack. I did so, and we actually had a good time reminiscing and laughing over old times.
Tanya and Willie came in and gave Fran good luck gifts. “Here ya go, Franjolina,” Tanya said, handing Fran a small, colorfully wrapped bundle.
“You didn’t need to do that, dummy,” Fran said, tearing open the gift. “I’ll be back in eight weeks.”
“I know,” Tanya said. “I wanted to get you something for your trip.”
It was a pair of slipper socks adorned with dancing cats with top hats and canes. When we had first moved in, it had been agreed upon that there were to be no pets. Five women could never agree on the type of animal or who would take care of it or even its damn name. The pet situation in our house isn’t an important thing to know, except for the fact that everyone knew Frannie adored cats.
“Aw, thank you, Tanya,” Fran said. “I love ’em. I hope I don’t lose them.” She looked at me and smiled and held up the socks for me to see.
“Cute,” I said, more to Tanya than to Fran, and I mentally removed her from Fran’s list of possible suspects. It would be something to tell her, at least, when I gave her my report.
“Here’s mine, Fran,” Willie chirped and handed our friend another wrapped gift. This one was flatter and more rectangular. Fran removed the wrapping paper to find two trade paperback books. The first was The Best Mini Day Trips in Union County, Georgia.
“Thank you, Willie,” Fran said. “I won’t have a car, but maybe I can find an old bike.” Willie smiled patiently at this. The second book was the same size and shape as the first and was titled 101 Unique Ways to Reach Orgasm… Alone. “Oh,” Fran said.
“You take the cover of this book, and you slap it on that one,” Willie instructed, pointing to the travel book first and then the other. “That way, you can keep it on your nightstand.” Everyone laughed. “And I fully recommend page 47.” Everyone got serious. Fran flipped to the appropriate page.
“Oh,” she repeated and carefully tucked the two books into her suitcase. “Thank you, guys.” The three housemates had a brief round of hugs before Fran and I were alone again and finished her packing.
I treated the gang to dinner that night, sans Joellen—she had a date. No one asked the identity of the gentleman, and Joellen didn’t disclose his name. We went to Fran’s favorite restaurant, The Apple Bar Grill. Yes, it had a few apple-themed entrees on the menu and a large selection of ciders, but she enjoyed the ambiance and the large booths. (And the bartenders.) Fran drank a bit more than I had hoped, knowing she needed to get up early the next morning. As her best friend, I was the appointed driver to and from the train station.
Tanya ordered a steak salad with garlic bread, as did I. Willie had a burger and onion rings. Fran opted for the chicken cutlet with mixed veggies. Obviously, our dinner orders are not important in the grand scheme of things, but what was important was Joellen’s arrival. It surprised us all, especially when she scooted in next to Fran on her side of the booth, kissed Fran’s cheek, and said, “Hey, honey, big day tomorrow, huh?” Joellen's light affection towards Fran was unexpected but well-received by the bewildered booth occupants.
“I guess it is, Jo,” Fran said, touching her kissed-upon cheek. “I thought you had a date.”
“Yeah,” Willie said, peering at Joellen through an onion ring. “What happened? Too big for you?” Willie’s sly comment might have been taken as an allusion to Bobby, which was confusing to me. As far as I knew, Fran had only mentioned Bobby’s “confession” to me; the other girls still thought he was the one who broke things off with our dear Frannie. Or Willie was simply being X-rated again.
“No, Silly Willie,” Jo said. “He turned out to be MAGA. I canceled.” Tanya reached over the table and fist-bumped Joellen, then went back to her salad.
I scanned each face in our apple-colored booth. According to Fran, one of the women seated at this table broke Fran’s heart and sent her packing to a dubious religious retreat in Georgia. (This was me pretending to be a detective.) I studied the two faces opposite me—the cheerful Willie and the obviously hungry Tanya. They displayed the same carefree, jovial personalities they had possessed even before Bobby’s arrival in our lives. I actually shook my head in disbelief; those two are solid friends and are incapable of such a trust break. This meant Fran's suspect list was narrowed down to me and Joellen—the loyal (and hauntingly beautiful) best friend and the moody cosmopolitan. Was Jo indeed the culprit, or did Fran misinterpret Bobby’s admission, or did she hallucinate the entire thing? How do you ask a lifelong friend if she had been bombed out of her mind during an important conversation with her boyfriend?
I rubbed Fran’s back in support. She didn’t need this kind of misfortune in her life. I hated to see her go on some bogus spiritual journey, but maybe it was for the best.
The Train Station
Fran didn’t want any fanfare for her departure from the house. We left early on a Saturday morning, while the others were still asleep. It was fine; they had said their goodbyes the previous evening. Fran looked clear-eyed and perky in the car. I won’t say she looked thrilled or ecstatic regarding where she was headed, but the glumness had faded quite a bit. We talked on the way to the train station.
“Look what Jo gave me,” Fran said, holding a tin of Altoids wintergreen mints.
“Candy?” I said.
“No. These.” I looked over and saw three cannabis cigarettes nestled in a tissue inside the tin.
“You don’t smoke.”
“That’s what I told her, but she insisted.”
“Well,” I said. “Maybe you can find a buddy to relax with down there.”
“Yeah,” Fran said, nearly inaudibly. She fingered the three neatly rolled joints. “Look, she even kept some mints in here, in case they had those sniffing dogs at security.” Illegal lightweight luxury, I thought, recalling a line from a song.
“She’s always thinking ahead,” I said. We were quiet for a while before I spoke again. “Hey, do you think Joellen…” I paused, not sure if I should have brought up the topic at that time.
“Yeah,” Fran said. She was staring out the front window. “I’m almost positive it was her. But there’s nothing I can do about it now.” I reached over and rubbed and patted her thigh.
“Aw, sweetie,” I said.
“I’m fine,” she said.
After a bit, I switched on some music, and we listened to Kate Bush making a deal with God.
When we got to the station, I dropped her off at the curb for outgoing travelers. She retrieved her two bags, and we hugged goodbye. I watched her walk away and wondered in what order she would use her gifts from the other girls.
“See ya soon,” I yelled.
“Don’t wait up, Mom,” she yelled back over her shoulder. I smiled.
“Love ya, Frannie,” I shouted, but an announcement over the PA system occurred at the same time, so I don’t think she heard me.
The Breakfast
Back at the house, Tanya and Willie were making breakfast, and Joellen was out. The kitchen smelled glorious with the aroma of pancakes, bacon, and coffee; Willie’s a fantastic cook. Her culinary prowess isn’t important. Or is it? I wondered. Tanya was eating apple slices dipped in Nutella.
“Do you want some pancakes?” Willie asked me.
“Are you having any?” I asked Tanya. She nodded eagerly with eyebrows raised. “What kind?” I asked Willie.
“Chocolate chip, banana walnut, and blueberry,” Willie said.
“Yes. Please. And bacon. And tea.” Again, none of this is important, but breakfast was so so good. I thought I’d kick off my investigation as soon as possible: “Hey, you guys know why Frannie’s going to that Georgia retreat?” (Now the important stuff.)
“Yeah,” Tanya mumbled. “She got dumped, and she needs to recuperate.” She had apple pulp and hazelnut spread in her mouth, but I appreciated the rapid and neutral response.
“Willie?” I said.
“She’s right. Frannie and Bobby broke up. She needs to get her head on straight. Change of pace. All that shit.”
“But do you guys know why Fran and Bobby broke up?” Willie stopped stirring her pancake batter. Tanya scrunched up her face. Their responses looked like honest, unrehearsed actions. “I mean, there has to be a reason, doesn’t there?”
“I assumed the relationship had run its course,” Willie said and threw a handful of chocolate chips into the batter.
“I guess I haven’t thought about it much,” Tanya said. “People break up all the time. You and Fran are close—did she tell you anything?” She pointed a naked apple slice at me. I wasn’t sure if it was the proper time for divulging Fran’s reason for dumping Bobby. I wanted to hear what all three of Fran’s main suspects knew first.
“When’s Jo getting back?” I asked, changing the subject. I wanted to concentrate on Joellen’s view to see if she knew anything the others didn’t. This was a key factor for me since Willie and Tanya seemed out of touch with the whole who’s sleeping with who business.
“Not sure,” Willie said.
“Who knows?” Tanya said. “We’re not waiting for her.” I made myself a mug of green tea and decided to postpone my probe. Besides, it felt weird surveying my housemates, but I did want to be aware of what everyone knew about Bobby’s sordid shenanigans.
I made a note to myself to get up earlier on Saturdays; breakfast was wonderful.
The Texts
The postponement of my investigation lasted nearly two weeks. Everyone settled into a slow routine without Fran. Tanya began occasionally chanting, “Five minus one, ain’t no fun,” and then sighing. Joellen didn’t mention Fran much, but she is a very busy woman. Willie had commented a few times, wondering how Fran was getting on and what she was doing at that particular moment. Fran isn’t what you’d call a tech whiz kid, and she was never a big texter, so it was no surprise that information about her retreat came at a sloth’s pace. Here are some texts I received since her arrival in Georgia (in chronological order):
⦿ made it, small room but nice
⦿ food isnt great
⦿ cats are evereewheeere!!! Yay
⦿ so religious uugh
⦿ boooring [This one was at 11:53 AM on her fourth day]
⦿ the kids are bearable except charles, i wanna smack him with a cast iron skillet, delete this text if he ends up missing
⦿ made a friend, eliza, you’d like her, big boobs but otherwise ok, she’s a “smoker” so i have some help
⦿ tell willie page 47 👍
⦿ did you see the full moon?
The Ride With Joellen
I had a work trip the third week of Fran’s retreat, so I was away for a few days. I asked Joellen if she could pick me up at the airport after my return flight. This was so we could “talk.” Joellen isn’t much of a conversationalist unless she’s talking about her work (the fashion industry), or the latest fashion, or fashion trends, or fashionistas, or—you get the point. Fran and I always try to stay away from trigger words when conversing with Jo; otherwise, it might be a long night of suppressing yawns.
“How’s the house?” I said, clicking my seatbelt. I wanted to get our dialogue off to a good start in case she saw Zendaya wearing a Versace gown while strolling through our humble airport.
“Oh, good, I guess,” Joellen said. “It’s a lot quieter without you and Frannie.” Valid—we have been known to bring up the decibel level on occasion. “How long has she been away, anyway?”
“Three weeks or so,” I said. This was my opportunity to advance the whole Bobby Been Bad fact-finding mission. “Hey, do you remember why she took this religious retreat job in the first place?” Not my finest moment, granted, and not the best segue to begin this part of the investigation, but whatever.
Joellen looked at me, then back to the road. She looked confused, or at least sarcastically confused. “Bobby,” she stated firmly. “Remember Bobby?” I told her I remembered Bobby. “Bobby was sleeping with someone else, and they broke up over it. Don’t you remember? You’re the one who told me !” I was the one who informed her of Fran’s breakup, and I did remember telling Jo there might have been another person (alcohol may have been involved), but I didn’t say it was someone in the house. I felt a little boneheaded.
“Yes, yes, yes, of course,” I said. “I remember. I was only wondering if you knew who it was.”
“You don’t know?” Joellen said. When she pulled onto the interstate, she zoomed the car up to 80 mph; Jo’s got a lead foot, but she’s an excellent driver. Still, I grasped the door handle for dear life.
“Um, nope,” I said. “Do you?” All was suspiciously quiet for an uncomfortably long stretch. Finally, I said, “Jo? Do you know who it was?”
“Oh, sorry, Hel,” Joellen said. “No, I have no idea. No one tells me much of anything. I was thinking about what Bobby said to me when he left on the last day. Remember when he left? He looked so defeated. Remember that?”
“What did he say?”
“He told me Fran was the best thing that ever happened to him, and he fucked it up… um… royally. That’s what he said—‘I fucked up royally.’ It was a weird thing to say; I sorta was sad for him. But it was his own damn fault, wasn’t it?” She paused. “Right.” She said the word right as a statement, answering her own question and nodding in agreement to herself.
“Yeah, I suppose,” I mumbled. I looked out my side window and saw a man driving a Tesla and texting, his fat thumbs bouncing on the phone’s glass. Joellen passed him with ease. I felt bad for Fran and silently hoped she came back rejuvenated and with this broken relationship behind her. Any further questions regarding the subject seemed unnecessary, and I shelved the investigation once again. Nobody living in the house had confessed or, more importantly, identified the guilty party.
I felt Joellen had put a defining conclusion to the topic, so there was no reason to discuss it anymore. “Your dress is very pretty, Jo,” I said flatly. “Where’d you get it?” Joellen smiled, and for the rest of the ride, no more words were spoken relating to Fran or Bobby or the cause of their breakup.
The Remaining Franless Weeks
Fran’s absence did make the house seem quieter. Her unmistakable laugh—feminine but robust—was gone, and there was nothing to fill the void. I received fewer texts from her over the next few weeks and even fewer still after that. And the ones I did receive were distinctly short and emotionless. I wanted to call her many times, but I didn’t know if the Sisters of Eternal Compunction had made her take a vow of silence. I also secretly hoped she didn’t kill Charles.
Willie found a new guy, Larson, who dropped by the house every once in a while. (No doughnuts or cupcakes.) “Larson’s vegan, but sometimes he’ll eat fish and chips… or sometimes pepperoni pizza… or maybe fried chicken,” Willie said.
“So he’s not vegan?” Tanya wondered out loud.
“I don’t know; he can be so confusing,” Willie said. “Like, first he’ll tell me we’re going to a movie, but then we end up throwing darts over at Smitty’s.”
“Wow,” Tanya said. “So brutal.” Side note: Tanya hadn’t had a boyfriend in a while. None of this stuff about Tanya’s dry spell or Larson’s complicated diet is critical to the story, but it does prove Willie’s into bigger boys. Larson is six-four and—I’m guessing here—two hundred eighty pounds. King mattress, for sure.
When we were all home, the girls and I played Monopoly or Scrabble or Uno when we couldn’t find a worthwhile movie to watch. Fran used to make the cutest expressions when she landed on a high-rent property or had to draw cards during an Uno marathon. She always groaned and said things like, “Ugh, I always land on Park Place,” or “Dang it, I got the Q,” or “Mamma Mia, I almost won!” (Fran’s not Italian.) Her dimples revealed the fact that she wasn’t as upset as she pretended to be. So it wasn’t as though we were miserable without our Frannie, but it was universally agreed upon that she was missed.
Bobby, aka Devrin, came over one evening with his romance-rekindling tools—a heartfelt apology and a droopy face. I answered the door. “Bobby!” I cried out. “Nice to see you again.” Upon hearing Bobby’s name, Joellen, who was watching television in the living room, came over, possibly due to a Pavlovian response triggering an expectation of doughnuts. No such luck.
“Hi, Bobby,” she said.
“Hey, Joellen,” he said. Did I sense a brightening of spirits in the big man’s face? (It was dark in our foyer, so I didn’t note it in my report.) “Uh… Helena, is Fran here?” And so the entire saga of Fran’s unexpected decampment to Georgia and her temporary position as… whatever it is she’s doing down there, was explained with broad strokes and comforting voices. Obviously unaware of Fran’s pilgrimage to the land of peaches and peanuts, Bobby’s droopy face got droopier. (He had already been to the auto parts store and discovered she had resigned.)
Bobby looked at me, and for a second, I thought he might cry, so we invited him in. Jo made some popcorn, I got Bobby a beer, and the three of us settled in to watch an old episode of The Office. (Tanya was visiting her parents.) Bobby decided to leave after one episode. He didn’t even want to stay and watch the credits at the end. Very strange. Joellen and I walked him to the door, and we took turns giving him a last bear hug goodbye. He walked out into the chilly evening and disappeared. I had smelled the beer on his breath, and I asked Joellen if we should have let him drive. She shook her head. “Drop in the bucket, Hel,” she said, and let out a long pot-scented breath through pursed lips.
Willie made her famous spaghetti and meatballs and garlic bread trifecta one Sunday. “You do know Fran loves your spaghetti, Willie,” I said. “She’s gonna be upset if she finds out.”
“She’s probably having porridge and saltines,” Joellen said with a smirk.
“With grape Kool-Aid,” Willie offered.
“And a crust of bread for dessert,” Tanya added, and we all laughed.
“You ladies are horrible,” I said. “But I will send her a picture of my plate.” I snapped a pic of my dinner—pasta, meatballs, etc.—and texted it to her.
Ten seconds later, her one-word reply came:
bitches
It was the Saturday before Fran’s arrival home on the following Wednesday when I found a spiral notebook in her room. Each weekend, I went into Fran’s bedroom and watered her plants, did a little light dusting and vacuuming, and aired out the place by opening the windows. I don’t know why, but I looked into her nightstand drawer on a whim and saw a notebook. I’m not a snooper; I honestly am not—ask anyone, except my sister. Curiously, I flipped through the pages. Most were blank, except for a few notes or reminders or some crude drawings. (Art is not one of Fran’s top talents.) One page near the back caught my eye—a list of all the other housemates’ names, each with a brief comment. It was written in her handwriting in blue pencil:
Willie — No, but maybe? Probably not
Tanya Tanya Bo-Banya – Love that kid
Hel — Sweet Hel, besties for life
Jo — ? ? ? or ! ! !Beneath the phrase besties for life, I saw an erasure she had written over. I couldn’t make out what was previously there, but I’m sure it was something innocuous—possibly a misspelling. Fran is a grammar nut, and maybe that fervor crossed over into spelling. Not important, I told myself, and I placed the book back in the drawer.
On Sunday night, I received a text from Fran:
Amtrak Crescent train Wed 3:47pm Thanks Hel
On Tuesday afternoon, I received this:
by the grace of God, Charles still lives
The Train Station, 2.0
The train was on time, but I couldn’t find Fran in the pickup area outside; I had to park my car. On foot wasn’t any easier—no Fran. I went inside the terminal and scanned. Nothing Franlike was observable. I was beginning to worry, but then I spotted her from a distance in the middle of the concourse. She was wearing a drab headscarf; her familiar pink and black coat was turned inside out and resting on her suitcase. She was handing out the now recognizable literature of the Sisters of Eternal Compunction to anyone who bothered to notice her existence.
“Frannie!” I called out and waved, wagging my arm like a fourth grader who knows the answer. I navigated through several nomadic travelers to make it to my friend. “Fran. There you are.”
“Ah, Helena,” Fran said. “So good to see you again.”
“Huh?” I said. “Are you high?” I whispered the last part.
Fran chuckled. “I have no need for pharmaceuticals.”
“Huh?” I repeated. “Whatever.” I hugged her and enjoyed the muscle memory of her warm body hugging me back. The phrase besties for life shot through my mind, and I squeezed harder. “Welcome home,” I said and kissed her cheek. “Come on, let’s get outta here.” We separated, and it registered with me that this was not entirely the same Fran I had dropped off two months earlier. She ran a tender hand across my face and smiled. I noticed no wisps of magenta hair peeking out from her scarf—only chestnut brown. Her face was calm, with none of life’s tensions creasing the soft, glowing skin. “You okay?”
“I am perfectly fine, Hel,” Fran said. “I am refreshed.”
“Good,” I said. “Glad to hear. You can tell me all about it in the car.” We headed toward the exit, and she gave the remaining pile of Compunction pamphlets to a security officer. He looked bewildered; his jaw dropped, but he didn’t say anything.
“Have a blessed day, my son,” she said to the officer, who wasn’t a day under forty-five. We left him standing motionless, holding the fifty or so flyers.
The Ride Home
The car ride was… interesting. I felt like I was talking to Fran’s older, more religious sister. (Fran is an only child, but you get the point.) Her calm, reserved demeanor was disconcerting, and yet, somehow, a bit welcome. Ever since we were in middle school, I had wanted Fran to calm the fuck down and to stop her complaining over the daily minutiae she wasn’t able to control. She was intelligent, had an angelic face and a slim but attractive body, possessed a razor wit, and was generally fun to be around, so there was no need to be negative all the time.
“I had an inspiring time, Hel,” Fran began. “The women who run the place know what they’re doing. Oh, yes. They gave me a sense of peace, of belonging. You know? At first, I admit, I wasn’t too thrilled being down there. The food, the heat, the insects, the rambunctious children…”
“Charles,” I said.
“Charles, yes. That little fu- That young man kept touching me inappropriately. It became so annoying, but I came to realize it was a test. From God.” God? God!? What was I hearing coming from her formerly atheistic mouth? The times Fran used the word God before her trip, she had punctuated the holy name with raw expletives or lewd suggestions. And that was when she was in a good mood. She turned to me and smiled. My heart sank.
“Frannie,” I said. “Blink twice if you’re in trouble.”
“What do you mean?”
“Never mind,” I said. I decided to change the subject. “I’m sorry I didn’t get far in discovering the culprit of the whole Bobby thing.” I glanced over, and there wasn’t a single crease marring her immaculate face after I mentioned her ex’s name. Damn, she has incredible skin, I thought.
“Bobby?” she said. She sounded like a child.
They gave her a lobotomy, I thought. Those bastards! “Sorry, I mean Devrin,” I said. “The reason you broke up with him. The reason you went to Compunction Palace or whatever it is.” She needs a drink, I thought. That will fix this. I pressed harder on the accelerator.
“Oh, Devrin,” Fran stated calmly. “You know, Hel, I don’t care anymore. I forgive whoever it was. I forgive Devrin and whichever one of you… um… had company with him. I forgive everyone. It’s very freeing.” She settled back in her seat and sighed. I had no idea how to counterpunch this… niceness. It set a new precedent in our relationship. Will I need to be nice to Fran now, going forward? I concluded that she must have been brainwashed, and I, along with the others, will need to unwash her brain and give it a thorough rinsing.
“Okay, Fran,” I said. “I’m glad you got your closure.” I didn’t know what to say afterward, so I said nothing and listened to Fran softly hum an unrecognizable tune. It was simultaneously relaxing and heartbreaking.
The Housemate Reunion
It was late enough when we arrived home that everyone was back from work. Fran hugged Tanya, Joellen, and Willie in turn, giving each a rub and a comforting slap on the back, then a kiss on the forehead. And each one of them, in turn, looked at me with confusion as if I were the mastermind behind a well-played practical joke. After she received Fran’s kiss, Willie turned to me and mouthed the words, What the fuck.
We all let Fran unpack and wash up before dinner. When she was in the shower, I suggested to the others (semi-seriously) that she might have been brainwashed and/or possibly lobotomized, having no proof of either. “She’s Fran; well, a different variation of Fran,” I said.
“Maybe she was cloned,” Tanya said. “Maybe her clone is in the shower right now, and she’s assuming Fran’s life, and the real Fran is in a dungeon somewhere making straw placemats.” Joellen’s left eyebrow went up.
“She’s not a clone,” Willie said with her usual certainty.
“How can you know for sure, Will?” Tanya countered.
“Her dimples. They can’t clone dimples yet. It’s a scientific fact.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Joellen said, bewildered. “They can’t even clone people yet!” She took a swig of water from a liter jug. “Can they?”
This last question was aimed at me.
“How should I know?” I said. “I’m not a bioengineer.”
“They can do it with AI now,” Willie told us. Everyone shut up because it seemed plausible. (We aren’t tech nerds.) We heard the water turn off in the first-floor bathroom, and Fran began singing.
“She has a beautiful voice,” Tanya said.
“Yes, she does,” Joellen said. We listened in awe.
“She used to sing me to sleep sometimes at summer camp,” I said. “Not directly, but from her top bunk. It gave me goosebumps.” The others nodded. The four of us shuffled over to the bathroom door, arms interlocked. None of us knew what song Fran was singing, but it didn’t matter; we listened with admiration, and we were all thankful that our friend was home safe.
The Dinner With Fran
It happened to be Joellen’s turn to make dinner, and she made her famous 22-ingredient salad—greens, broccoli, cherry tomatoes, carrots, peppers, blue cheese, olives, seeds, nuts, berries, etcetera, et al, and all the rest. We had fresh bread and sweet wine. But the menu isn’t relevant. Fran came in, freshly scrubbed and smelling heavenly, and sat at her usual spot.
“Would a clone know where Fran sits?” I whispered to Tanya. She stuck out her tongue at me. Only Willie caught our exchange and immediately understood. She laughed out loud.
“What’s so funny, Willie?” Fran asked.
“I… uh… was just thinking…” Willie began, obviously trying to steer away from anything clone-related. “Wouldn’t it be funny if penguins actually did wear little tuxedos, and when they took them off, they looked like dockworkers with beer bellies and hairy chests?” Joellen looked at Willie as if the big girl had announced her engagement to Dwight Shrute. Thoughtful silence from the others.
“So,” Tanya said eventually. “Tell us about your trip, Fran.” (I should have thought of that. Why didn’t I think of that?) Fran patted her lips with a napkin before she spoke, and I could tell she wanted to say something important.
“Thank you, Tanya,” Fran said. “I do have an announcement to make.” Everyone had been quiet, but everyone got even quieter. “When I first got to the Sisters of Compunction…”
“Eternal Compunction,” I said, nervously editing Fran’s story on the fly.
“Eternal Compunction,” Fran said. “Thank you, Hel. It’s just a nickname we used. Anyway, when I first got there, I thought, This isn’t for me. The people there moved so slowly. They wished me peace all the time—even the kids. Everyone was so nice.” She pondered an artichoke heart at the end of her fork, sniffed it, and ate it.
“Except Charles,” I interjected with my inside information. Fran looked at me and smiled.
“Yes, well,” Fran continued, not expounding on the Charles fiasco. “After several days of aggravating decency, I began to settle down, and a feeling of peace actually did begin to wash over me…”
“Can you pass me the bread, please, Frannie?” Tanya said. She likes to soak up the vinaigrette with the soft insides of a dinner roll. Fran passed the basket of bread to Tanya. Sorry, that’s not anywhere near as important as Fran’s story.
“…and I got it, ya know? I got it. So I began to change. Internally. I felt like a butterfly emerging from her… What do butterflies emerge from, Hel?”
“Cocoons,” I said. I tried the bread in the vinaigrette thing. It was quite tasty. I patted Tanya’s hand and showed her my soaked bread. She nodded vigorously.
“Cocoons,” Fran said, continuing her tale of redemption, which now appeared as though it might bleed into dessert. “I was de-cocooning.” (Emerging was fine, the editor in me thought, but I didn’t say anything.) “My spirit lifted, my mind began to feel free, I was discovering my true self…”
Okay, I’m going to cut Fran’s story right there to save some time. She went on and on about the charming people and the feeling of freedom and all the wonderful things the Compunction gurus taught her, but in the interest of sanity, let me simply say she had an enjoyable experience. Except for Charles.
The Dessert
Joellen brought out dessert: a store-bought pumpkin pie (it was mid-August), whipped cream, and coffee or tea. I put some whipped cream in my lemon tea and watched it dissolve. Willie saw my facial expression at the disappearing fluff and almost burst out laughing again. Tanya slapped my hand and told me to behave.
And now back to Fran’s fable of self-exploration and new beginnings.
“I found Jesus.” Fran spoke with the understated authority of a burglar discovering a key under the doormat.
“Oh,” I said. I wasn’t expecting a full-frontal spiritual rebirth.
“In Georgia?” Willie asked skeptically.
“Where was he? Behind the fridge?” Joellen said.
“Miss Carter!” I called out schoolmarmishly. “Apologize for that.”
“I’m sorry, Fran,” Jo said sheepishly. “Please continue.”
“I forgive you, Joellen,” Fran said, straightening her back. “For everything.” Joellen frowned, confused. She traded glances between Tanya, Willie, and me and squinted.
“Uh… okay,” she said. “Thank you, Fran.” If I were still playing investigator, I would have noted that Jo’s reaction seemed genuine and her confusion sincere. Fran hadn’t explicitly accused Joellen of sleeping with Bobby, but those two simple words were certainly clear enough to my depraved mind.
“I learned Jesus can guide you through difficult times and present to you multiple righteous paths…”
Blah, blah, blah. Fran continued her sermon regarding J.C. and the effect he had on her and how joyful her life could be and how forgiveness was the key to understanding yourself and was required before entering the kingdom of Heaven. Or something similar; my eyes glazed over, and I started thinking about eating beef Wellington with Matthew McConaughey. The other girls were more polite. They smiled and nodded. Tanya kicked me under the table when I started to yawn.
The thing is, I didn’t believe any of it. In my opinion, Fran was merely using religion as a stepping stone to get to the other side of an inconvenient creek. I sipped my creamy tea and watched her pious face spout mystical symbolisms and silently gave her two weeks before she was back on the secular path. I recalled when we were both fifteen, Fran, braces and all, was determined to find a boyfriend (her first). She was convinced that by eschewing deodorant and going barefoot everywhere, her natural pheromones might waft into a targeted boy’s nostrils, and he’d be smitten enough to ask her out. Ten days of pungent Fran was no picnic, but I supported her experiment, which, by the way, yielded zero results. After the noxious phase, it was months of bubble baths and rose water facials and Jennifer Aniston perfume. No dates, but she smelled much better.
This was also around the time Fran started exploring different hair colors. She noticed an older boy she fancied talking to a girl with purple-streaked hair. It was all the impetus she needed, so she dragged me to Pam’s Styles 4 You salon, situated in a rinky-dink shopping center near the mall, to choose a color. Back in her room, we watched DIY hair dyeing videos on YouTube. A few hours later, Fran sported terribly uneven electric blue stripes intermixed with her natural color. She looked ridiculous. Her mother flipped out. I silently snuck back to my house. She ended up having to dye all her hair limousine black.
All these rearview mirror diversions are to show how teenage Fran involved herself in questionable strategies to improve her life at any given moment. She was never a forward-thinking kind of gal, which is fine—if you have a goal, do whatever it takes to achieve it. Adult Fran is the same, but more often than not, her freshly hatched schemes fall flat. I’m the one who picks her up (sometimes literally), slaps some sense into her (figuratively speaking), and gets her back on the horse (metaphorically, of course; Fran hates horses). I wasn’t certain how the religious aspect of this current variation of Fran would play out, or for how long.
Eventually, the topic of discussion moved on from Fran’s love affair with an invisible, unearthly being to other things. None of the members of our group can be described as a conversational hog, so the subject of our chatter flits from one trivial matter to the next. Dinner ended, and cleanup time began. I noticed Fran hardly touched her naked pie, so I added a dollop of whipped cream and finished it off.
The Unexpected Visitor
My room is down the hall on the top floor of the house. Joellen’s room is on the other end of the hallway. A small, den-like room is between us, which everyone uses as a storage space. There’s no importance to the layout of the house except to say Joellen wasn’t able to hear Fran sobbing later that night. I was reading in bed, 11:30ish, and I heard a light tapping on my door. Rats? I thought, but then I heard someone whispering my name. I opened the door to find my brown-haired friend. It appeared that she had been crying.
“Fran?” I said. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve been trying to keep my mind off it. Can I come in?” Fran rarely climbs the stairs to visit my room. When we socialize in the house, it’s usually downstairs in the common areas. I motioned for her to come in, and as soon as I shut the door, she began crying again. Fran isn’t usually this emotional, so it concerned me. The last time I saw Fran cry was when she left school (kicked out?) and realized she had to tell her parents how much of a fuckup she had been. We had cuddled on my bed for hours until she drank herself into a stupor. I was hoping this wasn’t going to be a repeat performance; however, she still held the enticing aroma of spring flowers.
“What’s wrong, honey?” I asked in my mother’s voice. (Sometimes it comes out unexpectedly.) Fran pulled a handful of tissues from the pocket of her robe and covered her face with them. “Do you want a drink? You know, to ease your mind or something?”
“I’m celibate from drinking now,” Fran croaked.
“Uh, I think you mean something else,” I said. “You’re sober? Did the Compunctioneers make you stop drinking?”
“It was my decision to stop,” she sniffed. “God can’t be found in a bottle.”
“So no booze?”
“Maybe just a sip.”
I went downstairs to fetch a bottle of tequila and shot glasses. By the time I returned, Fran seemed to have collected herself. She was sitting at my desk, blotting out the remaining moisture on her face. I poured us each a half shot, and before I could say cheers, she had downed hers. I left the bottle on the desk near her and sat on the bed.
“Okay, spill it,” I said in my father’s voice. Fran’s face began to crumple again, but she caught it in time and willed herself into a state of resoluteness.
“I killed Jesus,” she said, and tears started rolling down her divine face. If Fran had been smiling, they would have filled her dimples.
“What?!” I wasn’t sure if we were talking about the same Jesus as we had been at dinner. I’m not up on my knowledge of mortal sins, but offing Jesus might mean a rejected application for renting an apartment in Heaven. “What do you mean, you killed him?”
Fran’s face remained stoic, but the tears kept a-coming. “Jesus is a cat. I killed him,” she said. Her voice was now low and raspy, in a sexy Demi Moore sort of way, but now is not the time to discuss sensual tones. I was quite relieved to hear that the Jesus in her confession was of the feline variety and not the holy, wrathful type. I drank my tequila and poured us each a glassful.
“Oh, Frannie,” I said. “Do you need a hug?” She nodded. We hugged.
We sat on the bed drinking tequila as she told me the tale. “There were all these cats at the place. We could feed them, play with them, take care of them.” I slowly nodded, but my mind was racing—how did Fran end up with a dead cat on her hands?? “One day, I chose a cat to take care of for the day. He liked me, Hel; he really liked me.”
“I assume it was Jesus,” I said.
“Yeah. He was sorta rust-colored and white; he didn’t really look like Jesus, but they named all the cats after characters in the Bible.”
“Got it.”
“So we all shared rooms with another girl. Did I tell you about Eliza?”
“Yes, I think so,” I said. “She smokes weed?”
“Yeah, her,” Fran said. “By the way, Jo’s shit was good. Anyway, she was my roommate. She took the bottom bunk, and I took the top.”
“Oh, no,” I said. I didn’t like where this was headed. Fran’s sobbing persisted, but she continued the story through her tears.
“I slept with Jesus that night. I was feeling so good. My headaches from being celibate…”
“Withdrawal,” I clarified.
“…yeah, exactly. They were gone, and I felt so good. The next morning the sun was shining and I felt great and I wanted to start the day and I…”
“You don’t have to say it, Fran.”
“…and I jumped down from the top bunk…”
“Really, you don’t need to…”
“…and I landed on Jesus and I squished him and I killed him.”
“Oh, God. I’m so sorry, Fran.” What do you say to a friend who squished a cat named Jesus?
“I’m not heavy, Hel, I’m not.”
“I know, Fran. You’re a frickin’ feather.”
“I didn’t see him. I swear.”
“I know you didn’t. It was a terrible accident.” We hugged again. I hated having Fran relive the horrific event, especially so soon after her breakup with Bobby, but my mind began churning out such atrocious questions:
⦿ Where was Eliza?
⦿ Did she witness the squishing?
⦿ Were there entrails present after the fact?
⦿ How was Jesus disposed of?
⦿ Did they let you anywhere near another cat?
⦿ Or did you not tell anyone?
⦿ You buried the squished cat yourself, didn’t you, Frannie?
⦿ You didn’t burn Jesus, did you?
Of course, I didn’t ask any of those questions; Fran was too fragile at that moment. She stayed with me for another hour. I got us off the subject of dead Jesus, and eventually, she was all cried out. I escorted her downstairs to her room, tucked her in, and kissed her cheek. “Jesus is in a better place,” I told her, rolling my eyes at the moronic cliché. (Luckily, her room was dark.)
As she drifted off to sleep, Fran murmured, “I’m not heavy.”
The Steady Retreat Back to Old Fran
Cracks began to form in Fran’s new sanctimonious facade. From her acceptance of alcohol to her mild profanity during the Jesus-the-Cat revelation, I recognized that Fran wasn’t going to become the next Mother Teresa. In less than a week, she had stopped saying grace before each meal. No one seemed to mind. She had even stopped saying “God bless you” when someone sneezed. She quickly reverted to her former catchphrase, “Excuse you.”
The house slowly returned to how it was before Fran’s hiatus. I heard her laugh heartily at a weatherman on television who got struck in the face with some paper debris as he covered a violent thunderstorm outdoors. Her maniacal laughter made me smile. “Go inside, you doofus!” she yelled at the screen. I’m not saying Fran is a mean-hearted person; she isn’t, but some acts of stupidity must be called out on occasion. It wasn’t long before I heard Fran shout, “Fuck this shit!” She was in the kitchen because it was her turn to cook. Apparently, the can opener refused to do what can openers are obligated to do.
The others experienced the gradual change back to old Fran as well. I overheard a snippet of conversation between Fran and Tanya during the assembly of a jigsaw puzzle. I came in midway, so I’m not sure of the context, but here’s what I heard.
“You need to kiss him when he least expects it,” Fran told Tanya.
“On the lips?” Tanya said.
“No, on the elbow,” Fran said. “Of course, on the lips.”
“I don’t know,” Tanya said. “I’m not as outgoing as you are.”
“Do you want to practice on me? Go ahead, kiss me when I’m not expecting it.”
“Frannie! I’m not gonna kiss you on the lips.”
“Ooh, good,” Fran said excitedly. “Great misdirection. Keep it up. I have no idea when you’re going to plant one on me.”
I had left the scene by then. I’m unsure if Tanya went forward with the plan and kissed Fran when she least expected it, nor do I require such information. The point is, New Fran would never suggest that a friend commit such a salacious act, even for experimental reasons, and she would certainly never use a phrase like plant one on me. Tanya did tell me later she was looking forward to finding a new boyfriend—there’s a growing list of “activities” (courtesy of Fran) she wanted to put into practice.
Willie and Joellen shared with me their experience of Fran becoming Fran again. The three of them were watching television together one evening when Fran asked, “What do you think happens when people die?” Willie frowned. She explained to me that she felt it was a slippery topic to discuss with New Fran.
“I look at it like this,” she told Fran. “When a car dies, the driver leaves the car, and the car doesn’t ever go anywhere anymore, doesn’t see new places, or go to car washes or the gas station. The car has no new experiences or can’t remember any previous experiences because all those are in the driver’s head.”
“But what happens to the driver?” Fran asked.
“She goes to the bus stop,” Willie said. A commercial for erectile dysfunction came on, and they all watched the happy people for a while.
Joellen chimed in. “No, I think it’s like… say you’re at a party. And new people come to the party, and some people leave. At some point, you leave. The party still goes on without you, and you don’t know what happened after you left. See? You’re never going to know what happens anymore.”
“But where do you go?” Fran asked.
“You go home and go to bed, hopefully with some guy from the party.” I trust this was no spiritual help to our sweet friend. (Jo insisted she wasn’t high during the conversation.)
“What do you think happens?” This was a risky question on Willie’s part, because she may have inadvertently invited Fran to deliver an hour-long sermon on the human soul and life after death and the kingdom of Heaven.
“I dunno,” Fran said.
“Didn’t you ask the leaders at the retreat?”
“They didn’t know either,” Fran said with a sigh. “I asked my roommate, Eliza, when we were smoking Jo’s pot together. She said our souls turn into bluebirds, and we fly into the sun. What a doofus she is sometimes. You guys wanna watch Friends?”
Fran secured her old job back at Trundell’s Auto Parts (“We sell BAIT!”) because Mr. Trundell hadn’t even begun the search for her replacement. She went in with a rehearsed speech about finding herself and second chances, but Trundell waved her off and tossed her an old denim apron with a bright red plastic name tag—Francine Q. “Register two is short; figger it out for me. And there be a case of Pennzoil needs puttin’ up in aisle two,” the old man said to her. No “Hey kiddo, good to see ya,” or “How was yer va-cay-shun?”
Fran told me a lot of the regular customers didn’t recognize her at first since she lost the magenta in her hair. “Once they did, though,” she said, “it was back to normal—leering at me, flirting with me, making automobile-related sexual puns.” She described how a few older men remove their wedding rings before entering the store. I asked her why she stayed, and she told me with a shrug, “Eh, what are you going to do? Guys are horny.”
Old Fran was speaking now, and I almost said, Welcome back.
It had been a month, maybe five or six weeks, since Fran’s return. (I’m not sure of the chronology—I don’t write down all of Fran’s details in my calendar app.) I was helping her fold her dryer-warm sheets in the hallway outside her room. We were talking about something—I can’t remember, let’s say, brain surgery—and we were folding and unfolding the fitted sheet. Those things are such a nuisance. Fran told me it was time for her to get back on the elephant again. (I told you she hates horses.) She has used this metaphor in the past, and I knew it meant that she was ready for male companionship.
“Ah, did you meet someone, Fran?” I asked her. She shyly moved her head back and forth in a wishy-washy way.
“Yeah,” she told me. “But he’s married.”
“Oh, Fran, please don’t get involved with him.”
“No, no, I won’t. But it got me thinking: I want to. With a single guy, I mean. You know.” I did know.
“I hear ya,” I said. “Tired of using Willie’s book as a reference?” (I still hadn’t discovered the secret of page 47.) We finally got the fitted sheet folded in a semi-neat parcel of polyester and cotton. Acceptably neat, anyway.
“Remember the bartender at the Apple Bar Grill?” I knew which one she meant. Every time we went in there for a drink, he hung around us (meaning Fran) like a helicopter parent on recital day.
“The one who works out and gives you free drinks and smiles at you a lot and who wrote down his number on the back of your coaster. Him? Or the one who looks like Mr. Bean?”
“The first one,” Fran said. No-brainer—he’s prettier than Fran.
“Oh,” I said. “Can I have Mr. Bean then?”
“Hel, I’m serious.” No dimples; Fran was serious.
“So call him up. What’s stopping you?”
“I don’t want a Devrin Part 2,” she told me. “Return of the Cheater.”
“Frannie, I honestly think he likes you. It’s a good start, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want me to talk to him? What’s his name?”
“Devon.”
“What?!”
“I know. It’s not a good sign.”
“I’ll tell him if he hurts you, I’ll kick his ass,” I said with the survival instinct of a defrosted turkey on Thanksgiving Eve. Fran hugged me and held me, and I could tell she was glad she confided in me. “Go get him then.”
“I will. I’ll call him,” she said softly, in my ear.
“And I’ll order him to change his name to Peter or Greg.” I felt my old friend’s graceful body jiggle with laughter as we embraced.
The Boyfriend, 2.0
Even with all her artificial bravado, Fran is timid when it comes to making the first move. It took a week, but she decided to visit the Apple Bar Grill on a Thursday night and see Devon in person. She asked me to join her, but I told her my presence might be counterproductive. So like the brave trooper that she never is and never has been, Fran went alone and sat at the bar, hoping Devon was able to recognize her with shorter, browner hair. She told me all the details when she got home.
“He wasn’t there.”
“What? Why?” I was expecting more juice from this peach.
“The other guy said he quit.”
“Where did he go?”
“Landsdale,” Fran said.
“Landsdale? What’s in Landsdale?”
“His dad’s farm.”
So Fran proceeded to tell me about Devon and his father and his father’s farm—second-hand info from Mr. Bean: corn, soybeans, and goats for milk and cheese. Landsdale is in a rural part of the county, but it’s only a twenty-minute drive from our town—I hoped it wouldn’t keep Fran from pursuing the former bartender. Mr. Bean told Fran that Devon’s father was elderly and was having trouble running the place by himself, and he was probably going to pass it on to his son. I tried to imagine Fran working on a farm, wearing knee-high rubber boots, milking the goats, making soybean salad for her man. I couldn’t. What I could see Fran doing was shucking corn; she’s highly proficient at that sort of thing.
It took another five days for Fran to call Devon. By then, the others knew of Fran’s potential romance and urged her on gently. (Fran’s heart might still have been a little tender.) I saved my inquiries to one per day because no one wants a pushy friend. Willie was the most verbose about the situation.
“Fran, if you don’t call this guy, I’m going to swaddle you in shrink wrap, deliver you to his door with a note saying, Needs a good home and a strong man, and then I’ll leave you there for this Doron…”
“Devron,” Tanya and Joellen said in unison.
“It’s Devon, you nincompoops,” I said, hoping I pronounced it right with the emphasis on the correct syllable. Fran closed and opened her eyes slowly. She’s so patient with us sometimes.
“Whatever,” Willie continued. “I’ve seen this guy at the apple place. Hot! Fran, do the right thing.” Willie’s blunt manner is often abrasive but frequently effective. None of this is especially important because Fran, in hindsight, clearly did “the right thing” the following day. I was present in the kitchen when she performed her breathing exercises before calling Devon.
→ Call #1: Straight to voicemail; Fran freaked out and disconnected.
→ Call #2: Twenty minutes later, voicemail once again. Fran said, “Hi, it’s Fran,” and disconnected.
→ Call #3: Three times should do it, right? “Hi, it’s Fran again. I realized you probably don’t know my name, so you don’t know who I am. I’m Fran. You can call me Fran… or Frannie. I came into the Apple Bar a lot with my friends. Once, I wore a Bright Eyes tee shirt, you said, ‘Cool shirt,’ and gave me your number—I don’t know if you remember—so I’m calling you now even though it was a while ago and you’re probably wondering who the hell is this and why is she bothering me. I just thought… uhhhhmmmm… sooo. Anyway, I’m Fran. Bye.”
→ Call #4: Immediately after: “Hi, Fran again. I’m not crazy. I’m just a little nervous. Bye.”
← Call #5: From Devon, 73 seconds later. Voicemail (Fran was too anxious to pick up): “Hi, Fran. Wanna grab dinner Friday?”
There are times in life when you are simply delighted about something, and Devon’s message made Fran elated, even after she blundered through her calls. His saying grab dinner instead of a more formal word put her at ease. We discussed the timing of her next call.
“Should I wait ’til tomorrow or the next day?”
“Um, Friday is in three days. Call him now?”
“Now? You mean tonight?”
“Frannie, he’s waiting for you. C’mon, call him now.”
“What if he’s wrestling a goat or something?”
“I’m 100% sure he’s not wrestling a goat, but if you don’t call him, the thought might creep into his head.”
“Ew, but thanks.” Fran went into her room for the call. She came out twenty minutes later with her dimples a-blazing.
Joellen, Tanya, and I settled in to watch a few episodes of The Office. It was Friday night, and Willie was out with Larson, and Fran was on her first date with Devon. She had changed clothes several times and requested an opinion after each outfit reveal. Honestly, Fran looks good in any style; the clothes she buys fit her figure in such a pleasing and generous way, creating curves I didn’t think were possible on her frame.
“You look good in everything you showed me,” I said. “Pick one, and go have fun.”
“But which one is best for a first date?”
“Look at it this way, if all goes well, he’s gonna see all your clothes eventually.” Fran’s face scrunched up, and I could tell she was doing the math. Not one of her strong skills, so I waited.
“Okay, I’ll wear this then,” Fran said, a bit flustered. She was wearing gray slacks, a white crew-neck tee shirt, and a teal cardigan. A silver elephant pendant hung perfectly placed in the V of her sweater.
“Beautiful,” I told her, and meant it. “Except…”
“What? Except what?”
“I’d pull your zipper up if I were you.”
Devon arranged to meet Fran at the restaurant, a casual seafood place called Hammond Bay, instead of picking her up at the house. (I’ve been there once and found it quite nice—gold star for Devon.) Fran finished getting dressed, perfumed her neck, and spent the next five minutes searching for her misplaced phone.
“It’s in the pocket of your jeans, ya ding dong,” Joellen called out from the living room. Fran rushed to her room and dug through three pairs of jeans before she found it.
“Thanks, Jo Jo,” Fran shouted back. Realizing she was running late, she shot off a text to her date.
running late but im coming, this is fran, bye
We all gave her good luck hugs, being careful not to muss her hair or her clothes. I was last, and she looked at me with glassy eyes and mouthed the words thank you and was off. I was tempted to shout, Jesus would be proud, but I kept my mouth shut.
Fran came home at 1:36 a.m. I was up reading (okay, I stayed up waiting for her) when I heard the unmistakable hum of her car pulling up outside. I went downstairs and poured us two glasses of almond milk and placed two of Willie’s famous “Big Mama’s Peanut Butter Cookies” on a small plate. Fran saw the light on in the kitchen and joined me. She was frickin’ glowing!
“Sooo?” I prompted, already knowing her date had gone well.
“Hel, he’s so great!” she gushed, running her fingers through her hair; the silver elephant even did a celebratory dance on her sternum. “He’s funny; wow, I was laughing all night. I love his sense of humor.” I was happy that Devon got to see the Dimple Sisters make their appearance; it’s always a treat.
“Oh, a jokester,” I said. I broke a BMPBC in half and dunked it.
“No, not like goofy funny,” Fran said. “Intelligent observations about life and people. Not like Devrin’s crass comments only he thinks are funny.”
“I sorta liked some of Bobby’s jokes,” I mumbled through my moistened cookie. Fran rolled her eyes.
“And he’s so much better looking without that stupid apple polo shirt he had to wear.”
“Oh yeah? What was he wearing?”
“A real shirt. A button-down shirt. A man’s shirt.” She sipped some milk. “He was wearing jeans. Boy, was he wearing those jeans!” She went on and on about his appearance with striking detail. I hadn’t heard Fran talk about a guy with such infatuation since high school. She appreciates handsome men, as does everybody else, but she doesn’t usually put a laser focus on it. I dunked the other half of my cookie. “Oh, and he lives over in Oak Gardens! You know, on the other side of the mall? He has a townhouse! ”
I was truly happy for my Fran. After the Bobby thing and the accidental cat slaughter, it was time for something positive to happen in her life. We talked about Devon for half an hour until we both started yawning, but she remembered she had made some notes in the car and wanted to share them with me. She retrieved the infamous spiral notebook from her bag while I broke her cookie in half and ate it dry. “I wanted to write some stuff down before I drove home so I’d remember. Let’s see here…” She noodled through the pages until she found the correct one. I saw she had written her notes with a purple pencil this time.
Handshake firm — I love it, strong hands
Devon likes shrimp, he had a Newcastle
Milk chocolate eyes — whoa
He smells good, like the ocean and cut grass
Great conversation! He gets my puns
If he doesn’t like me he’s hiding it well
Keep him away from Jo !!!!I congratulated Fran on her successful return to hedonism, and she actually laughed. “He sounds like a great guy. I’m glad you had a fun night out.”
“Thank you, Fibbie,” Fran said in her girly voice.
“You’re welcome, Fabbie,” I said with an equally grating vocalization, only participating to continue the tradition. “Are you seeing him again?”
“We’re going hiking tomorrow.” Fran sang the words like a mother surprising her young child with a gift—Look what I have!—the word hiking at the peak of the song.
“Oh, do you think he’ll wear shorts?” We both laughed as we got up from the kitchen table. I hugged my friend and kissed her cheek and sent her off to dream of her new man. I finished her cookie.
Fran was in a good place—mentally, to be clear, not the house where we lived. Devon turned out to be a nice guy, maybe not a perfect match for her, but a perfect match for her right now. Fran’s nervousness quickly burned away, like April frost. They saw each other frequently, some weekdays and almost every weekend night. Eight days into their mismatched romance, Fran spent the night at Devon’s house. She sent me a five-word text to announce this milestone:
not coming home tonight mom
Even though we’re close, Fran and I don’t normally discuss our bedroom or bathroom activities like women on HBO. The most I’ve said in the past after Fran’s first night with a new guy was, “You good?” Sometimes, on a morning after a heavy date, she either smiled slyly and booped my nose (or breast) or simply shrugged. With Devon, I was a bit more curious the following morning. “How was Devon’s ‘townhouse’?” Yes, I used air quotes, shut up.
“Oh,” Fran said, a tad surprised. “Um… very nicely appointed.” I nodded. “Structurally sound—very impressive, actually. When I got there, we spent a long time in his living room, but then he gave me the grand tour… three times.” We burst out laughing, which caused Tanya to enter the kitchen.
“What’s so funny?” she said.
“Oh, nothing,” I told her. “Fran was describing Devon’s townhouse.”
“Oh, yeah?” Tanya said. “How is it?”
“He has an end unit,” Fran said, and she and I exploded once again.
So Fran’s life and love life went on in a pleasingly normal and positive fashion. She has maintained her natural hair color; however, it is growing longer now. She doesn’t drink as much as in her pre-Compunction days, which can’t entirely be credited to Devon—I think Jesus had something to do with it. Fran has even toyed with the idea of returning to school. “The auto parts conglomerate can only take me so far,” she said. I was happy to hear her say that—she’s a smart girl and deserves better opportunities. Although, in my mind’s eye, I could finally picture her in knee-high rubber boots caked with goat turds. She looked bitchin’.
Matching Fran’s texting frequency, details concerning Devon or his farm or his townhouse were widely scattered and sketchy. Occasionally, when we were all together for dinner, Fran mentioned something about him in passing, giving us a puzzle piece to match up with the few others. In the two months since her initial klutzy phone calls to Devon, we learned a few things.
⦿ Devon drives a Subaru.
⦿ Devon’s last name is Crowe.
⦿ Devon has a twin sister (fraternal). She lives in Ottawa.
⦿ Devon’s father’s name is Mitchell.
⦿ Mitchell’s farm is called The Lazy Susan, named after his mother, now deceased. (Lazy meaning “laid-back” in this case.)
⦿ Susan was once in the Olympics (no medals).
⦿ Devon is allergic to cucumbers.
⦿ Devon has a tattoo of a crow on his calf.
A few more trivial nuggets about Mr. Crowe and his life were compiled, but honestly, they aren’t important at this point. The frustration over the lack of openness when it came to Devon’s life was compounded by the fact that he had yet to grace our floorboards. This changed eventually, of course, but everybody in the house gave our Frannie a pass because of the Bobby situation. With unplanned solidarity, we all refrained from asking to meet Fran’s enigmatic boyfriend or whining about his glaring absence from our lives. When he did finally arrive at our doorstep on a Saturday afternoon, we were all on our best behavior. Well…
The Saturday Surprise
On that Saturday afternoon, the five of us happened to be home, which was rare for this time of year. Willie’s beau was away, Tanya’s drought was still firmly entrenched, Joellen was nursing a mild cold, and I wanted to get some work done before a hectic Monday. Devon and Fran had a lovely weekend planned: a drive to the mountains, a night at a resort, and probably more touring of their respective facilities. Fran was in her room packing an overnight bag and trying to keep the changes of clothes to a minimum when Devon rang our doorbell. She careened out of her room, sliding on the hardwood floors in her non-non-slip socks. “I got it! ” she announced to the neighbors two houses down.
“Okaaay,” Willie called out. She and Tanya were in the kitchen making sandwiches. Jo was napping in her room. I was in the living room on my laptop, but I deciphered the clues and identified the mystery caller—I’m sort of brilliant that way—since Fran gave us no indication he was coming. I met Fran in the foyer.
“I got it,” she repeated to me, softer this time. She didn’t look anywhere near ready for her weekend getaway, wearing ridiculously thigh-flattering athletic shorts, a faded Bernie Sanders 2020 tee shirt, and the aforementioned slippery socks.
“Can I at least meet him?” I asked using my Emmy-nominated pout.
“Of course, Hel,” Fran said, touching my arm. “I’m sorry.” She opened the door, and there he was in the flesh. Geez Louise, that man is handsome, I thought.
“Hi,” the man of the hour said.
“Devon’s here!” I yelled to the others, betraying Fran’s trust and momentarily startling the gorgeous creature at the door. I yanked the Bobby bandage off with those two simple words; it had to happen. Fran sighed noisily and waved Devon in. She stood by his side. I could almost hear her thinking, Let’s get this over with. She waited until Willie and Tanya came trotting in from the kitchen like goats to a feeding trough. They were trying not to appear too excited but still jockeying for position.
“Devon, this is everyone. Everyone, this is Devon.” Fran’s cursory introduction was a little disappointing, so I extended my hand to properly identify myself.
“Hi, Devon,” I said. “I’m Helena, Fran’s mother.” Devon grasped my hand (ouch), and I unsuccessfully tried to match his grip strength. He looked confused, swapping glances between Fran and me.
“I thought…” he started to say.
“She’s my age,” Fran told him. “She’s my bestest, most dearest friend.” She flashed an obviously sarcastic smile and fluttered her eyelashes at me. (I had expected a punch in the arm.)
“Nice to finally meet you, Helena,” Devon said. So polite, I thought.
“I hope Fran hasn’t been lying to you about me,” I said. “I don’t kidnap small children anymore.”
“Oh, have you moved on to teenagers then?” Devon said with a high-lumen smile. Who is this guy? I thought. Beautiful and quick-witted! I was speechless. Tanya took the opportunity to thrust out her hand.
“I’m Tanya McGee,” she said. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Hi, Tanya. You’re the teacher, right?” So charming, I thought.
“Teaching assistant,” Tanya said with a bashful tilt of her head. Her pupils dilated fully. I better get a mop, I thought.
“Hi, I’m Willie. I’m the good-looking one, and I can cook.” Devon shook her hand. Fran’s eyes narrowed a microscopic amount, but I noticed.
“I know; I’m not blind, Willie,” Devon told her with a honey-glazed voice. “We should eat dinner here sometime. Right, Fran?” Fran forced a closed-lip smile at Devon.
“There’s one more roommate,” I told Devon. “Joellen. She’s not feeling well today. She’s taking a nap.” Fran pelted me with overripe tomatoes in her mind. (Some wounds take longer to heal than others.)
“Ah, Joellen,” Devon said. “I’m looking forward to meeting her too. Maybe when we get back.”
“Maybe,” Fran said with the enthusiasm of a jellyfish. “Look, I need to finish packing and get dressed.” She was still looking directly at me when she spoke. “Maybe you can watch TV with Hel. It’ll only take a couple minutes.” This was Fran broadcasting a message to her protector: Take care of this little problem for me, Hel. I gave her a barely noticeable nod and took Devon’s hand.
“Won’t you follow me to my dungeon, young man?” I said with a comically sinister voice. Tanya and Willie looked like Bobby with their droopy faces and went back to the kitchen. Fran shot down the hall like a speed skater. “I hear you have a sister.” This was my normal-voiced conversation starter.
And so Fran’s feared meeting of housemates and boyfriend ended with no serious injuries. I put a football game on the television, thinking, well, muscles appreciate muscles. Devon asked if we had HGTV. I must be living in Bizarro World, I thought. We chatted while people hunted for houses, and I found Devon remarkably down-to-earth and well-spoken for a former bartender. (I learned later he tended bar part-time while attending nursing school.)
It took twenty minutes for Fran to complete her transformation from frumpy Fran to going-out Fran. She looked cute, as always. By then, Tanya and Willie had joined us in the living room after finishing their lunch, and Devon and I had shared a ginger ale (no gin). I had a banana; he opted for an apple. (I was a good hostess.) We all had a cozy conversation with Devon before Fran’s arrival. The girls had thrown a bushel of questions his way, and many were tossed back. He displayed the same grace and charm he had shown in the foyer. This was no Bobby/Devrin sitting with us. This was a completely developed man, and our eyes, ears, hearts, and minds were grateful.
Fran’s extraction of Devon from the house began immediately, and in less than three minutes, they were out the door.
The Important Part
Fran and Devon became a regular couple. He has never spent the night here, but she has, on many occasions, tested the sturdiness of the bed frame at his house. Devon has since met Joellen several times, with Fran being no more than half a room away and never out of earshot.
Devon makes semi-regular appearances in the house, mostly for picking up and dropping off Fran. He doesn’t bring doughnuts, but he has brought wine and cheese. He has joined us for the occasional meal or movie. On one such evening, several weeks after his first visit to this house, Devon complimented Willie on her Italian trifecta.
“Excellent pasta, Willie,” he proclaimed enthusiastically as he toasted her with his nearly empty wine glass. The others, including Larson, murmured in agreement. Fran nodded fervently because her mouth was too full to speak. She gave Willie a thumbs-up and dabbed some sauce from her lips. She didn’t even flinch when Willie got up, thanked him, and refilled his glass, all the while resting her hand on his shoulder. Plus, she actually smiled at the two of them, even after seeing Willie give Devon’s shoulder a little rub before removing her hand. I realized that Fran had made it to the trusting plateau in their relationship and had finally calmed the fuck down. I was always relieved when the Happy Fran kicked the Sour Fran out to the curb for recycling. This meant that I could relax too.
We rang in the new year at home. Joellen decided to party with fashion industry friends in New York, and Tanya was visiting her parents, so our little group consisted of Willie and Larson, Fran and Devon, and me. Devon told us his father was probably in bed at that moment. It was nine-thirty. Fran started drinking early: light beer but no tequila. She was happy, and her dimples verified this. Every half hour, like clockwork, she sashayed to the bathroom for relief. I wanted to wait until midnight; Larson had brought champagne. Devon was enjoying his coconut rum and Dr. Pepper with lime. Ryan Seacrest had once again been denied top billing on his annual holiday special, courtesy of the long-departed Dick Clark.
At midnight, everybody celebrated with bubbly and hugs, and the two couples kissed—Willie and Larson with passion and energy. Fran wasn’t keen on showing much physical affection around other people, so a couple of quick pecks on Devon’s lips sufficed. I watched his broad hand on her lower back, his pinky finger accidentally slipping under the waistband of her leggings. When the couples parted, the inebriated cheers and toasts and smiles began. I sipped my champagne and counted the minutes. I didn’t need to wait long.
While Times Square continued to erupt in a confetti shower on television, Fran took her scheduled pee break. Willie and Larson had official business on the couch. Devon looked at me and flashed his Hollywood grin. He was standing near the unlit fireplace. (We were having an unusually mild winter.)
“Happy New Year, Helena,” he said. “Come over here.” He stretched out his beefy arms for a friendly celebratory hug. I had hugged Devon once before, on my birthday with the entire gang present, so I knew I’d be enveloped in a warm, masculine chamber that is the stuff of housewife fantasies.
“Happy New Year,” I said into his ear, or as close as possible since he was eight inches taller than me. I hugged him back and smelled his woody, lemony cologne. At this point, with Fran out of the room and the other two in their own little world, I knew I didn’t have much time.
And now, here’s the most important part of this entire account. After taking a half-step back from Devon, I moved my hand to his upper arm and squeezed. Our eyes locked. His face lost its merry demeanor. I felt the tempered muscle under his sweater, under his shirt, and under his skin. “My New Year’s resolution is to have more fun,” I whispered. His face displayed the now familiar merging of confusion, understanding, and possibilities, and I thought, Here’s another of Fran’s sweet treats that I’m going to have to devour. Just like I’ve been doing since high school.
