The Silver Girl by Bill Tope

The Silver Girl by Bill Tope

1

It was Halloween night, 1969, when Franklin first saw the Silver Girl. He was out with his only friend, Paul, plodding through the chilly, foggy streets of Prairietown, gathering treats from the neighbors. Paul, a head shorter than his friend, was dressed up as a ghost; Franklin was clad as a caveman. He was ten years old.

“This will be the last year for trick or treating,” remarked Paul. “Next year we’ll be too old to dress up.” Franklin, likewise conscious of growing up, made no reply.

“Holy shit, Frankie!” gasped Paul, pointing at a flickering silver light two streets over. Franklin looked, saw the bright but distant incandescence.

“What is it?” he asked his friend.

“Just the coolest costume I ever saw,” replied Paul, elbowing Franklin in the ribs. The image reappeared, several houses farther away. “Hey,” said Paul, “I think it’s a chick! Let’s go take it away from her.”

“No,” said Franklin instantly. “Leave her alone.” Franklin was anything but a bully, although as the biggest boy in the fifth grade, he could’ve gotten away with being one. Tragically, and most significant in the life of the ten-year-old, was his disfigurement at age four, when he pulled on the cord of an electric percolator and drew a pot of scalding coffee down onto his face and chest. The reminders of the accident persisted on his cheeks and forehead. Residents of northern California his whole life, last year his family had moved to Prairietown in search of work, and Franklin had forged but one friendship, and that was with Paul. Sensitive to the heckles and cat calls of the other students at his school, Franklin was particularly mindful of the feelings of others. As usual, his friend acquiesced to Franklin’s better judgement, and the boys proceeded apace along their route.

Approaching an old Victorian home in the more affluent section of town — where residents “gave out full-sized candy bars or money, not chewing gum or apples,” according to Paul — they climbed the four wooden steps and knocked on the door. The portal was swept open by a man who was perhaps seventeen years old — he seemed ancient to the boys — and out of the house flowed loud rock and roll music and the effluvium of what Franklin recognized as marijuana. His folks got high, which accounted for the mishap with the coffee years before. Instinctively, he drew back a little.

Paul, however, had no such misgivings, and belted out a “Trick or treat?”

A voice from within said, “Who is it, Jeff?” A girl’s voice.

“Woo hoo,” cackled Jeff, taking a hit off a cigarette rolled in brown paper. “The little dudes, they’re like, spooky!” And he giggled, a coarse, juddering sound. He was, Franklin recognized at once, stoned. Against his better judgement, he held out his bag, as did his friend. “Hold on kids, I’ll get your shit,” said the teen, and he reached back into the house, which was teeming wall-to-wall with adult-sized people, and turned up a large bowl of candy. “Here ya go,” he said, carelessly dropping several Milky Ways into each bag.

“Thank you!” chorused the boys, and they turned to leave.

“Hey, wait a minute, little dudes,” said the man. “Take off them masks. I don’t want you comin’ back in twenty minutes, beggin’ for another candy bar. Let’s see them faces.”

“Most adults didn’t make such a demand; they were glad to be through with passing out the candy. This character, Franklin decided, had nothing better to do. Both boys removed their masks.

The teen squinted indifferently at Paul, but when Franklin unmasked, the kid cracked, “Christ, I said take off the freakin’ mask!” And he laughed uproariously. Franklin’s face fell in shame.

Paul, always protective of his best friend, shouted at the teen, “Shut up, shit face! Take back your damned candy!”

The teen suddenly stopped laughing. “What eatin’ you, Casper?” he  asked, annoyed.

“We don’t take candy from faggots,” shouted Paul, loud enough for everyone in the big house to hear. Drunken laughter emanated from inside the living room. And with that, the ten-year-old extracted the two Milky Ways from his bag and threw them at the older boy, striking him in the face.

“I’ll beat your little ass,” threatened the teen, taking a step forward, but his words were lost on Paul and Franklin, who jumped off the porch in a single leap and ran as fast as they could back the way they’d come.

At evening’s end, with their bags loaded to bursting with candy and bubble gum and popcorn balls — and, of course, the dreaded apples — the boys retraced their steps back home. Paul’s abode was on the way to Franklin’s, so they said their goodbyes at Paul’s front door.

“You want to stay over this Friday?” asked Paul.

“I’ll ask,” promised his best buddy, who then walked on.

The fog had lifted and the night grown warmer, and by the time that Franklin had covered half the short distance from Paul’s house to his own home, he was sweating. He lifted his caveman mask and allowed it to sit perched on top of his head. From the opposite direction came four other children, two boys and two girls from Franklin’s class, their own masks likewise elevated off their faces.

“Hey, look guys, it’s Nagel. God, is that gross! Put your mask back on, beastie boy!”

Hurt and embarrassed, Franklin stared into their faces. All the children, save for one of the little girls, laughed cruelly at him. The other girl, whose name was Karen, and whom Franklin had long admired from afar, averted her eyes, shamed by the behavior of her friends. Franklin said nothing, but continued on his way. As he walked away, several of the children threw stones at him. The rocks skittered down the road. Franklin didn’t look back.

Arriving finally at his own home, Franklin walked round to the back of the house. The lock on the front door was broken and it wouldn’t open. Something his dad had been meaning to fix. Tromping through the knee-high grass, left over from the summer — something else that Mr. Nagel had not yet gotten around to — Franklin stopped in his tracks. Back by the trash cans, near the alley, he spied that mysterious light again. Cautiously, he approached. It was the Silver Girl! She was real. When he was almost upon her, he could make out the shape of a young female form, sheathed in a halo of luminescence. He stared at her. She stared back, then the light began to shimmer, and she was gone. Franklin never told anyone about the Silver Girl.

2

During the second week of December, on his way home from school, Franklin spied Karen, in the company of a high school freshman, four years older than them. Franklin was at first just curious, but when the boy laid his hands on the girl, Franklin moved swiftly forward and punched the older, taller boy hard in the ribs. Franklin was used to fighting. The boy fell to the ground, but rose quickly to his feet, turning up a large pocket knife.

“Watch out, Frankie!” cried Karen sharply.

Cautiously, Franklin eluded the knife wielder and kicked his feet from under him, then wrested the weapon from the boy’s grasp and flung the knife into the weeds. Cursing Franklin, the boy fled.

“Are you alright?” asked the girl, gingerly touching a thin bead of blood on Franklin’s arm, where he’d been scratched. He blushed. “Thank you, Frankie,” she murmured. Finally he smiled and she smiled back at him.

They sat on a nearby bench. Franklin noticed that Karen was shaking, still in shock from the attack. Surprising even himself, he reached out boldly and took her hand. It felt warm. Karen seemed to feell a sort of healing power in Franklin’s touch.

“I’m sorry you got hurt,” she said contritely. Franklin just looked at her. “Don’t you ever talk?” she asked at last.

Afterwards, Franklin couldn’t say what actually happened. Karen leaned in and kissed him on the lips. Shocked at first, he kissed her back. He had never kissed a girl before. He liked it. Next, Franklin heard laughter. Karen looked up and recognized several of her friends, observing her kissing the beastie boy.

Surprised and embarrassed, Karen drew back and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Uck!” she said, pushing him away. “Don’t you touch me…you freak!” And she ran away, back to the company of her friends. Franklin walked home alone.

Franklin walked through the back door into the kitchen, and then into the living room, which stunk of weed. His father and mother were getting high again. It seemed they did little else. His father, Matt, had been off work for more than two years, after having injured his back on the job with his former employer before they moved east. Matt had worked as a construction laborer, laying concrete, framing houses, and the like. But, with a bad back, he could no longer operate a backhoe or carry lumber or do any of the hundred tasks he once performed. Instead, he lay about the house, wolfing down pain killers and smoking pot, which he said helped him with the pain as well. But, Matt and Nancy, Franklin’s mom, had been getting high for as long as Franklin had been alive.

Franklin stood in the living room, watching his parents sharing a joint, a beer and God knew what else.

“Hi, son,” said Matt, slurring his words a little.

Old man’s tight already, thought Franklin miserably.

“Say, do you have a girlfriend?” asked Matt out of the blue.

“Huh?” said Franklin. “No, why?”

“We get  two, three phone calls a day, and when we answer, whoever it is that called hangs up,” replied Matt.

“That’s what I used to do to your dad’s mom and dad when I was in junior high,” remembered Nancy with a giggle. Instantly, Franklin thought of Karen, the only girl he’d ever been interested in, but then dismissed the idea.

“No,” he said. “No one.” Matt seemed to receive this news with disappointment.

“We got something to tell you, honey,” said mom, taking a hit off the cigarette and fitting it into a clip and passing it back to Matt. “Your dad and me are going to San Francisco over the holidays.” She gazed at him with glazed eyes. Franklin only shrugged. “We’ll be gone a week, maybe two. We’ll leave plenty of bread so you can buy your lunch at school, and then get your dinner at Donovan’s,” she said, referencing a nearby bar and grill where she and Matt hung out and which provided meals for the Nagel household on a regular basis. Franklin nodded. “Here, take this,” she told him, passing Franklin a $100 bill. She apparently gave no thought to the difficulty a ten-year-old child might have in spending such currency. “Any questions?” she asked him, all business all of a sudden. He peered into her dilated pupils and shook his head no. “Okay, baby,” she said. “Don’t you forget to study,” she told him vaguely.

Several days later, after Nancy and Matt had fled Prairietown for San Francisco, Franklin invited Paul over for supper.

“Are you sure it’s okay with you mom?” asked Mrs. Drysdale.

“Sure,” said Franklin. “We’re only having hamburgers. Dad’ll just toss one more on the grill,” Franklin lied eloquently.

Mrs. Drysdale smiled her acquiescence.

When suppertime rolled round, the boys journeyed down the boulevard to a Dairy Queen and noshed on cheeseburgers, fries, and shakes.

When Franklin proffered the century note, the manager blinked and hesitated, but only for a moment. He knew this kid: Franklin was kin to the Feel Good Couple down the block. The same spot where he got all his cannabis.

“Where’s your folks, Frankie?” asked the manager slyly.

“San Fran,” replied Franklin.

The manager nodded. He knew his supplier would be flush with dope for the next couple of weeks. In gratitude, he gifted the boys a couple of complimentary fried apple pies.

Seated in a plastic booth, the boys chowed down on their food.

“Heard you kissed Karen Daniel,” remarked Paul casually, taking a big bite of his burger.

“Who told you that?” Franklin wanted to know.

“You get three guesses,” said Paul, “and the first two don’t count.”

Franklin blew out a weary breath. If Karen was telling everyone her version of what had happened, then Franklin was apt to have trouble with Todd Daniel, Karen’s brother, who was a high school senior. As big and tough as Franklin was, he didn’t think he could handle an upperclassman in a fight. He figuratively girded his loins for the fight when it came.

“When’d you grow the stones to kiss a girl?” asked Paul with a wolfish grin.

“She kissed me,” Franklin replied. “I just…kissed her back.” He shrugged.

“Right on!” said Paul. “You got another fan,” he told Franklin, who looked up in surprise. “Joy,” he said, answering Franklin’s unasked question.

Franklin thought hard, but the only Joy he knew was that tiny, thin girl in their class, with the dishwater blond hair and the pronounced limp. He’d never given the girl a second thought. He soon dismissed the notion from his mind. Franklin thought about telling Paul about the Silver Girl, but he hesitated. The boys shared everything, but for a reason unknown to Franklin, he demurred.

“What’re your folks doing in San Francisco?” asked Paul, worrying his bag of fries.

“That’s where we’re from,” replied Franklin. “We lived out there before we moved east to Prairietown.”

“What’d they do in Frisco?” Paul asked next.

“They were a couple of deadbeat hippies,” said Franklin dryly. “Dad worked construction and Mom made tie dyed shirts in a shop, but mostly they sold drugs.”

“Is it true what they say about your parents, that they’re still a couple of heads?” asked Paul.

Franklin paused long enough to remove the pickle from his burger before he replied, “I can’t talk about that.” Paul stared at him. “Okay?” Franklin asked.

Paul shrugged acceptingly. “Cool.” After a moment, he asked, “Say, do you think you could get some pot for me and you?” He grinned hopefully.

Franklin said nothing. The boys, on the cusp of becoming teens, had never tossed around the subject of drugs before, although Paul had discussed the issue with his other friends.

“I don’t do drugs, Paul,” said Franklin simply. When Paul cocked his head questioningly, Franklin went on, “I told you what happened to my face.”

Paul nodded. He knew the story. “You yanked on the cord to an electric coffee pot and it spilled on your face. What about it?”

“My parents were ripped when it happened. They weren’t watching out for me. The coffee pot was on a low table, not high up like it should’ve been, and I got tangled up in the cord, and the rest is history,” he summarized.

“You blame your folks?” inquired Paul.

“They are to blame,” replied Franklin with a flash of bitterness that Paul had never seen before. “But,” he continued, “even after that, they never did learn their lesson. They still get ripped — every night!” They finished their burgers and the boys returned to Franklin’s house, where they hung out till Paul’s mother came by and picked up her son.

3

At Franklin’s school, each class held a Christmas party just prior to the holiday. In order to make each student feel like he or she belonged, every student was required to address a card to every other student in their class. Some students wrote messages in the cards, others merely signed their names. Each student had a paper bag with their name on it and the students would deposit the individual cards in in the bags, which were taken home, along with candy and other gifts and treats. As Franklin sat at his desk at the end of the day, awaiting the dismissal bell, he flipped through the cards. The first card he came to was one signed by Joy Draper, the little lame girl whom Paul said was crushing on him. He opened it and inside, she had written a poem she had apparently composed herself. He read it with mild interest, then went on to the other cards. When he came to the one which had been signed by Karen, his face burned. He hadn’t been certain if he’d even get one from her. He gazed at the other cards and suddenly started. One of the cards, unsigned, had a crude caricature of a boy with a horrible, disfigured face. Franklin scanned the faces of his fellow students, but they gave nothing away; none of them was even looking at him. He tore the card in two and shoved it in the compartment beneath his desk. A single tear slipped unnoticed out of his eye. The bell rang and he left without a word.

On New Year’s day, Franklin stood in his living room, surveying the dirty clothes and overflowing ash trays and the empty beer bottles littering the tables and floors. He shook his head. It was after five o’clock and his parents, gone to visit their stoner friends, still weren’t back. No one had thought to prepare supper, so he took out some ham left over from a party that Nancy and Matt had hosted the night before, and made himself a sandwich. Slipping on a jacket, which was two sizes too small for his rapidly growing frame, he exited through the kitchen door and stepped into the back yard. It was chilly and utterly dark.

There he saw her again: The Silver Girl. More clearly than ever before, he could make her out, behind the garage. The silver light was not so intense now and he could make out her features. She was young, perhaps his own age, and had raven black hair which spilled down her shoulders and back. She was dressed strangely: not in a dress or a jumper like the girls at school, but in faded jeans and a sweater. Before, when he’d gotten near her, she had disappeared. He didn’t want to frighten her away. This time, however, she watched him grow closer and the light faded, then abruptly went out.

Franklin stared at her. The girl stared back. Finally, he found his voice. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“My name is Laurel,” she replied shyly. “Who’re you?”

“Franklin,” he replied, then corrected himself: “Frankie,” he said. “Where does that light come from?” he asked next.

“It’s in your mind,” she told him.

Franklin cocked his head. “In my mind?” he murmured. “What do you mean?”

Instead of answering, Laurel asked innocently, “What happened to your face?”

Normally very sensitive about his scars, Franklin felt somehow comfortable telling this strange girl what had happened to him. When he told her, she seemed to accept his explanation, to make no judgements. Nor did she seem to freak out about his appearance. She was a beautiful girl, thought Franklin, prettier even than Karen, but there was something unusual about her. She had an edginess to her. She moved her features about nervously, making faces with her lips and eyes. She had a lot of nervous tics. He asked her, “Why do you move like that?”

She told him, “I have a disease with my nerves. I can’t control my nerves and muscles,” she explained.

Franklin blinked. “What’s it called?” he asked. She told him. “I never heard of it,” he admitted.

Laurel nodded. “Not too much was known about it in the 1960s.” she acknowledged. “Do you hate me for it?” she asked unexpectedly.

Franklin shook his head. “No, of course not. I think you’re beautiful,” he told her honestly.

She smiled bashfully,

“Where do you go to school?” he asked.

“I don’t go to school anymore,” she said. Franklin nodded, as if this made perfect sense. “I have to go now,” said Laurel, and the light began to come back up.

“When can I see you again?” asked Franklin.

“I can only come out on Mondays,” said Laurel mysteriously. “Look for me on Monday.”

“Where at?” asked Franklin. He wanted to continue the conversation with his new friend. But, with a shimmer, she was gone again.

4

The very strangest of friendships slowly grew between Franklin Nagel and the mysterious Laurel. On Mondays only, they would meet in secret, sometimes in Franklin’s back yard and sometimes other places. Franklin never knew where she would appear, but on Mondays he was always alert for her presence. The following spring, just before school let out for summer break, Laurel appeared again in the back yard and Franklin asked her,

“Where do you go when you go away?” This girl was so very mysterious and he wanted to learn all about her.

“It’s not so much where, as when,” replied Laurel cryptically.

Franklin shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“I come from what is your future,” she told him.

“You mean, like a time machine?” he asked. “Like Dr. Who?”  He chuckled nervously.

But, Laurel didn’t laugh with him. “Frankie,” she explained, “I was born in the year 2030,” He stared at her. “Please believe me,” she implored. “I’ve never lied to you, nor will I ever.” Laurel seemed so solemn that Franklin accepted her remarks at face value. He believed her. He thought, she is his age, but sometimes she talks as if she were so much older.

“How do you come here, from the future?” he asked.

“Magick,” she replied. “My grandmother is, as I am, a Wiccan.” The term was unfamiliar to Franklin. “You may think of it as witchcraft,” she went on. “My grandmother has the gift of the ancients, and she can control some things. She can create this light, which shields me as I pass through time, to spend time with you.”

“Then why can’t your grandmother cure your illness?” asked Franklin.

“Wiccan magick is very powerful,” she replied, but it is not a cure all. Illness persists, deaths occur, wars rage, it is the destiny of man. She uses candle magick, with silver tapers, which are more powerful on certain days of the week. That’s why I can only see you on Mondays, Frankie. When I am cloaked in the light, then my illness does not affect me. It is only when the light is subdued, when it fades and I can talk with you, that my illness makes itself known. It is a price that I willingly pay.” Franklin felt a little guilty, because he took such pleasure in her presence.

“What is it like in your own time, for you, I mean. Do you suffer then, or do you exist only in the light?” Franklin asked. He fellt like he didn’t have a grasp on Laurel’s situation, and he was concerned for her.

“I live in a medical facility, Frankie, a hospital, where I have therapy and take medicines. I mostly live in the silver light. But, I can’t help but visit you. I love you, Frankie,” she confessed, with a breaking voice.

Franklin gulped. No one had ever told him they loved him before, not even his parents. Finally he found his voice. “I love you too, Laurel,” he said at last. the words scratching his throat. “What happens when you’re out of the light?”

“I age naturally then. I’ve had this condition since I was seven years old, and by the time I’m fifteen, I’ll need a cane and then a walker and then a wheelchair. In the end I’ll need a bed.”

“That’s terrible,” exclaimed Franklin. “What can we do about it?”

“The science and the medicine have made great strides,” said Laurel. “But, we’re not there yet. It may take another twenty years before a cure is found.”

“But, you don’t have twenty years. You’ve only got five years!” Franklin said, agitated. “What can we do?” he asked again. “What can I do?”

“There is strength in numbers,” replied Laurel, with apparent relief. “And strength in love. Performing the lunar and candle rituals can only help, Frankie.”

So Laurel tutored Franklin on candle magick and smudging and on the burning of sage and cedar and sweetgrass in the rituals. She instructed him on paying homage to Thoth, Artemis, Arianrhod and Selene, not as a substitute for his own religion, she told him, but to open a portal to other knowledge.

Franklin was surprised; no, shocked, to discover that his stoner parents were no strangers to the beliefs, and had once considered themselves Druids or something. Nancy even turned up an ancient cauldron she’d had from years ago. They were amenable to his burning incense and lighting candles and all the rest. One day, as Franklin was leading his family in a ritual, Matt spoke up and passed his son a lighted reefer.

“C’mon, get high, son, and we can be a real family.” Matt grinned stupidly. “You’ll remember tonight for the rest of your life,” he promised Franklin.

“One look in the mirror is all the memory I need,” observed Franklin coldly. Matt sat back, subdued.

A year later, Franklin’s best and only friend moved away. Paul, now almost twelve, was regularly getting high and dabbling in alcohol and other substances. Although Franklin never completely abandoned his friend, the relationship had decidedly cooled. One day, shortly before he left for the coast, when Paul failed to show up at school, Franklin returned home to find him in the company of his parents and walking away with a plastic bag filled with what Paul jokingly referred to as “Oregano, for spaghetti sauce.” And  everybody but Franklin laughed too loudly.

Franklin met with Laurel almost every Monday, especially when the moon was full or waxing. It seemed to give Laurel renewed energy. Now, at thirteen, he loved her with all his heart. So it came as a shock the day when Laurel said she had come to say goodbye. At first, he didn’t recognize her. She was nearly as tall as he, and was in the full flower of youth and beauty. She looked years older.

It was Monday, Jan. 1, 1973 when Franklin saw Laurel for the last time.

“I’m free now, Franklin,” she told him joyfully. Her face wasn’t twitching, even though the light was not burning.

“Wha…what happened to you?” he asked in a bewildered voice.

“When I met you, more than three years ago, I was not ten years old, as I appeared, but twenty-five.” He so longed to touch her, though he never had, and never would.

“But, why did you appear to be ten years old?” he wanted to know.

“Because, I had to get close to you, to harness your energy, your natural magick power. I was desperate, Frankie. I needed you, and you came through for me. Grandmother told me that there are certain people whose power is even greater than hers. I had to tap into that power and I did it. You did it! I’m in remission. She gazed fondly at her benefactor.

“You lied to me?” he asked.

“It’s like I told you, Frankie. It was all in your mind. You needed to see me as your own age.”

“But, why me?” asked Franklin plaintively.

“Your disfigurement, in part,” replied Laurel. “I knew you would be vulnerable and malleable and would respond to a little attention and to the love I had to offer.”

“Then you never really loved me?” asked Franklin in despair.

“Of course I love you, Frankie. Like the younger brother I never had. But, now, I can return to the future and wed a man I love more than any other. You’d like Bolar, Frankie. Maybe some day you can meet. You’ll bring the girl of your dreams and we’ll have a drink or something.”

Franklin stared at her, and wanted more than anything to tell her that she was the girl of his dreams, but he only stood there.

She grew very serious for a moment. “Thank you, Frankie, for all you have done for me. I’ll owe you always.” And in a wink, the grown up Laurel, in her luminous silver cocoon, disappeared into the ether for the final time.

Franklin didn’t know how much, if any, of Laurel’s story to believe. He wondered for a moment if it had all been an illusion, perhaps caused by being around all the pot that his parents consumed, by what they referred to as a “contact high.”

Franklin went for a walk and ended up at the park, where he took a seat on the green-painted bench fronting the green space. He watched children tossing around a football. Suddenly, up to the bench limped a figure he’d not seen in some time: Joy.

“Hello, Mr. Nagel,” she said with mock formality.

He looked up. Gone were the childish braids and the jumper and in  their place, were long, lustrous blond hair and tight-fitting jeans. Franklin blinked. He hardly recognized Joy. She took a seat next to him on the bench.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi yourself,” she came back at him. She was, he thought, really quite pretty. How had he never noticed before? he wondered.

Franklin struggled for something to say, but utterly failed, so he said, “Uh, how’s your leg?”

“Fine,” she snapped. “How’s your face?” Franklin blinked in surprise, but said nothing. But then Joy relented. “I’m sorry, don’t take me the wrong way. But,” she said, “if you only knew how long I worked on that stupid poem I put in your Christmas card back in the day…”

“It wasn’t stupid,” he interrupted her. “I liked it.”

“You never told me you liked it,” she reminded him pointedly. “You never said word one about it!” Now Franklin felt embarrassed. “You didn’t have any idea how I crushed on you back then, did you?” she asked. He shook his head no. “Well,” she went on, “I never held it against you. You had a lot on your plate at the time. I mean, everyone knew that your parents sold drugs out of their living room, though I know that you don’t use them.” She gave him a look of approval. “Plus, with a face like five miles of bad road, you had a lot to deal with.”

Franklin winced.

“Come on, Mr. Nagel,” she said, “we can be honest with one another, yes?” He smiled and nodded agreeably. “I mean, I know if we were to ever go on a date, that you wouldn’t be taking my to the sock hop, Friday night, right?”

Franklin didn’t laugh. “Why the hell not?” he asked sharply. “I wouldn’t be embarrassed.”

Joy seemed to turn this over in her mind for a moment, and then she said, ‘I’m glad we had this conversation, Frankie,” using his name at last. He nodded. The emotional tension between them was palpable. Edging closer to him on the bench, she said softly, “You can kiss me now, if you want.”

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Bill Tope 2025