The 10 P.M. Question (30 page)

She pointed across the room. The painting was perched on the window seat, leaning against the bay window. Frankie fell back on the pillows in relief.

“I was cleaning the glass,” said Ma. “Then I wondered if you’d want to look at the name. I thought you might be tired of guessing.”

Frankie wanted to laugh and cry and throw up his hands in operatic despair. Ma was perfectly right. And wasn’t that the problem? Ma was tuned to him. And he was tuned to her. But Alma had said their tuning had got stuck on some bad notes. They had to change their tunes, she said. He had to.

“I have to talk to you about everything,” he said in a rush.

“I know,” said Ma. “I know. Alma told me.” She had picked up the book and was turning it around and around in her hands, as if she were measuring its dimensions by touch. Frankie read the title,
The Lady with the Dog
by Anton Chekhov.

“Why do you read those Russian books over and over?” he asked, though he hadn’t meant to start this way at all. “Is it because of the sad endings? Do you only believe in sad endings?” Already, his voice was rising, though staring in the bathroom mirror, he had promised himself he would be very calm.

“But they’re not always sad,” said Ma. “It’s not tragic for everyone.” She paused and then put the book down again. Frankie waited, doing the even breathing.

“I think,” said Ma at last. “I think it’s because they’re the books I know best. I first read them a long time ago, when life was more straightforward. When I was completely well.”

Frankie flinched. She may as well say she wasn’t well now. He
hated
that.

“So I find them kind of . . . comforting,” Ma said. Frankie shook his head.

“But Frankie,” said Ma. “The
world
is in those books. I think it’s how —”
She stopped and stared across the room at the uncurtained and black window.

Frankie tried to see the woman in the painting but it was too far away. She was a blur of hair and draperies. He knew what Ma was going to say.

“I can, I can
have
the world that way,” said Ma, “even though —”

But Frankie didn’t want to hear the next part. He couldn’t hear it. Instead, he felt roaring up in him from a long way down and a long way back the question he’d avoided all this time. It spilled from him, in a rush of tears and fury and anguish. It was a livid question, an accusation, an appeal, all at once, right into Ma’s emptied-out face.

“Why can’t you go
out
to the world? What’s
wrong
with you? Why can’t you leave the house? Why can’t you just
do
it?”

Ma stayed very still and upright. She didn’t fold up; she didn’t dissolve, collapse,
break down,
as Frankie had always feared she would. Frankie was the crumpled-up person. He lay back on the pillows, overcome by what he had said, and scared to death of what Ma would answer.

She took a long time. She waited until his tears had subsided and there was just the nighttime quiet in the room. She took Frankie’s hand and spoke quite matter-of-factly.

“I just can’t do it, Frankie. I’ve tried and I’ve tried. But I can’t.”

Frankie’s hand, cold and dry in Ma’s, felt like a dead gecko. Her words were as heavy as stones, settling in his chest, gray and final.

“Staying inside is how I manage,” said Ma. “It’s how I keep it all okay. Outside just became more and more terrifying. Inside is manageable.”

She squeezed Frankie’s hand, a nervous apology.

“Dinah talks to me about changing it, but I don’t want to.”

She paused, and Frankie heard the words again in his head, emphatic and inescapable.
I don’t want to.

“I know it’s not normal,” said Ma, “but I’ve accepted that. It’s very simple. I take the medication and I stay inside and I bake the cakes, and it’s all right.”

But it’s NOT, Frankie’s brain shrieked. It’s NOT. Someone has to do something!

He sat up, his dead gecko hand suddenly alive, gripping Ma’s hand. He was startled, remembering how often he’d wanted to shout those very words at Sydney about her mother.

He thought of Sydney’s cool words on the phone:
Face facts, Frankie.

“What is it?” said Ma.

Frankie sat back, let go of Ma’s hand gently. He wanted to ask her why outside was terrifying, how it had started, and so much more, but quite suddenly he was too tired. Colossally tired. Beyond tired.

He shut his eyes to say the last thing. He knew they would talk again. He knew they could do it now. And he would talk to Uncle George. He would talk to Louie. And Gordana. It was up to him. But he had to say one more thing to Ma now.

“I don’t want to be like you,” said Frankie quietly. “I don’t want to be terrified of the world.”

“I don’t want you to be, either, Frankie,” said Ma. Her voice was quite firm. Clear.

They sat side by side for a while longer, quiet together. Frankie could feel the sleep seeping into him like fog.

“Last guess?” said Ma.

He smiled dozily.

“Susan?”

“No,” said Ma.

“Jean?”

“No.”

He fell asleep for just a few seconds. Then
—

“Myrtle.”

Ma chuckled. It was a good sound. “No.”

“C’mon,” she said, nudging him. “Before you fall asleep.”

“I am actually asleep,” Frankie murmured.

Ma leaned over and kissed him. “We’ll talk lots more.”

“Yes,” said Frankie. He pushed himself out of the bed, stood dopily, swaying a little.

“Frankie,” said Ma. “You don’t have to watch over me. I don’t need you to watch over me.”

He looked at her, a small figure in a big bed.

“I really mean it,” said Ma.

He nodded, turned, and walked sleepily over to the painting. He lifted it and held up the back of it to the light, squinting at the little white strip that bore the title.

“‘Aurora wakens.’”

He read it aloud and looked over at Ma.

“You know what it means?” she said.

“Something to do with the sky?” said Frankie. “Or the stars?”

“Dawn,” said Ma. “It means dawn. It’s the name for Sleeping Beauty.”

Frankie read the title again.

He walked over to the wall beside the bed and placed the painting back on its hooks. He stared at it for a moment, feeling almost sad that the guessing was over. Aurora.

“So?” said Ma.

“Hmmm,” said Frankie.

He walked to the door, turned, and gave Ma a little wave.

“’Night,” he said.

June the sixth began really quite well for Frankie Parsons. He did
not
have a dead leg from the Fat Controller sleeping on it all night, because he had banished the Fat Controller to the laundry, where her new beige and blue merino-lined pet home resided between the earthquake kit water bottles and the bird flu bags of rice and pasta. He had told her encouragingly that she was the new emergency depot commander, though he was
not
interested in seeing any rats she caught.

There was plenty of milk and butter for breakfast, plenty of everything, in fact, because as of last Friday the groceries were being ordered
online
and delivered twice a week by the supermarket. This had been Gordana’s brilliant idea. Apparently several of her forty-seven friends’ families did it. Apparently it was the very latest thing. And, apparently, Gordana was quite happy to be in charge of it.

The newspaper had arrived, but Frankie had temporarily stopped reading the newspaper. He was taking a break from national and world affairs at the suggestion of Petrus, the guy he’d been chatting to for the last couple of weeks. Petrus was South African and worthwhile for two reasons. One, he was extremely keen on cricket, and two, he had some quite useful suggestions for combating persistent worry.

There were plenty of crisp apples for lunch (thank you, online groceries) and a piece of leftover potato pie from last night’s dinner, which Gordana had graciously foregone, since potato, apparently, was carbohydrate death and to be avoided at all costs.

Frankie stuffed his lunch bag and jacket into his backpack, then stood and mentally perused the coming day. Math (calculator, yes). Reading (
Hergeé and His Creation,
yes). Language arts (
Concise Oxford,
yes). PE (shorts, sneakers, yes). Soccer at lunchtime (cleats, T-shirt, yes). Lunch (
crisp
apple, potato pie, coconut cake, washed carrot, secret-chocolate-now-hidden-behind-the-lima-beans, yes). Art (pencils, ink, charcoal, old jug, yes). Book project (two copies Version One, one copy Version Two, yes). Sydney’s going-away present (signed portrait of Microsoft, yes).

“Why are you looking so smug?”

Frankie jumped. Gordana seemed to have arrived downstairs without her usual thunderous tread.

“I’m not smug,” said Frankie. “I’m . . .” What was he? Organized? Satisfied? Pleased? He didn’t know.

Gordana tapped his forehead with a knuckle. “As I suspected. Completely empty.”

“Shut up,” said Frankie mildly. He checked the other bag. He’d packed pajamas — or what passed for pajamas in their house: an old T-shirt of Uncle George’s and a pair of boxers — a change of clothes, a cake tin with a lemon ricotta, a
Get Smart
DVD, and his pillow.

“What’s all that for?” said Gordana.

“I’m staying the night at Sydney’s,” said Frankie. “It’s her second-to-last night.” He gave Gordana a defiant look.

Gordana flung herself on the couch and stretched luxuriously.

“So, Mr. Shrink
is
working,” she said.

“He’s not a shrink,” said Frankie.

“Whatever,” said Gordana carelessly. “He’s a genius if he can get you to stay the night somewhere else. But Frankie”— Gordana dropped her voice dramatically —“this is your first night at your girlfriend’s. We should have the Talk.”

“She’s
not
my girlfriend!” Frankie shouted, and instantly regretted it. Why did he fall for that every time?

“Well, you just have a dandy time with old Sydney,” said Gordana. “And her crazy mother.”

“Gordana,” said Ma, coming into the living room. “
Crazy
and
mother
are not tactful things to say around here.”

Frankie and Gordana looked at Ma with astonishment. She gave a hesitant smile.

“Oh, good
God,
so it’s just me with the Aunties tonight?” said Gordana. She groaned extravagantly, then went to the kitchen and began banging pans and plates.

“All right?” Ma said to Frankie.

He squared his shoulders like an eager recruit.

“Fine,” he said. “Really.”

“Have a nice time,” said Ma. She kissed him on the cheek. “Say
bon voyage
to Sydney.”

“You should take Ludo,” Gordana called out. “Or Monopoly. Some nice board game. I can lend you the Game of Life.”

Ha, ha,
thought Frankie. Very comical. Hilarious. Side-splitting.

He opened the front door, looking back at Ma. “Have a good one,” he said.

“I will,” said Ma.

“Seriously, Frankie,” said Gordana, appearing with an egg in each hand.

“What?”
said Frankie. He gave her his most derisive look.

“Tell Sydney good luck from me,” said Gordana.

Gigs was waiting for him at the top of the Zig Zag. He was leaning against the Forsythes’ fence, peering at something in his cupped hand.

“Look at this.” He opened his fingers a little, and Frankie leaned in. It was an orange ladybug, moving tentatively across Gigs’s hillocky palm.

“I thought they were only in summer,” said Frankie.

“This one’s tough,” said Gigs. “She’s a survivor.”

“It’s good luck to have one land on you,” said Frankie. “But only if you let them go.”

“Who says?” said Gigs. “She likes me.”

“No, you have to say the rhyme and let them go.” Frankie could remember Teen doing this in the Aunties’ back garden. “
Ladybug, Ladybug, fly away home,
you know . . . and something something something about children.”

Gigs opened his hand and blew gently on the ladybug. “Just to give her the general idea,” he said.

In a second she was gone.

“Better move it,” said Frankie.

There was a frost this morning and the shadier parts of the Zig Zag were still a little icy. But Frankie and Gigs liked to live dangerously in the winter, so they jogged down the path, holding a handle each on Frankie’s extra bag. It swung heavily between them.

“What’s
in
here?” said Gigs.

“
Not
Ludo,” said Frankie.

“What?”

“A dumb Gordana joke.”

They gave perfunctory pats to Marmalade, banged Mrs. Da Prini’s letter box without ceremony, and dispatched Ronald as quickly as possible.