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“I don’t know what they were called.”
“What were they about?”
“There was one with these boys whose dad took them to an island and they killed him by accident.”
“For real?”
“No, it was just a movie.”
Her tone of voice says I could not possibly be more of a moron.
“Was it R-rated?”
“How should I know? It was from Russia. There were subtitles so you could understand what they were saying.”
“What was the other movie?”
“It was like … I don’t know how to describe it. Kind of old-timey, but it wasn’t old, and there were boats and stuff? I couldn’t figure out what was going on. Rikki said it was nonrepresentational, which means it wasn’t really about anything.”
“What’s the point of a movie like that?”
“It’s what they were watching.”
“I mean, is it supposed to be pretty to look at it, or some kind of commentary on the human condition, or what?”
She shrugs.
I wait a beat, but that’s all I’m getting out of her. “Did you have bad dreams over there?”
“No. Why would I?”
“I don’t know. Why wouldn’t you?”
“It was nice,” she says. “Their guest room has the softest blanket in the whole world, and one of those mattresses like on TV that’s made of foam. When you lay down on it you sink in like you’re going to sleep in an alien pod.”
“I’ve never slept on one of those.”
“It wasn’t very comfortable. But it was cool.”
Having temporarily forgotten she’s supposed to be annoying me with the pancakes, she cuts off a sliver of a bite from the edge. Too sweet. I can tell by the way she chews slow and drinks a lot of water afterward.
“You want me to do the pancakes over?”
“Nah. I’m not that hungry.”
“All right.”
I get up to do the dishes. I place the stopper, squirt soap into the sink, watch steam rise off the stream of hot water coming from the tap. That was the longest conversation I’ve had with Frankie in ages, and I don’t want to wreck it.
“West?” she says to my back.
“Yeah?”
“What did Mr. Gorham say?”
A real question about a real thing, asked in a civil tone of voice.
I could fucking cheer, it feels like such an accomplishment.
