Here So Far Away(45)

“The thing is, the sick, sick thing that ties me up every time I see you, is that’s possibly what I like best about you. I don’t just mean because you’re young. I’m not—I’m not a perv. I don’t chase girls. My father spent his whole life with women who were too young for him—he died of a stroke with one of them under him, for Christ’s sake—and I swore I’d never be that guy.”

“So switch to margarine.”

“No, I’m not letting you do that. Make a joke. Deflect. You have to stand there and hear it. For a long time I told myself that this, that it’s in spite of your age, and it’s all some cosmic cruelty of bad timing. That’s not true. Yes, you’re smart and you’re funny—”

He had a way of making this sound like an accusation.

“—but also the world hasn’t messed you up yet. We can have a conversation about something that you thought you had a solid opinion about, and while we’re talking, you change your mind. You just, change your mind. Because you’re still becoming who you are. Or maybe, maybe age has nothing to do with it. Maybe who you are is someone who’s willing to change her mind. I still change my mind. I can’t stop changing my mind. Only, I can’t get over that woman I met three months ago at the lighthouse.”

“Well, this is the real me. This stupid, pissy person.”

“You’re not stupid. You can be pissy. I’d still want to stay up all night talking to you.”

He was turning away, but I drew him to me.

Have you ever tried to kiss someone midrant? In the movie version of my life, it’ll be romantic, how his hands went from flailing to resting on mine, how he leaned into me, but our mouths didn’t quite meet and his breath was like peach-flavored nail polish remover.

“Don’t be so heartless, George.”

He was still holding on to me.

“Let’s say you’re right,” I said. “Let’s say you’re not supposed to be a cop. But it got you here. To Rupert. To me. What if this is what you’re supposed to do?”

“I’m supposed to do . . . you?”

I shrugged. “Do I look like a poet?”

That was his cue. When he would remember that I’d said that before I kissed him at the lighthouse. When he would say again, As a matter of fact, you do, and light up the sky with fireworks.

He pushed me away. “I’m not just older, I’m in a position of authority. Do you get that? No, you don’t. You’ve probably never seen me like that.”

“I’m trying to say that, you and me, we might not be people who are . . . who are anything. I’m not an artist or an athlete or a tugboat captain. I don’t know if I’ll ever have something like that. Sometimes I wish I did, but I don’t see what was so terrible about you doing all those cool jobs and traveling to all those cool places other than not having someone to do it with.”

He stepped around me and picked up the flashlight, and this time I didn’t try to stop him.

“Where are you going?”

“The bar. I told the guys I’d play onstage tonight.”

“You can’t drive.”

“Bobby’s coming to pick me up. He asked about you.”

“That’s slightly terrifying.” I hadn’t forgotten the sight and sound of Bobby slamming his bandaged hand against the table at Long Fellows.

“He thought you might want to come along, whistle us another tune. I had to say you were sick. How could I tell him that I can’t get you past the door? Do you know how bad it must be if you don’t want to explain it to a guy like Bobby?”

“What happens out here is between us. No one has to know.” I could hear desperation in my voice and it pained me.

“George, we can’t.”

Right. Of course not. Don’t be silly, Frances. “Are you going to be afraid to be around me now?”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Francis said as he turned away again. “I’m afraid of myself.”





Twenty-One


I sat in the parking lot for a long time, listening to the bass line thrumming from the bar. I didn’t dare try to sneak in again. The bartender struck me as a guy who wouldn’t be fooled twice, and Francis wouldn’t hesitate to toss me out either. What was I even doing? Mooning around like a petulant little girl.

I fished my cigarettes and lighter out of my purse and left the car. A dusting of flurries, the first of the season, was coming down under the orange lights. I paced around as I smoked, then wandered around to the back of the bar, where a window was cranked open. It was the one directly behind the stage.

I sat on a flattened cardboard box beside the trash cans under the window, lit another cigarette, and listened to Francis singing alone.

Here so far away

The ocean is a finger lake

The highway is a well-worn path

That brings me back to you.

It had been a couple of hours since our fight on the ridge, and from the clear high notes and the assured way his fingers were moving over the strings, it sounded as though Francis had sobered up. At some point I started singing along, but I figured no one could hear me there, behind the stage, behind the speakers. No one could hear how our voices entwined, his a little coarse, mine a little sharp, a concrete wall with aluminum siding between us.