The Age of Grief - Jane Smiley [5]
Bryan joins them twice, but though he likes Frannie, his pleasure in her company isn’t as exquisite as Florence expects it to be. That he might sometimes be on the verge of criticizing Frannie annoys her, because she is beginning to have so much fun with him that it can no longer be called “fun.” It encompasses many things other than, and opposite to, amusement.
He tells lots of stories. His past begins to assume the proportions of an epic to Florence. She likes his self-confidence and his ready flow of conversation, his thick, curly hair, and his willingness to be teased. She listens to all his stories with interest, but when he talks about his ex-wife, she can’t keep her attention on what he is saying. Images of Frannie, Philip, their pale furniture and their pale floors invade her imagination. “Marriage is such a mystery to me,” she says idly.
“Well, it’s a mystery to me, too, even though I sometimes think I can remember every minute of my own.”
“And you’re going to describe them all, one by one?” She smiles.
“Only if you ask.”
“And besides, there’s so much else to cover.” She pokes him in the ribs.
“You don’t want to hear it?”
“Every word, every word.”
“The past is always with you.”
“God forbid.” But she doesn’t mean it. She will remember, for example, every moment of this talk—the fall of light through the hackberry bushes fixes his words and his tones permanently; his words and tones do the same for the light.
At the hospital, she surprises herself by recalling things she did not know she had noticed—the color of his socks, the titles of the books piled on his dashboard, what he almost ordered for dinner but decided against. When she relates these details to Frannie, Frannie’s smile reminds her that she is like the one- and two-day mothers who tell her exactly how the breast was taken, whether the sucking reflex seemed sufficiently developed, how five minutes on each side didn’t seem like enough. Like the mothers, Florence smiles, self-deprecating, but can’t stop.
“Another thing about him,” she tells Frannie on the phone, “is that he acts as much as he talks. Don’t you think that’s very rare? We never sit around, saying what shall we do. When he picks me up, he always has some plan. And he thinks about what I might like to do, and he’s always right. I must say that this care is rather thrilling. It’s almost unmasculine!”
“I’m envious,” replies Frannie, and Florence, marveling at her good luck, demurs. “He does have something of a temper, though.” When Florence hangs up the phone, she realizes that Frannie didn’t sound envious. Florence smiles. She loves Frannie completely.
That evening Bryan says, “Doesn’t your friend Frannie work over at the U?”
“Off-campus programs. How come?”
“Someone mentioned her at lunch today.”
“What did they say?” Her voice rises, oddly protective and angry. Bryan glances at her and smiles. “Nothing, dear. Just mentioned her name.”
Florence remains disturbed and later decides it is because she wants Frannie, Frannie’s delight, conversation, thoughtfulness, all to herself. That her name can come up among strangers implies a life that fans away into the unknown. She wonders about Frannie’s activities in the intervals of her absence. She feels none of this jealousy with Bryan.
Florence rolls away from Bryan and grabs the phone at the end of the first ring. Bryan heaves and groans but does not awaken. Florence thinks it will be the hospital, but it is Frannie, who says, “My Lord, it’s only ten thirty!”
“I got up at five this morning. How are you?”
“Can you get up at six tomorrow? A friend offered me her strawberry patch. We can pick some, then have a picnic breakfast. “
“Lovely. Let’s just have fruit and bread and juice.”
“I’ll pick you up at six fifteen.”
“Mmmmm.”
The morning could not be fresher. Frannie’s new car is pearled with dew and smells, inside, of French bread. The strawberry patch is professionally laid out in neat rows, and among shiny dark leaves, the heartlike berries weigh into pale straw. The