“She doesn’t know the rules yet, Frank.”
“You and I know each other a little already, though, don’t we, Frank?” I said once I got my heart out of my larynx. “I’m from Omaha, like Fred. You know my first name, Alice. I haven’t told you my last name yet. It’s Whitley.” I offered him my hand again, a little shaky and feeling fresh appreciation for the fingers still attached to it. “I hope you’ll let me in on all the rules around here.”
Frank twisted away and buried his face in his mother’s shoulder. “Mama,” he said. “Who is she?”
“Her name is Penny.”
“Alice,” I insisted. “My name is Alice.”
“When is she leaving?” he asked.
“As soon as your mother finishes writing her book, I’ll go,” I said. “I promise.”
“How long does writing a book take?” he asked his mother. Funny, I’d just been wondering that myself. “It doesn’t take long to read one,” he added.
M. M. Banning met my eyes over Frank’s head. It was the first time she’d really looked at me. “There are two things you need to know if you’re going to be of any use to us,” she said. “Rule One: No touching Frank’s things. Rule Two: No touching Frank.”
“No touching Frank? But he was holding my hand just a minute ago.”
“He can take your hand but you can’t take his,” she explained.
“Then how do you cross the street?” I asked, feeling uncomfortably like I was setting up a joke about a punk rocker with a chicken stapled to his cheek.
“I hold his hand, of course. I’m his mother. I don’t have to ask.” She said that with a tenderness that surprised me. Here was the Mimi Mr. Vargas was so fond of.
He was right. I had this. “So, Frank,” I said, “are you familiar with Jimmy Cagney?” No answer. “White Heat?”
Frank turned his head a little so he could see me out of one eye. “Cagney won the Oscar for Yankee Doodle Dandy. His gangsters were tip-top, but those weren’t his favorite roles. He got his start as a song-and-dance man in vaudeville, and was always happiest when hoofing.” Frank pronounced it “vau-de-ville.”
“Can we watch it sometime?” I asked. “I’ve never seen Yankee Doodle Dandy.”
“Well,” Frank said, untangling himself from his mother and reclaiming my hand. “You are in for a treat then. I have seen it many, many times. I’m Julian Francis Banning, by the way. You may call me Frank. You’ve met my mother. I call her Mother sometimes, Mama mostly, Mom or Mommie occasionally. None of those will do for you, of course. Her brother called her Mimi because he found Mary Margaret to be a mouthful as a toddler.”
“Oh,” I said, “that’s right. Mr. Vargas calls your mother Mimi.”
“That doesn’t mean you get to,” she said.
“Of course not,” I said, though from that time on I did. In my head.
“The neighborhood Gloria Swanson and Rudolph Valentino inhabited during the 1920s is called Whitley Heights,” Frank said. “Any relation?”
“I don’t think so. Sorry. And sorry again about the piano.”
“What do you say, Frank?” Mimi prompted him.
“Is that your natural hair color?” he asked.
( 3 )
THAT SON OF hers,” Mr. Vargas said when he saw me off at the Newark airport the day I left for California. “Do you think he’s adopted? Because she got rid of that ridiculous Malibu Ken I told her not to marry ages ago.”
This wasn’t the kind of conversation Mr. Vargas and I had regularly. “I don’t know,” I said. “Why don’t I ask her?” He looked so horrified I had to say, “Mr. Vargas. I’m joking.”
“Of course you are. I’m sorry, Genius. I’ve misplaced my sense of humor.” “Genius” was the nickname Mr. Vargas gave me once we’d relaxed enough to kid around with each other. He plunged his hands into his pockets as if he thought he might find his sense of humor there. “Oh,” he said. “I almost forgot. I have something for you.” He handed me a small wrapped package.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s nothing much,” he said. “It’s silly. Open it when you get on the plane. Keep me posted, Alice. Take care of yourself. Take care of Mimi. Take notes.”