Frank Penlay

            by Emma Claudeanos

 

            Frankie’s house was on a hill, so that when he stood, nose pressed against the window, he could see the world. Since he was six years old, Frankie Penlay worshipped the view from his bedroom. His mother crouched at the edge of the lawn, pulling weeds from her rose bed. In the distance, on the southern roads of Atherton, lay the businesses, including his father’s law-firm. When Garrett Penlay returned home, each evening at six o’clock, he carried with him a cut of raw dinner meat, that morning’s newspaper, and the comfortable wealth produced in his office every day. Frankie watched his father’s car pull onto Lincoln Avenue night after night, and labor up the incline toward the home. Frankie would fly from the window, down the stairs, and to the front door. He would stand, his toe tapping, waiting for the sound of the engine, his father’s loafers padding up the brick path, climbing up the four front stairs.  There was always a hollow pounding as his father trekked across the wood porch. On the other side of the wall Frankie’s toe would be still; he would suck in the air between his teeth. He would hold his breath, listening, waiting.

            In the next moment, his father would throw open the big brown door. In would rush his scent of ginger and musk, next the cool night air, and last Garrett himself, a strong, tall, trusting father. Frankie would smile, his father would drop his belongings, Frankie leapt, and Garrett swept him up.

~

             Frankie’s fifteenth birthday cake is wrapped up in the refrigerator. Frankie is wrapped up in his bedspread, shivering against the cold night air creeping in through the crack in his window. His mother and father are downstairs. Their muffled voices float up and sneak through the space beneath his door. Frankie turns onto his stomach and buries his head in the pillow. It is early. Frankie is not used to crawling into bed so early in the night, but his father had insisted.

            “Why don’t you turn in early tonight Frank, big trip tomorrow, you’ll need the rest.”

            “Sure,” Frankie had responded, and climbed the stairs to his bedroom.

            Now, he is trying his best to drift off. His mind wanders from school, to his mother, to his birthday celebration. Frankie’s blood courses with the excitement of a week in Mexico, with his father and his Boy Scout troop. He thinks about his dad. Frankie feels the chill blow in from his window and he shivers. He hugs himself and falls asleep.

            Frankie sits up and the room is foggy. He cannot see the end of his bed. Frankie rubs his eyes and listens. Through the crack in his window comes the sound of an engine, creeping up the hill toward his house. The car pulls into the driveway and shuts off. Frankie hears a door slam. He hears loafers pad up the brick path. Frankie jumps from his bed into the icy fog. He runs to his bedroom door and flips the lock. He tests the knob. Frankie climbs back under his covers, soaking up the body heat he had left behind. He shudders, and listens. Loafers are climbing the four front stairs and making a hollow sound across the porch. Frankie sucks in the air between his teeth and holds his breath. The front door clicks open, and packages are dropped in the front entrance. He closes his eyes and lets out the breath. Muffled footsteps float to Frankie’s ears as loafers ascend the carpeted stairs. His door is locked but the footsteps reach the entrance and turn the knob. Frankie’s door swings open into the fog. He cannot see through the gray. He is afraid. Everything is quiet except the loafers that grow nearer to his bed. Frankie does not see his father until Garrett sits on the bed and leans toward his son. Frankie begins to cry.

            A warm light streams into the bedroom, and an alarm rouses the boy from sleep. Frankie sits up, and lets his head fall into his hands. The last bits of the nightmare grip at his brain cells. He rubs his eyes and sighs.

            Downstairs Garrett is moving about the kitchen, preparing trail-mix and water bottles. He comes to the bottom of the flight and calls up to his son.

            “Are you up, boy?”

            “I’ll be down in a minute,” Frankie clears his throat and calls back.

            “The bus will be here in ten minutes,” Garrett returns.

~

            Frankie is sitting in the eighth row of a yellow school bus. He is alone. His mother stands in the doorway waving to him. He waves back. Garrett sits six rows in front of Frankie with the other scout leaders. His father’s balding head swivels back and forth in the morning sun. The engine roars to life and shudders quietly in hope of acceleration. Frankie waits patiently for departure. He has never been rock-climbing before, let alone all the way to Mexico. Frankie stares out the window.

            A blue station wagon pulls up to the curb in front of the bus. A blonde boy about fifteen years old appears on the sidewalk. From the driver’s side comes his mother, also blonde, with a beaming smile on her attractive, young face.

            “Wait, wait, don’t leave. We’re here!” the mother calls through the windshield to the bus driver.

            Frankie watches the boy closely. This boy is not part of the scout troop, and Frankie has never seen him before. The mother opens the back door and struggles with a packed duffle bag. She hands the bag to her son and they embrace. The boy boards the bus and searches the seats. Frankie observes the boy give a slight, quick, reassuring nod to Garrett and then continue further into the bus for a seat. He spots the void next to Frankie. The boy walks up to the seat. He stuffs his duffle underneath and drops down onto the cushion.

            “Is it alright if I sit here?” the boy asks.

            “Yeah, sure…you’re not in this troop, what are you doing here?” Frankie tries his best not to sound rude, but remains suspicious.

            “Oh, well, I missed my troop’s camping trip and I was so disappointed. My mom asked your leaders if I could come along to Mexico,” the boy responds. He does not seem to have taken any offense to Frankie’s question.

              “That’s good. I’m really excited about Santa Maria. Have you ever been there before?” Frankie asks. His previous suspicions are quickly erased by the boy’s friendly disposition.

            “Oh yeah, my dad took me there last summer. We’re big rock-climbers, me and my dad,” the boy answers.

            “Well, in that case, you’ll have to help me,” says Frankie.

            “Oh, sure. We can be climbing partners,” the boy says.

~

            The bus ride lasts all day. The boys are allowed off several times for bathroom breaks and tanks of gasoline. As the sun sets the bus passes through San Diego. Frankie and the boy are building a friendship in the eighth row. The purple sky lures the boys into a light sleep as they trundle on toward Santa Maria. They dream of the cliffs, and the sand, and the salty sting of the ocean.

            A lurch rouses the scouts from their naps. The bus stops in a small parking lot and the driver removes the key from the ignition. A ripple of joy passes from seat to seat as the boys stand to stretch their stiff limbs. Frankie catches Garrett’s gaze, and his father smiles at him.

            “You ready for this?” Garrett calls to his son.

            Frankie grins.

            “He’s ready alright, we’re going to be partners,” the boy answers quickly for Frankie.

            Garrett nods approvingly. The scouts fill up the aisle with their anxious bodies and bulging duffles. They file off the bus, with Garrett in the lead, and search the deserted beach for a proper campsite.

~

            The tents crouch low against the horizon. The thick mist of an early coastal morning hangs in the air. The boy scouts are stirring in their sleeping bags, their minds crawling towards the light. The fog slowly burns off.

            Frankie’s eyes blink open. The left side of his face is smothered in the pillow, but he watches as the boy rolls onto his back and rubs his eyes. Outside, the salty waves collide with the sand.

            “Come on, let’s get up,” the boy says.

            “Okay,” Frankie replies.

            They free themselves from the bags and unzip the tent flap. Outside, other boys are doing the same. Garrett sits on driftwood next to the fire. He pokes the ashes with a stick, sending sparks into the air. Frankie and the boy cross the sand and sit down near Garrett and the warmth of the fire.

            “Hi boys. How’d you sleep? First night can be tough,” Garrett greets them.

            “I slept beautifully,” the boy says.

            “Me too,” Frankie agrees.

            “You two hungry? I’ve got apples, peanuts, crackers, and some water. Breakfast of champions,” Garrett offers.

            “Starved,” Frankie says.

             The three sit together fueling their bodies for the long day of climbing ahead. Other scouts find spots around Garrett’s fire, and join the breakfast.

~

            The fog travels inland, only to leave behind a gray cloud cover high up in the sky. Frankie and the boy have left the campsite alone. They are walking along the coast searching for the perfect cliff. The boys pass other scouts clinging to rocks. Scout leaders stand below coaching and watching for danger.

            Frankie and the boy walk side by side. They talk about school days, friends, and how excited they are to be camping in Santa Maria.

            The boy trudges ahead of Frankie, and for an instant, a boulder in the sand hides him from view. Frankie jogs around the boulder and sees the boy at the base of a cliff with his hands resting against the rock.

              “Did we find it?” Frankie asks.

            “This is it, this is the one,” the boy responds.

            “Well, how can you tell?” Frankie asks.

            “See all of the small rocks jutting from the face? Those are great hand and footholds.  This cliff goes up really far, but since we don’t have gear we should only go about halfway,” the boy explains.

            “You don’t think we’ll get in trouble for not having a chaperone, do you?” Frankie asks.

            “Remember, I’ve done this before. My mom told your dad all about it so he trusts me. Plus, this cliff is for first-timers. It’ll be easy for me, that way I can help you,” the boy answers.

            Frankie walks up next to the boy and rests his hands on the cliff. The rock feels cold, but dry. Their shoes sink into the soft sand. The boy places the ball of his right foot on a sturdy foothold. He stretches his arms above his head and grabs a hold with each hand. He breaks contact with the ground as he transfers his weight from his left foot, pulls himself up with his arms, and digs his left toe into the coast.

            “Come on,” the boy gestures with his head towards Frankie.

            Frankie follows suit. He finds a foothold with his right foot, and pulls his weight onto the rock. Frankie feels comfortable with his torso against the stone, and his fingers grasping the handholds. Pebbles plummet from somewhere above the boys. The rocks pass them and scatter on the sand below.

            Frankie and the boy scale the façade carefully. They place each foot meticulously. The cliff dangles life by a string, swinging it back and forth before Frankie’s eyes. Frankie trembles beside the boy, and the boy looks at him.

            “Don’t be afraid. We’re doing well so far,” the boy comforts.

            Frankie breathes deeply, and continues the ascent. His hands grow sore. The rock licks layers of skin from his fingertips.

            The boy pulls himself up, a body’s length above Frankie.

            “Come over this way, it doesn’t look sturdy over there,” the boy advises.

            Frankie stops, just for an instant. He looks up at the boy. Pebbles rain down onto his face. The rock underneath the boy’s left hand begins to disappear. Frankie stares at the boy. The pink glow of health recedes then disappears. The boy’s face is snow white. Frankie does not take a breath as the rock beneath the boy’s right hand crumbles.

            The cliff crumbles, and the boy falls. Frankie can feel the rush of air. He watches in horror as the body drops. In an instant, it hits the rock hard sand. The boy is flat on his back. For a moment his mouth twists in pain and his eyes well up with salty tears. Without air in his lungs he makes no sound. He writhes once, twice, and then he is still. His clear, peaceful eyes stare past Frankie into the clouds.

~

            Frankie sits in the surf alone. Behind him, a scout leader crouches over the body. Another keeps a group of sickened, yet fascinated boy scouts at bay. Frankie is shaking. His father walks slowly and steadily toward him from the direction of camp. His silhouette grows clearer as he moves closer to his son. Garrett towers next to the boy. Frankie is afraid to look up. He expects a face of rage, sadness, blame, regret.

            Garrett waits patiently. He says nothing. They remain this way for minutes. Frankie finally takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and turns his face to Garrett. Frankie opens his eyes. Garrett’s face is hard to read. It is an expression Frankie has never witnessed. He studies the eyes and the mouth, and then it dawns on him. Frankie becomes sick. He turns from Garret and vomits into the sand.

~

            Why did it take me so long to understand? My father asked the boy to climb up that cliff with me. He told the boy to make me feel safe. He hired the boy, in the last moment, to push me. It was all in Garrett’s eyes, the way he stared at me.  It went all wrong Frankie.  The boy died when he shouldn’t have… it should have been you, Frankie.

            Frankie sits on the bus alone. The trip is cut short, and Garret has sent Frankie home.  As the bus rumbles toward Atherton, Frankie’s fear builds slowly. He makes a decision during those miles. If he does not run, his father will somehow, someway finish what the boy started.

            The bus pulls into the station just a few miles from his home. From the window Frankie spots his mother, who stands, in tears, under an awning. She holds a crumpled tissue in her hand. Frankie leaves the bus behind and follows his mother to the car. They do not exchange words or glances, both are too afraid.

~

            Frankie sits on his bed. He repeats the plan over and over in his head. He will wake up at three o’clock in the morning. He will quietly dress, and creep downstairs. His mother will be asleep in her bed. Garrett will not be home. He is still on the road from Santa Maria. Frankie will remove the set of spare keys from the drawer in the study. His mother’s car is parked in the garage. The old door is too noisy to open. His father’s car is only pulled into the driveway, not locked away. Frankie will sit behind the wheel; he will start the ignition and back carefully and quickly from the driveway. Frankie will steal away, in the dead of the night, to escape to the Sierras. He will hide amongst the trees in the family cabin and gather his thoughts.

~

            After the five-hour drive, Frankie tackles the last quarter mile up the mountain fighting fatigue, and hunger. He skirts around the back of the cabin and parks the car several yards into the woods. He hopes the vehicle will not be spotted from the road. Frankie does not want to draw attention. An icy wind cuts through his jacket as he crashes through the knee-deep snow. The cabin is cloaked in gray and sits against the peach sunrise. The windows are black. Frankie rubs his hands together and hurries to the back door. He is freezing to death.

            Frankie pulls the keychain from his pocket, fighting with his iced fingers for a proper grip. He knows the key is on the ring, he just does not know which one it is. On his third try the key slides into the lock and Frankie twists the knob to let himself in. He runs toward the thermostat and turns it on high. Puffs of fog drift from his mouth as he pants inside the freezing room. Frankie switches on some lights and then trudges into the kitchen. He is ravenous. He opens the first three cupboards with no success. Frankie slowly grows panicked. He is afraid. The search continues until the fifth cupboard above the sink. In a neat row, as if set out just for him, sits a can of stewed tomatoes, a can of chicken broth, and beans. Frankie violently pulls a drawer from its socket and dumps its contents onto the red linoleum floor. He falls to his knees and runs his hands through the utensils. After a moment Frankie grasps the can-opener and starts with the beans. He scoops them into his mouth with his hand. Frankie takes a sip of the chicken broth, gags, and then downs the salty, concentrated liquid.

            Outside, a thick layer of clouds has formed above the forest. The trees sway in a stormy breeze. A deer lifts his head from the ground and stares to the horizon as a light snow begins to fall. Frankie surrenders to fatigue on the couch as the breeze turns to wind, and the snowflakes create blankets on the forest floor.

            The storm builds all day, as Frankie lies unaware in the cabin. He sleeps until the sun falls behind the trees, and at six o’clock his eyes blink open. He sits silently, his ears strain to the outside waiting to hear the rumble of a car, voices, or footsteps. Frankie knows he must flee at any sign of pursuit; his life depends on it.

            It is ten-thirty, and after a can of stewed tomatoes Frankie once again finds himself weary. He sleeps easily through the stormy night and awakens only when the light of day leaks into the cabin. The sky is still cloudy, but the snow has died away.

            In dire need of a bathroom Frankie stands, stretches, and walks down a hallway to the only bathroom in the house. He flips the light-switch.

~

            At the bottom of the mountain, a car drops into low gear and slowly climbs the grade. The engine strains against the steep road, but the car persists and carries its passenger steadily toward the summit.

            Frankie stands over the toilet in relief. A sound, just barely audible, snakes under the front door, down the hallway, into the bathroom, and up to Frankie’s ear. In the next moment his heart stops, and his lungs constrict. Frankie has heard this sound his entire life, a car climbing a hill. His heart springs to life, and races against his chest. Frankie zips his pants and sprints from the bathroom to the living room. He darts from one light switch to the next, frantically weaving darkness into the room. He rips his jacket from the armrest of the couch and scrounges for the keys. His hands shake violently against the buttoned pockets.

            The car shifts up as it reaches the top of the mountain. It glides slowly across the road avoiding the patches of ice frozen onto the pavement. The passenger leans to the windshield and catches his first glimpse of the cabin. The rooms are dark. The driver pulls his car into the driveway.

            Frankie hears the engine shudder to a stop. He stifles a shriek and finally tears the keys from his coat. He fights his trembling knees and runs to the back door. He throws it open and plunges into the snow. The storm has created chest-high walls, and Frankie plows through in the direction of the car he hid two nights before. The shiny, black roof rises just above the snowline, and Frankie hysterically pushes a path to the hidden vehicle.

            In the front driveway, a door opens, pushing the snow from against the car. Garrett rises onto his feet before the cabin. His first thought is to search for a vehicle, as it would have been nearly impossible to reach the secluded spot without one. Garrett plows easily through the snow, and towards the side of the house.

            Frankie reaches the hidden car and works his fingers to improve blood-flow. He shivers against the cold and pushes the key into the lock. He throws open the front driver’s side door, dives into the car, and quietly clicks the door shut behind him. He crawls into the back seat. Everything is gray. Snow is packed against the windows. Light trickles into the blackness from the driver’s window and Frankie watches the fog curl from between his lips. The snow blinds him. Frankie listens intently. From the side of the cabin comes the soft swish of a man cutting through a thick wall of snowflakes.

            Garrett spots the roof of his car several yards into he woods behind the house. He sees a path, like a hedge-maze, from the rear door to the far side of the vehicle. Garrett presses on.

            Frankie’s arm cuts through the icy air and presses down the lock. He draws his hand back to his body and his fingers soak up body heat. He shudders and listens. From outside, the muffled sounds grow closer. Arms push heaps of snow to the side. Frankie cannot see. Everything is silent except for the loafers that grow nearer to the car. His door is locked. Everything is gray. Frankie begins to cry.