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Authors: Jacqueline Carey
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enough?”
“I’m so glad that I ran into you today,” said Frank. He was celebrating the successful pursuit of some sort of job. Pat wasn’t exactly paying attention, but there was such eager joy in his face, she happily agreed to meet him for dinner that night. She’d been aware of him all her life. He was a good Catholic boy like any other; she remembered him from the church basement, where nuns taught catechism to small groups of elementary school kids sitting on folding chairs. She knew the sort of home he’d grown up in: small and neat, with a print of the Annunciation in the hall—one step up from a crucifix. She knew the sort of parents he had: increasingly angry as the years went by, and bitter about liberals, but generous-hearted in their own way. She knew the sorts of friends and beer and sports and television programs he liked.
It was months before he mentioned catching her “on the rebound” from Lemuel Samuel. “I couldn’t believe my luck!” he crowed.
They were at a drive-in movie theater, waiting to see a spy movie. Frank was still living with his parents in Hart Ridge, but he had his own car, a red Firebird with taped-up seats, and they spent a lot of time in it. “What are you talking about?” asked Pat.
“I overheard you on the phone with him that day. The door to the pay phone was open.” Frank was spilling popcorn all over himself in his excitement. “I never would have had the courage otherwise.”
Maybe. Pat had never met a cockier fellow, actually. But she tried to piece together which conversation he could mean. “That was Ginny!” she said at last. “We were talking about her moving to Maine!”
“Oh, no, he mentioned marriage and you said you wanted to be friends. Friends! Ha! What a kiss-off!”
“Lemuel Samuel would never do anything like get married,” said Pat. But Frank got such a kick out of dating Lemuel Samuel’s old girlfriend that it was impossible to get him to understand that she and Lemuel could not have “broken up” because they had never been “together.”
“But we’re together, right?” said Frank.
“Of course,” she said.
Frank was so young. He hardly drank at all, except in sporadic bursts. He was always ready to make love, and he actually paid attention as he did it. He liked to have fun. He was just…regular. Pat started to wonder when she’d hear from Lemuel again. It had been several months, so it was about time. But he didn’t call. Then the leaves started to turn, even the oaks, and still he didn’t call.
Very early on another Monday morning, shortly after New Year’s, Pat’s phone rang. She woke in her dream, and it was Lemuel. Then she woke again. The room was black, but her mind was clear. It was Frank’s mother. Frank had wrecked his car driving back from Hunter Mountain. He and his friends were in a hospital in Kingston. At least one of them was supposed to be critical. But she had spoken to Frank. He sounded okay. He’d mentioned Pat.
During the drive north, Frank’s parents sat in the front seat, and Pat sat in the back. Eerie portents appeared: an untended fire in a metal barrel, dark twisted tree branches obscuring a green sign; bright, brittle light in the hospital lobby. Frank’s hair was deeply black against the white pillowcase, shadows had formed hollows under his cheekbones, his eyes glittered.
He and three friends had been skiing until dark on Sunday. Then they’d drunk a few beers. It had been snowing, but it had stopped by the time they set out. They were in the fast lane. A Buick going the other way spun out, jumped the divide, and ended up in their path. Frank wrenched the steering wheel toward the fog line, but it was too late. He hit the other car at an angle. Once it became clear to Frank’s mother that everyone was going to live, she pressed for details and kept repeating what she heard. Pat couldn’t keep all the injuries straight. Frank had gotten off lightly; he’d broken his right leg. He
“I’m so glad that I ran into you today,” said Frank. He was celebrating the successful pursuit of some sort of job. Pat wasn’t exactly paying attention, but there was such eager joy in his face, she happily agreed to meet him for dinner that night. She’d been aware of him all her life. He was a good Catholic boy like any other; she remembered him from the church basement, where nuns taught catechism to small groups of elementary school kids sitting on folding chairs. She knew the sort of home he’d grown up in: small and neat, with a print of the Annunciation in the hall—one step up from a crucifix. She knew the sort of parents he had: increasingly angry as the years went by, and bitter about liberals, but generous-hearted in their own way. She knew the sorts of friends and beer and sports and television programs he liked.
It was months before he mentioned catching her “on the rebound” from Lemuel Samuel. “I couldn’t believe my luck!” he crowed.
They were at a drive-in movie theater, waiting to see a spy movie. Frank was still living with his parents in Hart Ridge, but he had his own car, a red Firebird with taped-up seats, and they spent a lot of time in it. “What are you talking about?” asked Pat.
“I overheard you on the phone with him that day. The door to the pay phone was open.” Frank was spilling popcorn all over himself in his excitement. “I never would have had the courage otherwise.”
Maybe. Pat had never met a cockier fellow, actually. But she tried to piece together which conversation he could mean. “That was Ginny!” she said at last. “We were talking about her moving to Maine!”
“Oh, no, he mentioned marriage and you said you wanted to be friends. Friends! Ha! What a kiss-off!”
“Lemuel Samuel would never do anything like get married,” said Pat. But Frank got such a kick out of dating Lemuel Samuel’s old girlfriend that it was impossible to get him to understand that she and Lemuel could not have “broken up” because they had never been “together.”
“But we’re together, right?” said Frank.
“Of course,” she said.
Frank was so young. He hardly drank at all, except in sporadic bursts. He was always ready to make love, and he actually paid attention as he did it. He liked to have fun. He was just…regular. Pat started to wonder when she’d hear from Lemuel again. It had been several months, so it was about time. But he didn’t call. Then the leaves started to turn, even the oaks, and still he didn’t call.
Very early on another Monday morning, shortly after New Year’s, Pat’s phone rang. She woke in her dream, and it was Lemuel. Then she woke again. The room was black, but her mind was clear. It was Frank’s mother. Frank had wrecked his car driving back from Hunter Mountain. He and his friends were in a hospital in Kingston. At least one of them was supposed to be critical. But she had spoken to Frank. He sounded okay. He’d mentioned Pat.
During the drive north, Frank’s parents sat in the front seat, and Pat sat in the back. Eerie portents appeared: an untended fire in a metal barrel, dark twisted tree branches obscuring a green sign; bright, brittle light in the hospital lobby. Frank’s hair was deeply black against the white pillowcase, shadows had formed hollows under his cheekbones, his eyes glittered.
He and three friends had been skiing until dark on Sunday. Then they’d drunk a few beers. It had been snowing, but it had stopped by the time they set out. They were in the fast lane. A Buick going the other way spun out, jumped the divide, and ended up in their path. Frank wrenched the steering wheel toward the fog line, but it was too late. He hit the other car at an angle. Once it became clear to Frank’s mother that everyone was going to live, she pressed for details and kept repeating what she heard. Pat couldn’t keep all the injuries straight. Frank had gotten off lightly; he’d broken his right leg. He
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