“Don’t be so hard on him, Mama,” the guard said. “Boys just don’t think, right, pal?” He gave Frank a conspiratorial poke. Me touching the kid without his okay was one thing, but I couldn’t imagine what would happen when a stranger broke The Second Rule of Frank. I braced myself for whatever massive wigout lay ahead. The plank, the hair snatch, or a full-on headbanging extravaganza?
But as I had explained to Frank, nobody can foretell the future, particularly not me. The Student of All Fabrics in Frank was so fascinated with the guard’s jacket that he hadn’t seemed to notice the poke. “What kind of fabric is that?” Frank asked.
“Washable,” the guard answered.
“May I?” Frank asked, pointing at the guard’s sleeve. I opened my mouth to remind him not to point, but I figured that in this instance pointing was better than touching the guy without asking. Or pressing his cheek against the man’s lapels, the way he did with me.
“Knock yourself out,” the guard said.
Frank fingered the fabric. “Hmmm,” he said. “The texture is interesting. Rough. Scratchy. Stiff. Is it flammable?”
The guard guffawed. “A hundred percent polyester, so yeah, I’m thinking it would probably go up like a Roman candle on the Fourth of July.”
“I had the misfortune of sleeping through the July Fourth display this year,” Frank said, “so I suggested we purchase a few Roman candles for home use. I refer to the delayed ignition fireworks, of course, not the beeswax-dipped papyrus wicks the Romans invented as portable sources of illumination. ‘Not in this lifetime,’ my mother said.”
“Mom’s probably right about the fireworks,” the guard said. “Better leave that to professionals. Those things are dangerous to play with. Even for a smart kid like you.”
“My mother says I have a very large brain, which is, however, not always a corollary of genius. Einstein left his brain to science. It wasn’t any bigger than average but did feature an unusual number of grooves and fissures. That suggests an abundance of connections and agility of thinking not common in the general public.”
“Let’s go, Frank.” I wanted to leave before he launched a lecture on brain anatomy. “Thanks for your help,” I said to the guard.
“You’re welcome,” the guard said. “Have a wonderful day.”
“Thank you,” Frank said. “We will.”
“Nice kid, Mom,” the guard said. “Smart. Polite. You need to fill the house up with more like him. You need to fill up the world.”
I surprised myself by getting choked up by that. All I could do was nod and smile and hustle Frank out of there, making sure this time to keep a tight hold on his wrist. When we were out of earshot Frank said, “What a nice gentleman. Do you think that guard is a good painter?”
“Huh? What makes you think he’s a painter?”
“Someone needs to use his nailbrush more diligently. And turpentine. Gasoline might work, too. Oil paint is notoriously difficult to remove.”
If you never looked a person in the eyes, I guess it made okay sense to look them in the cuticles. “Maybe he paints houses,” I said.
“Roy G. Biv,” Frank said.
“Roy Who?”
“Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. Roy G. Biv. It’s a mnemonic for recalling the colors in the visual spectrum.”
“Oh, that Roy G. Biv. Remember, Frank, I studied art in college.”
“How could I remember something I never knew? As I was saying, a house painter wouldn’t have that many different colors under his nails. Either he’s an artist or he goes up to the paintings in his galleries when nobody’s looking and gives them a good scratch.” Frank pondered his own fingernails. “I would like to try that sometime.”
“Don’t,” I said, a little more forcefully than I meant to. I was tired. I needed a day off. I hadn’t had one since I’d gotten there.
Mimi, of course, hadn’t had a day off since Frank was born.
“Why did the guard keep calling you ‘Mom’?” Frank asked on our way out of the museum.
“I guess he thought I was your mother.”
“Why do people keep assuming that?”
“Because I’m lucky?”
“Probably,” he said. “My mother always tells me before I go to sleep that she’s lucky to be my mom.”
THE NEXT TIME I dreamed of statues, In-the-Manner-of-Apollo was bent over my bed, evidently surprised to find me there. The full moon was shining through my open curtains, and in its silvery light his skin wasn’t pitted and worn at all. It was like alabaster. I couldn’t resist reaching up and laying my hand against his cheek. He put his hand on top of mine and curled his fingers around my fingers. “Who are you?” he asked. “And what are you doing in my bed?”
“Keeping it warm,” I said. When I said the word “warm” I awakened to the fact that the cheek my palm lay on was neither cold nor the least bit stony, and the hand that grasped mine had all its fingers intact.
That’s how I came to meet Xander.
( 11 )
YOU’RE WEARING A skirt,” Frank said the next morning as I put a plate of French toast in front of him. “Why are you so dressed up?”