S
am Mason has saved Dale’s life more than once. Thank God, he was there for her after the whole Fitz business. She could always count on him. She has even started to wonder if everything that happened with Fitz wasn’t just a necessary step on the winding path toward Sam.
It was during Thanksgiving break after Fitz went to Eugene that she found out about Sam’s daughter. This was long before she had decided on her thesis, long before the daily Internet searches had become a habit. She actually was just poking around online, looking for a Christmas gift for her mother, when she came across the article on Yahoo! News. She had clicked on the link about Britney Spears and wound up on the Entertainment page where three headlines down was the one about Franny. She could have just as easily missed it entirely. She didn’t give a damn about Britney Spears, had no idea why she’d even bothered with the article.
Novelist Samuel Mason’s Daughter Dies Unexpectedly,
it read.
She felt her heart start to pound hard in her chest, like someone banging against a wall with their fists. She quickly scanned the article, but there were no details, no explanations. It simply said that she had died in the family’s home over the weekend. That she was sixteen years old.
In the photo accompanying the article, she was standing next to her father on the beach. She was a good head shorter than Sam, thin and smiling. His arm enclosed her, and he was looking down at her, his profile offering only a half smile.
This was before she found Franny’s personal site, the other pictures.This was the first time she saw her face. Dale saved the photo to her desktop and opened it in Photoshop, zooming in to get a better look. The girl, his daughter, was wearing a sheer yellow sundress. Her long curly blond hair hung in messy ringlets to her waist. She was barefoot, standing on tippy-toes. When Dale zoomed in, she could see white tan lines from flip-flops on her feet. Dale studied Sam, studied the way he was looking at Franny. The way his arm held her close.
Mine,
it seemed to say.
My daughter.
In this picture, in this moment, there was no one else in the world besides the two of them.
She felt tears starting to well up in her eyes and then they were coming down her cheeks in hot trails.
She zoomed closer and closer and closer until they were both pixilated beyond recognition. Until they were just tiny little dots. Dots within dots on the screen.
“Dinner’s almost ready!” her mother hollered up to her. She could smell the turkey, the green beans and crunchy onions, the mincemeat pie. As always, it would just be the two of them, but her mother insisted on a full Thanksgiving feast. In a week there would still be leftover mashed potatoes congealed in a Tupperware bin that they’d have to throw out along with the dried up and picked over carcass of the bird.
“In a minute,” Dale hollered back.
Then she grabbed the first three of Sam’s books from the shelf next to her bed, quickly finding the dedication pages.
For my father.
That was the first one.
For Mena,
of course, the second.
For Finn and Franny, my moon and stars
. She traced Franny’s name with her finger. She read somewhere once that Mena and Sam named their children after characters in their favorite books: Mena’s was
Huck Finn
. Sam’s was
Franny and Zooey
.Afterward, Dale read all of Salinger’s Glass family stories and novels. She wished her own name had such significance. Dale was named Dale because her father liked Dale Earnhardt, and because he had wanted a boy.
She took the books and shoved them in the bag she’d started to pack and then she opened the desk drawer and reached in for the old serrated hunting knife her dad gave her for her tenth birthday. She’d wanted a bicycle, a pink one with a banana seat and a basket. Instead he’d offered her this, and she’d burst into tears. It was his grandfather’s, and then his. And now it was hers. She thought about leaving it behind, like all the other artifacts of her father’s failures, but she also knew she would be on the road alone and even she had to admit it might come in handy.
For the first time since Fitz left, Dale felt alive again. She knew how messed up she felt after Fitz was gone, but nothing could possibly compare with how Sam must be feeling. She knew then and there that she needed to do something, something big that would save him in the way that he had, continually, managed to save her. She’d sat down that night after her shift ended at Blockbuster and started writing. She wrote for six hours straight, until her wrists and neck and back ached.
She thinks of Franny now as she tethers the pages of her manuscript together with a bunch of rubber bands. And when she stuffs the Phoenix Suns T-shirt and sweatpants she wears almost every day into her backpack, she sees the corner of the sheer yellow sundress she bought at Lane Bryant. She pulls it out by the hem and holds it against her body. It’s almost exactly the same as the one Franny was wearing. Bigger, of course, but still, when she closes her eyes, she’s standing on the beach. She rises up on tippy-toes. Her feet are tan, and Sam Mason is holding on to her. Proud. Looking down at her, smiling.
Mine.
A
lice suggests that they hang out at her house while her mom is at work.
“The castle,” she says as she holds the screen door open for him. The screen is ripped, and one of the hinges holding it onto the door frame has come loose. The paint is cracked and peeling.
Her house is not right on the water like a lot of the other cottages and camps here; it’s deeper in the woods, and the shade from the trees makes it dark inside. It’s small, only two tiny bedrooms.The walls are paneled with wood, and the kitchen has avocado-colored appliances and an orange countertop.
He thinks about Misty’s house, about the cold stone floors, the pristine stainless and marble kitchen. Her family has a Mexican maid who is only about their age, which always made Finn feel weird.
Alice leads him down the hall to her room and opens the door with great fanfare. “Ta-da!”
“Holy shit,” he says.
Inside, everything is purple: the shag rug, the walls, the ceiling. The curtains, the bedspread, the painted wooden furniture. There is a violet-colored telephone sitting on her nightstand beneath a lamp with a lavender shade. There are purple pencils in a purple pencil cup.A plum-colored teddy bear perched on a purple pillowcase.
She shrugs her shoulders. “I told my mom I liked purple when I was like seven. And now, it’s turned into this crazy thing. I used to really like it, but now it’s starting to drive me sort of nuts. Every time she finds something purple, she brings it home to me. Candles, baskets, light switch covers,” she says, pointing to the wall.
“Why don’t you tell her you’re over it?”
“I don’t want to hurt her feelings.” She shrugs.
“It’s crazy in here.” Finn laughs, picking up a purple picture frame. “Is this your mom?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Her name’s Maggie. She’s really awesome.”
Finn looks around and thinks about his father. Why are parents like that anyway? Franny started ballet when they were about six. All of a sudden, she was taking classes two days a week, private lessons on the weekends. Their father put the barre in her room, and sent her away to ballet camp for a week that following June. But the difference was, Franny stuck with it.When Finn decided maybe he should have a hobby, his father should have realized it would last about five minutes. His fourth-grade best friend, Roger, was really into stamp collecting then, and so Finn told his father he wanted to collect stamps too. His dad took him to a philately shop, bought him albums, glassine envelopes, a magnifying glass. He got him a subscription to
The Philatelic Exporter
. But it didn’t take long before Finn decided that stamp collecting was about as exciting as picking his nose but without any of the payoff, and his father sulked for about a week when he told him he wasn’t really into it anymore. Luckily, when he decided to start surfing, the only investment they had to make was on a board. Finn refused lessons in fear of what his father might do.
“You hungry?” she asks, going to her cupboard and pulling out stuff to make sandwiches.
“What’s that?” he asks.
“You’ve never had Fluff?” She looks at him in disbelief.
“What’s Fluff?”
“Oh, my
Gawd,
you are in for the treat of your life.”
Mena buys all of their groceries at Whole Foods or from the Greek specialty market in Clairemont. He wonders what she’d think of him eating something that looks like liquid marshmallows.
Alice hums while she spreads the Fluff on one piece of bread and peanut butter on the other. “Your very first Fluffernutter!” she says, licking her finger and handing it to him.
He takes a bite, and it does taste awesome.
“You’ll find nothing but fine cuisine here in the Northeast Kingdom. Tomorrow I’ll introduce you to my specialty: tuna pea wiggle.”
“You’re wacked.” Finn smiles and finishes the sandwich. He imagines these would taste really, really good if he were stoned.
“I know where there are some pot plants,” Alice says, plopping into a Barcalounger that faces a console TV. “I found them by accident when I was out taking a walk one day.”
“Where are they?” Finn asks.
“Behind your house, actually,” she says. “Not far from your barn.”
“How do you know they’re pot plants?” he asks.
“Just ’cause I don’t smoke it doesn’t mean I don’t know what it looks like.” She laughs. “And my dad had a Bob Marley T-shirt with a picture of a leaf on it. My mom uses it to clean the toilet.”
“Will your dad come here?” he asks. “After he gets out?”
Alice looks at him, bites her lip and goes back into the kitchen. “You want another one?”
“Sure,” he says. “Listen, I’m sorry.”
“S’okay.”
Alice is unlike anybody Finn has ever met. He can imagine what Sadie and Misty would say about her.They could be mean, especially to kids who didn’t have money like they did. Hell, Sadie made comments about him all the time. He didn’t have the right shoes, the right jacket, the right baseball cap. They would have called her white trash. Even thinking about their cruelty makes him feel bad for her.
He follows her back to his house, and they sneak behind the barn to get to an overgrown path that leads to a wide open field. It only takes a few minutes to get there. You might not notice right away; it would be difficult for the untrained eye to discern these plants among the other weeds and grasses. But this was
weed
weed ... about a half acre of marijuana.
“Holy shit!” he says.
“No kidding,” she says and smiles.
“What are we going to do?”
“That’s up to you,” she says. “It’s your backyard.”
S
am is at the doctor’s office, under the pretense of getting a suspicious mole checked. This is what he tells Mena when she asks. This is what he tells himself, looking at the same brown spot that’s resided on his forearm, unchanged, for a decade. He is still not sure, even as he fills out the form, which asks for the nature of the visit, if he will be able to talk to the doctor about what’s really happening (or not happening) with him. He leaves the space blank and sits in the uncomfortable chair waiting for the nurse to call him in. There are three other men here. He can’t decide whether this makes him feel more or less comfortable with the situation. The waiting room is small, the office inside his old elementary school. He went to fourth and fifth grade in this building. He can see the blackened marks and holes in the wooden floor where the school desks had once been bolted down. There is a water fountain mounted on the wall at hip level. The nurse’s station used to be the school secretary’s desk. He wonders if the examination room will still have a chalkboard, cursive letters written on a green border at the top.
“Come on in, Sam,” says the nurse. He feels found out already.
The nurse takes his blood pressure, his temperature, weighs him—165 pounds. God, he’s lost 15 pounds.When did that happen? “Okey dokey, Dr. Benjamin will be right in. Why don’t you undress down to your boxers. Put this on if you like.” She hands him a paper gown. “It ties in the back.”When she leaves, he watches her walk away. Her hips are more narrow than Mena’s, almost boyish. But she’s cute. Long eyelashes and dimples in both of her cheeks. Still, nothing. Not even when he tries to think about her naked. Tries to conjure up some old naughty nurse fantasy cliché.
“In for a checkup?” the doctor says, not looking up from his clipboard.
“Sort of,” Sam says.
“Well, let’s take a look here.”
The doctor is young, maybe thirty. He is good looking in a Ken doll sort of way.Tan and angular.As if he’s just popped out of a plastic mold. He looks more Southern California than rural Vermont.
“You’re just here for the summer?” he asks Sam, pressing the cold stethoscope to his chest.
“I think so. But we’re thinking about staying on.” He’s not sure why he just told the doctor this. He hasn’t even talked to Mena about that possibility, or thought it through much himself.
“Heart sounds good. Now take a deep breath ... good.”
He checks his reflexes, his eyes, his ears. Asks all the usual questions. And then he says, “Do you have any questions? Any concerns? Any reason why this couldn’t wait for your regular GP at home?”
Sam looks at the window that faces the parking lot. He’s pretty sure this is the classroom he had in the fourth grade. Miss Higgins.
“I’m having difficulty,” he says. His heart is starting to race. At least if he’s going to have some sort of cardiac event, he’s in a good place.
“Difficulty with?”
“With my wife,” he says. He didn’t mean to say that. “I mean, with, oh shit.”
“Enough said.” Dr. Benjamin nods. “Let’s see what we can do to help remedy that.”
He steps back and looks at Sam, his brow furrowed. “How long have you been experiencing problems?”
“Since last fall,” he says.
He glances at the chart; Sam thinks he is avoiding making eye contact with him. Is this so bad it’s even embarrassing for a doctor? “I see you’re not on any prescription medication. Are you using any other drugs?”
“You mean
illegal
drugs?”
“Yes. Marijuana? Cocaine?”
“No.” Sam shakes his head. “I have a couple of glasses of wine with dinner. A few beers on the weekends.”
“Okay. How about herbal supplements, vitamins?”
“No.” Sam shakes his head again.
“Alrighty then, I think we should take a closer look at things. Many times there is a physical explanation for this. And there are a variety of treatments possible.”
“My daughter died,” Sam says. Again, this is not something he intended to say. It truly is as if he no longer has any control over his words.
“Oh,” the doctor says as he snaps his rubber glove on. “When did this happen?”
“Last fall,” Sam says, wincing involuntarily.
“Have you suffered from depression in the past? Since ...”
“No,” Sam says.
“Depression, anxiety, both can sometimes cause erectile dysfunction. The treatment for impotence would entail treating the depression, or anxiety, you might be feeling.”
“Can you just prescribe some Viagra?” Sam asks, exasperated, already regretting all of this.
“I would recommend that you schedule an appointment with a psychiatrist. There’s a terrific doctor in St. Johnsbury who is taking new patients. Perhaps you and your wife could seek counseling together. If, after evaluating things, she determines that Viagra might be helpful in your situation, then she will be able to prescribe it for you.”
Sam stands up from the table where he has been sitting. The tissue paper crackles loudly beneath him. “I shouldn’t have come,” he says, reaching for his pants, which he left on the chair by the door.When he picks them up, loose changes drops to the floor. Pennies, quarters, nickels rolling across the warped wood.
“I know this must be difficult for you,” the doctor says, his chiseled jaw set. His brow furrowed in concern.
“That’s an understatement,” Sam says, feeling irritable now. What does this asshole know about anything? He’s not even wearing a wedding ring.
“Listen, if you want to try something nonpharmaceutical, there is an herbal alternative that some people claim to have had success with. It’s called yohimbine; it comes from the bark of a West African tree. You might be able to find some at the natural food store. But I must warn you, I wouldn’t recommend this particular route. It’s been known to cause an increase in heart rate, in anxiety, and if you’re already suffering from anxiety, it might exacerbate your problems. Also, it sometimes is used for weight loss, and you frankly can’t afford to lose any weight. Just please consider getting therapy first. Be smart about this.”
Sam gets back into the car and heads straight for the natural food store. He finds the bottle of yohimbine next to the natural weight loss supplements. He picks up one bottle and then a second. He buys some lilac lotion for Mena and some beeswax candles. He lets himself imagine for a minute that he might seduce her. That he’s found everything he needs to love his wife again at the health food store.