Then Frank finally came out. He was only wearing a thin jacket with a long dirty scarf wrapped around his neck, he got in the backseat and they drove over to his apartment.
The street was dark with old tall wooden houses. One of the street lamps was broken out at the corner. They got out and Frank used his key and they climbed the stairs to the third floor, where there was a wide bare hallway with a single shared bathroom. Frank’s apartment was just one room looking out onto the dark street, with a narrow bed and a chest of drawers and a curtain hung across the corner for a closet, with an electric hot plate on a stand and a half-size refrigerator, a bare table and two chairs. A poster of the night lights of New York was taped on the wall. Opposite was a poster showing an Indian girl above a caption that said Better Red Than Dead.
Sit down, Frank said. I can make you tea or coffee.
Tea would be good, his mother said.
They sat at the table and Frank put a pan of water on the electric burner and got out tea and sugar, then stood and waited for it to boil. Dad was looking at the poster across the room. You believe that? he said.
What?
What that poster says.
I don’t want to kill anybody, Frank said.
That’s not what I’m talking about.
Don’t worry, Dad. My lottery number’s a low one. They’re not going to call me.
When did you hear that? Mary said.
A couple months ago.
You didn’t tell us. We’ve been worried.
I got lucky.
The water boiled and Frank poured out three cups and they made their tea. He took his across the room and sat on the bed.
It was warm in the room. They looked around at the spare furnishings.
Have you seen your sister lately? Mary said.
She came down and stayed a weekend with me. And I went up to Fort Collins.
She seems to be doing all right. Don’t you think?
Yeah. She’s good.
Have you decided if you’re coming home for Christmas at all? We’d like to see you.
I have to work, Mom.
You can’t get off for even one day?
Maybe. I’ll have to see what he tells me. We’ll see.
That means you won’t, Dad said.
It means I don’t know, Frank said.
He got up and carried his cup back across the room.
Are you done?
He took their cups and stacked them in the little sink in the corner.
I’ve got you something for Christmas, Mary said. I didn’t know what you needed. She opened her purse and took out an envelope, she’d written his name on it in red ink and handed it to him and he opened it, a Christmas card with a fifty-dollar bill inside.
Thank you, Mom. He bent and kissed her. You too, Dad.
You’re welcome.
I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything.
It doesn’t matter, honey.
I think I’ll go down and get the car warmed up, Dad said.
Do we have to go so soon?
It’s late. We still have two and a half hours of driving ahead of us.
Dad looked at Frank. I’ll see you, he said, take care of yourself, and he went out the door and they heard him going down the wood stairs.
After a while Mary stood up and buttoned her coat and hugged Frank.
You know that money was your dad’s idea. It was from him even more than me. I want you to know that.
I appreciate it, Mom. I know that.
Can I tell him?
Whatever you want.
But are you all right here, honey? I need to know. I never hear anything from you.
Yes, I’m all right.
You’re telling me the truth.
Of course.
You know that every time I call you, Dad wants to know what you said. He wants to know how you are too.
I’m doing the best I can, Mom. That’s all I can say. I’m getting along the best I can. You can tell Dad that much too.
She went out to the hallway and down the stairs. Frank followed her and she hugged him again on the sidewalk, holding him tight, and went on to the car at the curb. She got in and looked at him standing there without a coat. She rolled the window down.
Go back in, honey, she told him. It’s cold out here.
They drove out of Denver and out onto the plains going east toward Holt County.
I wish I was a drinker, she said. She was peering out the side window at the country going by, at the dark clear sky.