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Authors: Eileen Favorite
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around the living room, maybe it was Franny’s age, or the lack of resolution in Franny’s story. But something about Franny’s situation surmounted Mother’s usual wall of restraint, and for the first time I saw her try to persuade a Heroine to reexamine her situation.
“You can’t let your brothers do your thinking for you!” Mother said. “Don’t be a prop for their egos.”
We were sitting in the living room after lunch, Franny curled up on the couch, Mother in an armchair, and I stretched out on the window seat, pretending to read. Mother had me well trained to pipe down back then, and the Heroines’ drone usually sent me into a post-repast snooze. But Franny was different somehow. Modern. I liked her black pixie haircut, her slight New York accent. She had striking Irish-Jewish features, fair skin, blue eyes, thick hair.
“They’re brilliant people, why shouldn’t they guide me?” Franny said.
“We women have to find our own power!”
“Power’s an illusion. Often power and wisdom are revealed through the most lowly—the poor, the children.”
“Exactly the people the patriarchy seeks to silence!”
Franny sank back into the couch, and I noticed her fine lips moving. She was trying to pray without ceasing, and she clutched the book she’d brought with her, The Way of the Pilgrim. I’d never seen a Heroine bring an object with her, which tells you just how much she was clinging to that book. I squinted to see her mouth the words, “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me.” We weren’t religious, Mother and I, so I had an atheist’s fascination for the devout. The prayer, according to Zooey, in its full recitation was, “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, a miserable sinner,” but Franny had dropped the last part. Her praying was like a nervous tic, a Tourette’s that kicked in when she wished to drown out Mother. I tried it myself, Lord Jesus, have mercy on me. I liked the idea of setting my experience to this refrain, imagined standing on the field with my lacrosse stick, hurling a ball into the goal and chanting, Have mercy on me. It was like apologizing to the other team for scoring.
Franny lifted up on an elbow, suddenly inspired, perhaps by her mantra. “I mean, what’s important is to lead a simple life,” she said. “We’re too busy complicating things, with the trappings of conventional life.” She gestured to the room, and I took in the faded Persian rugs, Grandma’s old fringed velvet couches, the standing lamps, the magazines. “By just saying this prayer, over and over, you come to know God.”
“The ultimate patriarch. The guy with a beard and a staff.”
That sounded cool to me. A force. I nodded my head, and though I didn’t say anything, Franny glanced in my direction and we locked eyes for a second.
“You just have so much going for you, Franny,” Mother said. “So much strength and intelligence. I’d hate to see that thwarted.”
Franny resumed the quiet mumbling and pressed the book under the pillow. Mother was giving one of her live-up-to-your-potential speeches, which I usually received when I brought home any grade less than a B. I found it mildly amusing to watch Franny zoning out the same way, and I started to softly say the prayer. Franny’s mysticism appealed to my imagination far more than Mother’s feminism. But mostly, the whole conversation made me uncomfortable, a little embarrassed by my mother, and I wanted to help Franny escape. An idea came to me. “Hey, Franny, do you still want me to show you the path into the woods?” I asked.
Franny sat up, relieved to have an exit strategy. “Oh, yes!”
I looked toward Mother and said, “I wanted to show her the path. So she wouldn’t get lost when she’s on her own.”
“Oh, all right.” Mother shrugged and started to straighten the copies of Ms. she’d strategically placed on the coffee table to tempt Franny. “Don’t go too far. It’s getting dark earlier. And put some Off!
“You can’t let your brothers do your thinking for you!” Mother said. “Don’t be a prop for their egos.”
We were sitting in the living room after lunch, Franny curled up on the couch, Mother in an armchair, and I stretched out on the window seat, pretending to read. Mother had me well trained to pipe down back then, and the Heroines’ drone usually sent me into a post-repast snooze. But Franny was different somehow. Modern. I liked her black pixie haircut, her slight New York accent. She had striking Irish-Jewish features, fair skin, blue eyes, thick hair.
“They’re brilliant people, why shouldn’t they guide me?” Franny said.
“We women have to find our own power!”
“Power’s an illusion. Often power and wisdom are revealed through the most lowly—the poor, the children.”
“Exactly the people the patriarchy seeks to silence!”
Franny sank back into the couch, and I noticed her fine lips moving. She was trying to pray without ceasing, and she clutched the book she’d brought with her, The Way of the Pilgrim. I’d never seen a Heroine bring an object with her, which tells you just how much she was clinging to that book. I squinted to see her mouth the words, “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me.” We weren’t religious, Mother and I, so I had an atheist’s fascination for the devout. The prayer, according to Zooey, in its full recitation was, “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, a miserable sinner,” but Franny had dropped the last part. Her praying was like a nervous tic, a Tourette’s that kicked in when she wished to drown out Mother. I tried it myself, Lord Jesus, have mercy on me. I liked the idea of setting my experience to this refrain, imagined standing on the field with my lacrosse stick, hurling a ball into the goal and chanting, Have mercy on me. It was like apologizing to the other team for scoring.
Franny lifted up on an elbow, suddenly inspired, perhaps by her mantra. “I mean, what’s important is to lead a simple life,” she said. “We’re too busy complicating things, with the trappings of conventional life.” She gestured to the room, and I took in the faded Persian rugs, Grandma’s old fringed velvet couches, the standing lamps, the magazines. “By just saying this prayer, over and over, you come to know God.”
“The ultimate patriarch. The guy with a beard and a staff.”
That sounded cool to me. A force. I nodded my head, and though I didn’t say anything, Franny glanced in my direction and we locked eyes for a second.
“You just have so much going for you, Franny,” Mother said. “So much strength and intelligence. I’d hate to see that thwarted.”
Franny resumed the quiet mumbling and pressed the book under the pillow. Mother was giving one of her live-up-to-your-potential speeches, which I usually received when I brought home any grade less than a B. I found it mildly amusing to watch Franny zoning out the same way, and I started to softly say the prayer. Franny’s mysticism appealed to my imagination far more than Mother’s feminism. But mostly, the whole conversation made me uncomfortable, a little embarrassed by my mother, and I wanted to help Franny escape. An idea came to me. “Hey, Franny, do you still want me to show you the path into the woods?” I asked.
Franny sat up, relieved to have an exit strategy. “Oh, yes!”
I looked toward Mother and said, “I wanted to show her the path. So she wouldn’t get lost when she’s on her own.”
“Oh, all right.” Mother shrugged and started to straighten the copies of Ms. she’d strategically placed on the coffee table to tempt Franny. “Don’t go too far. It’s getting dark earlier. And put some Off!
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