Chapter 11 She Didn’t Say Goodbye
She Didn’t Say Goodbye
The premiere feels like a near miss, like the breeze of a passing arrow.
Somehow, both stars make it to the end without causing a stir, and the press buys the excuses for them leaving before the party.
No one questions the couple as they get into the same limousine, driven by O’Shea, which then secretly meets up with two other cars a few blocks over so the lovebirds can go their separate ways.
Standing on the street corner, Frankie peers up at the sky, dark and ominous but behaving. Not even a drop of rain. A wash of light appears and fades as a car turns the corner, and sounds of the party grow louder when someone leaves the building.
The night’s over, and they made it out alive, disaster avoided.
An ironic, fate-tempting thought.
Without the distraction of the premiere, this new life without Jack is already becoming real.
He’s getting married. June’s having a baby.
Every minute that passes is one closer to a life without him.
Jack, who can’t cook without doing the recipe’s accompanying accent, and once backed against the counter in pure delight when they were making chicken cacciatore and Frankie launched into an Italian accent.
Jack, who always uses a coaster, and who makes her take off her shoes the second she walks into the Venice cottage.
Jack, who traces letters with his finger onto her back. Close your eyes. What am I saying?
Another blessing: At home, both roommates are gone.
Frankie runs a bath, determined to soak in the silence while she can.
Soon the white subway tiles bead with condensation, and the medicine cabinet’s mirror fogs.
Somewhere there’s a bird calling in the night.
She’s never minded being alone, never cared about having a boyfriend, and she knows she’ll fall right back into that.
It’s all for the best. She never worked in his world; she sees the confusion on people’s faces when Jack is happy to see her.
Her, of all people. The surprise. The last thing she’d want is the whole country questioning her worth; though Frankie’s never had much, she’s always had her pride.
But there is pain to this, to this ending she didn’t want.
Leaning her head back, she sinks in further, her toes by the faucet, a steady drip of cool.
She only realizes she’s fallen asleep when she wakes to what sounds like a rock hitting the window in the room next to the bathroom—her bedroom window.
And then another. Someone must be standing by the garage behind the building, trying to get her or Susan’s attention.
Is Susan home? The bathwater’s cold. Another tap.
Dripping water, she grabs her robe—a gift from Jack, parchment-colored silk with deep burgundy roses—and flips off the bathroom light so whoever is below won’t see her.
Another tap, this one harder. Heart beating, she feels her way to the window and twists open the clasp. “Hey! Police are on the way, so you—”
“Frankie.”
Jack. She pushes her head against the screen, trying to see him in the dark, and then thinks of her neighbors—the three other units filled with people—and hurries through the apartment, grabbing her car keys so she can hide him.
Barefoot, she rushes down the path. A rock pushes into the bottom of her foot, and pain flares.
He’s standing behind her building by the garage, and his hair is wet. In his arms he’s got a soaked brown paper bag that he holds to his chest. Everything is wet, she realizes. Her feet are muddy.
She points to her car. “Get in.”
Even before he gets the door closed, she smells the bourbon on him. The top of a bottle sticks out of the brown bag. Quickly she starts the car, which rumbles to life, and throws the gear into reverse, the clutch grinding. Pulling out of the driveway, she searches the street.
“Where’s your car?”
He’s slouched, his head against the window. “Walked.”
“From where?”
“You have roommates. I forgot.” He says it accusingly, as if she’s failed him in this regard.
Roommates. Were they home? Frankie left so quickly, she didn’t check—but no, if anyone were home, they’d have knocked on the bathroom door. She pushes up Jack’s coat sleeve to peer at his watch, and he jerks his hand away.
“I just want to know the time.”
He holds up his arm, squinting at it. When he says nothing, she looks over. “After one a.m. Where were you?”
“A pool hall on Alvarado.”
“You went to a pool hall? You were supposed to be in Venice. Was it the Lucky Break?” If she has cleanup to do, she needs to know where to start.
Eyes closed, he nods. The Lucky Break. A small sign.
A door that sticks and a floor that’s stickier.
A seedy place that’s usually empty, but now and then finds a way to serve liquor and attracts a rough crowd. “How the hell did you get there?”
“Driver.”
It wasn’t O’Shea. O’Shea was driving the decoy to Malibu, since people recognize him. “The same man who was supposed to take you to Venice? I’ll have him fired.”
“No, you won’t.” He closes his eyes.
Scenarios scroll through her head: people seeing him in the car in the morning, someone spotting him now or catching her trying to drag a six-foot-three man outside.
O’Shea can help her, but not if Jack’s passed out.
She needs to keep him awake, so she shakes his shoulder.
His eyes fly open, his body tense. “Jack. Come on. It’s me. ”
When he looks at what she’s wearing, she realizes she’s still in her robe.
“I’ve never even seen you . . .” he says, but his voice trails off.
She keeps the robe at her apartment. He’s never seen her in it.
Logistics scroll through her mind: Louis and O’Shea can’t see her at this time in a robe, with nothing underneath, and there’s the distance to get him home to Pasadena that she needs to factor in, a distance she doesn’t want to drive while dressed like this.
If she’s pulled over, it would get back to Nico in a heartbeat.
“I can’t take you to your house. The bungalows are closer. ”
A headlight’s beam smooths his face. Eyes closed, his features are relaxed. She looks away, gripping the steering wheel tighter as they hit a bump.
The bungalows, two white clapboard houses on the last lot of the street, are officially on Glenhollow, a small dead-end road with so much vegetation that parking means scratching up against a hedge or a bush.
Bungalow one is close to the sidewalk, private and well kept, and bungalow two is far behind it, all the way back on the lot, existing in the shade of trees and through the clutch of spiderwebs.
To get to that second bungalow, one takes the path just to the left of the first bungalow, a long brick walkway that dives deep into the property and all the way to the street behind the lot, Arlington Way, a narrow, tiny road where Frankie once got her car stuck for an hour as she tried to turn around.
If you value your paint job, Nico likes to say, don’t park on Glenhollow.
But if you value your life and time, don’t even think about Arlington Way, because that was made for horses.
So this, pulling in front of the driveway on Glenhollow, is the best option, even though it means that at any point June could look outside and see them.
And getting him out of the car is just the beginning.
From here, he has to make his way on the path all the way to the second bungalow, dodging spiderwebs while drunk and staying calm as the neighbor’s dog on the other side of the fence makes a ruckus.
And why are you together? June would ask if she woke and saw Frankie escorting Jack.
What would Frankie say? He needed me. Plain, simple.
Somehow, she knows June would respect that.
But dressed like this, she can’t take the chance.
She says his name, and his eyes open. “Why did you even come tonight?” she asks.
His eyes close again. “You’re who I want to talk to. When I’m mad. Happy.”
“Well, you can’t talk like this, can you?”
One eye opens, just enough to glare at her.
Frankie looks past him, to the path that leads to June’s front door. The porch light is off, the path shaded and dark. “Jack,” she says.
He opens his eyes but doesn’t move.
“You need to go. June’s in number one, so go to two, in the far back. You remember where the key is, right? The key’s on top of the doorframe. Jack, I need you to get inside.”
Just as he opens his door, he leans back again, head against the seat and eyes shut tight as if to block something out. “I’m stuck.”
She puts her hand on her door handle to get out and help, but he continues.
“They have me trapped. And they knew where she was. Is. Don’t defend them.” He starts to get out again, trying to stand.
“I’m not defending anybody.”
Leaning as far forward as he can, as if needing the momentum, he remembers to close the door and loses his balance, falling forward and barely catching himself against the mailbox.
Something in her breaks. Patience, understanding.
All her sympathy is gone, as sudden as a door slamming shut within her heart.
Maybe it’s harsh, but the sight of someone drunk—even if it doesn’t happen often—hardens something within her.
She grew up surrounded by the chaos that follows episodes like this, and her life has spiraled one too many times because of other people’s messes.
When all she wants is to control her life, it’s someone like this who renders that impossible.
She doesn’t care if he makes it to the bungalow, or if he finds the key. He can wake up June and sleep on the pathway, tangled in spiderwebs, for all she minds. But then she takes a deep breath. This is her job.
He turns to wave to her, and as he does, he notices the paper bag on the floor, the bottle of bourbon inside.
“Forgot that,” he says, and leans his hand against the doorframe while he strains to reach inside.
Frankie, frustrated and disgusted and picturing him falling and bashing his head on the door, hands it to him.
Another choice she will regret. Another marker on the path.
When he walks away, he veers slightly to the right.
The back of his tuxedo is wrinkled, his hair unkempt.
Bit by bit, her anger diminishes. Ever since her mother died, unexpectedly and fast, Frankie’s found it hard to trust life enough to let someone walk away with anything left unsaid. But what does she need to say?
I’m sorry.
I don’t know how to fix this.
Maybe we can still find a way.
“Jack,” she says, in a loud whisper. He turns, off-balance, the brown bag with the bottle at his side, and once again she feels a wall inside her fortify, a pillar of self-reliance and control. Because of this, she doesn’t say what she wanted to. “You’ll make it all right?”
He gives her a salute and, once again, begins his slow shuffle down the path.
A moment or two longer, and she hears the dog whose yard starts a bit past June’s bungalow, the loud barking that announces Jack’s at least made it that far.
The barking continues, then stops. Just barely, just faintly, she sees part of the path brighten with a spill of light, and knows he’s made it inside the bungalow. Relief.
Now, she thinks, the night’s over. Finally, they’ve made it.
But as she pulls away, she thinks of her mother again, and how every person’s existence is so fragile, like a thin pane of glass against the storm of life.
What ends someone could be a shattering or could be a slow, destructive crack, but too often it comes out of nowhere.
And for a second she pauses, eyes on the mirror, the place against the curb where they just were, where she didn’t say goodbye.