Cleopatra and Frankenstein(92)

“You have some soot,” he said, raising his palms in surrender.

Cleo scrubbed her nose roughly with the sleeve of her jacket.

“It looks cute,” he said.

“It’s terrible for your skin.”

“Right.” He turned away from her to conceal the hurt on his face. She would not even let him touch her. “Are you hungry?”

Frank had been to Dean & Deluca earlier that morning to get groceries before picking Cleo up at the hospital. Without either of them saying it, they both seemed to understand that it was too soon to return to their apartment together, to the place where he had found her, so Frank had suggested that they head directly to the train station and spend a few nights upstate. He wasn’t sure what Cleo would feel like eating, so he had haphazardly grabbed a variety of foods not particularly suited to each other: sushi, crackers, pasta salad, curried chicken, salmon filets, a ball of buffalo mozzarella, fruit salad, a single lemon, and a large slice of buttercream cake. And of course he had stopped by the liquor store afterwards too.

“Still no.” To appease him, Cleo attempted a smile. “But I’ll let you know when I am.”

“You have to eat.”

“I’ll eat when I’m hungry.”

“You didn’t have breakfast or lunch.”

“The medications they gave me make me nauseous.”

“It’s still good to try.”

“I’ll try when I’m hungry.”

“Okay.”

They both turned to look at the fire again. Cleo raised her hands toward it and turned them front to back in an elegant twisting gesture. Her sleeve pulled down to reveal the top of her bandage. Frank looked at it and saw soil wet with blood. The skin of her arm sliced neatly open like a gutted fish. She caught his stare and dropped her hands.

“It’s a little warmer at least,” she said.

“Have you thought any more about what they said at the hospital?” Frank asked. “About seeing a therapist?”

“I only just got out,” she said.

“It’s just, the doctor said—”

“I don’t want to talk about what the doctor said.”

Frank exhaled. “I’m only trying to help.”

“You’re not.”

“Okay,” said Frank. “I’m sorry. You’re too fragile to have this conversation right now.”

Cleo turned on her heels and stood up. “I am not fragile.”

“I didn’t mean fragile.” Frank waved his hand as if he could dispel the word like smoke between them. “Sensitive.”

“I am not sensitive. You’re sensitive.”

“All right, whatever you say, Cleo.” He turned away from her again. “I’m going to go chop some more wood.”

Cleo restrained herself from saying anything derogatory about this display of manhood. After he left, she stood shivering in the living room. Soon she could hear the heavy, rhythmic sound of the ax. She lit a few more candles and stoked the fire with the poker, looking into the flames for a long moment. She had been so desperate to leave the hospital, but now she was out, she didn’t know how to act. She knew Frank was trying to help, but it just made her feel like an invalid incapable of helping herself. She had spent so many years trying not to be defined by what her mother did, trying to be whole, trying to be happy and light. Now she had undone it all. She dropped the poker and turned to follow him outside. She was going to act normal. She was going to make nice.

Frank was at the back of the house, where a wooden porch and small garden overlooked the slope down to the lake. He looked up to see her standing by the rusty porch swing, lighting a cigarette. She tucked the pack back into her pocket as she watched him. Where had she squirreled those away? He certainly hadn’t brought any for her. Cleo saw him notice this and smiled to herself. She had charmed one of the nurses into giving her his pack before leaving, which was why she was deigning to smoke Camels instead of her usual Capris. She considered it the only real success from her time in hospital.

Frank, who had noticed this smile and assumed she was mocking him, decided to keep on chopping the wood as if she wasn’t there. Of course, he missed the next swing, sending the ax skidding down the side of the chopping block to the ground. He couldn’t do anything right. Swearing under his breath, he wrestled the blade out from where it was embedded in the earth. Cleo pinched the cigarette between her lips and clapped her hands, which were white from the cold.

“Give it another go,” she called. “What do Americans say?” She affected a nasal accent. “You got this.”

He checked her face to see if she was making fun of him, but her eyes were shining faintly with good humor. He looked away, grinning to himself, then swung. He split the piece of wood in a perfect half. When he looked back at her, the eagerness was all over his face.

“Good job,” she said, still in her twangy accent. “That was great.”

“So you’re American now?” he asked.

“Only when I’m being peppy,” she said. “You know my favorite Americanism?”

“What?”

She lowered her voice to a gruff southern baritone. “Winners win and losers lose.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

Cleo smiled.