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The whole drive feels unauthorized, like I’m breaking some law. Guilty, too, because she’s texted me a bunch of times since they got to town, but I’ve been trying to disengage. I’ll wait a day or two to reply, then respond in short, generic phrases. Afraid she’ll cling and I’ll have to explain that her brother and I are … whatever we are.
“So you tried to call West?” I ask.
“I told Mr. Gorham I did, but I didn’t want to bug him at work. I thought I could just walk. Mr. Gorham said no.”
“How far is the walk?”
“I don’t know, a few miles, I guess. You go left up here.”
After the turn, I study her surreptitiously. Her eyes are puffy as if she’s been crying.
“Did you miss the bus?”
She shrugs, turning her face toward the window. I guess that means no, but she doesn’t want to talk about it.
“You need anything to eat? A snack or something?”
“Nah. There’s plenty at home.”
“When will West get back?”
“Around twelve-thirty.”
“At night?”
“He works swing shift.”
“What are his hours?”
“Three-thirty to twelve, mostly. Sometimes they run ten-hour shifts and he works four-thirty to two.”
“And you’re just by yourself at home every night?”
“No. He’s got four days on, three days off.”
“You’re too young to be alone that much.”
Frankie’s expression turns mulish. “Go right here.”
We end up at a small white farmhouse in the country. Where most people would have grass, huge metal sculptures litter the dirt. Gravel has been laid down between them in a kind of path.
I’ve heard of this place. Laurie Collins, the guy with the woman’s name who makes all these sculptures, is a permanent visiting artist. He’s famous at Putnam because he’s the one who made the giant metal phallus sculpture, but I think he’s famous more generally, too. The college tour guides make a big deal out of him.
“You’re staying with Professor Collins?”
“No, over the garage.” She points to the side of it, where a wooden staircase leads up to a door.
I pull to a stop. The farm seems like a nice enough place. Pleasant, perfectly safe. The farmhouse has cheerful yellow curtains and a bright blue door.
But there’s no traffic, nobody in sight.
It must be so quiet in that apartment when she’s alone.
“Thanks for the ride.” She opens her door.
“Hold up.”
Frankie stops.
