Prettyboy

11: To Frank

"Hello?" 

"G'morning, this is Wallace Orwell. Is Lana there?"

A framed photograph of Lana and her father used to be there, just beside the phone, and I pondered while looking at it for a moment, causing the person on the end of the line to call, "Hello?" again into the phone. 

"No," I said, releasing an internal sigh. I had never heard that voice before, back then. "I'm afraid she's not here. Anything you want me to tell her?"

"Tell her I called, if you'd be so kind," the voice answered, serene with its huskiness. "As a matter of fact, who are you?"

I found the question to be rather absurd and a tad bit hostile, if I'm being honest. I told the person I was her husband. Frank.

"Oh. Right." There was a short pause in which I grew even more inquisitive than before. "Well, thank you, mister. Have a g'day."

And so he hung up. And so, I went back to my business.

I retreated to my seat in our shabby living room, ensconced myself opposite of Robert, who had the countenance of a man with a vision. And I wondered if I even wished to know. Even if I didn't, I made it seem like I did.

"I was saying. To hell with conceptualism. I never liked the epithet, conceptual, to be associated with art, anyway. It can get confusing. So, this—" he paused for emphasis, hunching forward and pointing a finger down to the floor without reason, whatsoever, "this—what it is you're doing deserves a different name. It is not political. At least I don't think it—"

"It could be utterly political," I said, just to confuse him, and observed as his face became more wrinkly and his brows drew together, "it might be just that. I never said that I wasn't into politics." And why not, actually? Why can't I be into politics? Everyone was into politics these days.

"But you're not a communist!" he bleated, as if he was trying to convince someone besides me. Perhaps himself. And then suddenly you could see behind the wrinkles, self-doubt protruding. "Or are you? I guess it would make some sense, since you did the thing—The thing with the guy on t-the... You know. Che Guevara."

"Robert," I said in hope to bring some sense into him, since he was acting like someone else, "I am not a communist." Not that if I wanted to be, the fear of being sacrilegious to our country would hold me back or anything. I just can't comprehend politics, and that is why I gravitate towards art and shun the rest of the world. Frankly, that is what I've been doing my whole life. I went on, then, when he seemed, for some reason, pacified, "But even if I were—"

"Oh, I wouldn't care about that and you know it. I would want to know, but I wouldn't try to deter you or anything. You know I wouldn't. Not me."

His tone sounded so certain, so steady. I trusted him with my whole heart, but I didn't want his certainty. I didn't want him to be so sure.

He asked if anything was wrong just before Lana entered our grimy, Squirrel Hill house. 

Robert greeted her and deemed it was the right time to head off, despite it being still afternoon. 

It might just have been one of the few times Lana had come back before sunset. 

Michael was called down for dinner and we all sat around the table. All. Completed.

But still missing a piece. 

It was almost June and he still hadn't written—but then, it came. I was sure something was different, when Lana insisted on having dessert, all huddled around the table. I knew there was something, waiting to be announced. She just waited for the right moment to push her tongue forward, to feel less guilty, and spit it out.