with him. His grip was a little too firm. He was taller than she was. Quite a tall man, then. She was actually looking up at him, something she wasn’t used to. His face, too, was big, almost doughy, with a pugilist’s chin. His brown eyes were creased at the corners, amused-looking, and his hair, she saw now, was flecked with gray.
“Bud what?”
“Bud Jacobs.”
“I’m Frankie.”
“Frankie?”
“Short for Francesca. My father’s mother was Italian. I’m named after her. Frankie Rowley,” she said. “But I don’t remember you. Are you new in town?”
No, actually, he explained, he’d been here for a couple of years. He’d bought the Pomeroy Union , the local weekly paper. “I’m embedded, as it were. Reporting back on the action”—he smiled—“as it explodes all around me.”
Frankie looked around at the clusters of milling people, some already leaving, but other cars only now pulling up. There was a group of children running back and forth on the porch, screaming. “How would you write up this particular explosion?” she asked.
“Who came, of course. They all like to see their name in the paper. That’s my bread and butter.” He shrugged. “Who was visiting. And I always keep my eye out for the unforeseen event.” He arched his eyebrows. “The spiked punch,” he said dramatically in his whispery voice. “The marijuana-laced brownie. The lovers’ quarrel.” He paused. Then, dramatically: “The knife fight.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Frankie said, smiling at him.
“So, you? What shall I say about you?”
“ ‘Visiting from Kenya, where she does all manner of noble stuff, was Frankie Rowley, the oldest child of Alfie and Sylvia Rowley,’ ba-da, ba-da, ba-da.”
“Kenya!” He was surprised.
But people usually were, and Frankie recognized the familiar pulse of pleasure she felt in his response, and then another quick pulse of something like embarrassment at feeling that yet again. Grow up .
She shrugged. “I’m an aid worker,” she said.
“Aha. And how long have you been doing that?”
“About fifteen years now.”
“Oh! A long time, then,” he said. More surprise.
“Yeah,” she said. “But it seems shorter. And then again, longer, too.”
“Like so much of life,” Bud said. There was a moment of silence, just long enough to make Frankie feel awkward. Then he said, “So. Duration of stay?” He held up an imaginary pad, a nonexistent pen.
“Unclear.”
“Ah. Because?”
“Because … of burnout, let’s say. Brownout, anyway.”
He smiled. “By coincidence, the same reason I’m here.”
“In your case, burnout with …?”
“Oh, with real life, I suppose. At least as a newsperson encounters it.”
Frankie looked around again. One of the parents, a mother, was dealing with the kids on the porch now. You could hear the sharp words springing out of her mouth as she bent toward them: “Never … can not … Right now!” They stood silent, looking up at her, scared, resentful.
“Little risk of that with this crowd,” Frankie said.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Anyway, I’m here to test that notion.”
“And so far?”
“So far, real life knocks from time to time.” He nodded. “Yes, even here.”
“As in?”
“Births. Deaths. Illness.” He shrugged again. He smiled at Frankie. “Zoning often does the trick. There’s nothing like zoning for passion.” He shook his head. “Zoning: real life .”
Frankie laughed.
“A big fire the other night,” he offered. “That was pretty real.”
“Oh, I heard about it.” She thought again about the faraway, mechanical call, the smell of smoke in the dark. “Were you there?”
“Yeah, I went. I have a pager for the fire department calls. Fires, accidents, the proverbial cat in the proverbial tree, the dog fallen through the ice, et cetera. But I missed most of this one. We all did. It was pretty much over, I think, before a call even went in. All the guys could do was try
“Bud what?”
“Bud Jacobs.”
“I’m Frankie.”
“Frankie?”
“Short for Francesca. My father’s mother was Italian. I’m named after her. Frankie Rowley,” she said. “But I don’t remember you. Are you new in town?”
No, actually, he explained, he’d been here for a couple of years. He’d bought the Pomeroy Union , the local weekly paper. “I’m embedded, as it were. Reporting back on the action”—he smiled—“as it explodes all around me.”
Frankie looked around at the clusters of milling people, some already leaving, but other cars only now pulling up. There was a group of children running back and forth on the porch, screaming. “How would you write up this particular explosion?” she asked.
“Who came, of course. They all like to see their name in the paper. That’s my bread and butter.” He shrugged. “Who was visiting. And I always keep my eye out for the unforeseen event.” He arched his eyebrows. “The spiked punch,” he said dramatically in his whispery voice. “The marijuana-laced brownie. The lovers’ quarrel.” He paused. Then, dramatically: “The knife fight.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Frankie said, smiling at him.
“So, you? What shall I say about you?”
“ ‘Visiting from Kenya, where she does all manner of noble stuff, was Frankie Rowley, the oldest child of Alfie and Sylvia Rowley,’ ba-da, ba-da, ba-da.”
“Kenya!” He was surprised.
But people usually were, and Frankie recognized the familiar pulse of pleasure she felt in his response, and then another quick pulse of something like embarrassment at feeling that yet again. Grow up .
She shrugged. “I’m an aid worker,” she said.
“Aha. And how long have you been doing that?”
“About fifteen years now.”
“Oh! A long time, then,” he said. More surprise.
“Yeah,” she said. “But it seems shorter. And then again, longer, too.”
“Like so much of life,” Bud said. There was a moment of silence, just long enough to make Frankie feel awkward. Then he said, “So. Duration of stay?” He held up an imaginary pad, a nonexistent pen.
“Unclear.”
“Ah. Because?”
“Because … of burnout, let’s say. Brownout, anyway.”
He smiled. “By coincidence, the same reason I’m here.”
“In your case, burnout with …?”
“Oh, with real life, I suppose. At least as a newsperson encounters it.”
Frankie looked around again. One of the parents, a mother, was dealing with the kids on the porch now. You could hear the sharp words springing out of her mouth as she bent toward them: “Never … can not … Right now!” They stood silent, looking up at her, scared, resentful.
“Little risk of that with this crowd,” Frankie said.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Anyway, I’m here to test that notion.”
“And so far?”
“So far, real life knocks from time to time.” He nodded. “Yes, even here.”
“As in?”
“Births. Deaths. Illness.” He shrugged again. He smiled at Frankie. “Zoning often does the trick. There’s nothing like zoning for passion.” He shook his head. “Zoning: real life .”
Frankie laughed.
“A big fire the other night,” he offered. “That was pretty real.”
“Oh, I heard about it.” She thought again about the faraway, mechanical call, the smell of smoke in the dark. “Were you there?”
“Yeah, I went. I have a pager for the fire department calls. Fires, accidents, the proverbial cat in the proverbial tree, the dog fallen through the ice, et cetera. But I missed most of this one. We all did. It was pretty much over, I think, before a call even went in. All the guys could do was try
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