Whether he ends the relationship or they, I have no idea. And, unlike his treatment of Franny, he does see them socially: dinner, theater, weekend trips. He doesn’t know it yet, but I shall be the next woman in his life.
A few words of clarification and regret:
In all honesty, I must say I dismissed Franny’s sexuality. It never occurred to me that she had a boyfriend. I thought of her as a neuter, without sensual feelings, as asexual as a piece of furniture. How could she have gotten involved with a man like M.? How could I have not noticed the changes in her? Was I so self-absorbed, as she hinted, that I saw nothing? I think back, I rack my brain, I try to remember: when we met for dinner, were there ever any bruises on her arms or wrists? I’m ashamed to say, I never noticed.
I was also unaware of Franny’s close ties to Mrs. Deever. They had formed a symbiotic relationship that had served them both, and yet Franny failed to mention her to me except in the most casual of terms. Not once did she say she was coming to think of Sue Deever as a maternal figure, as a sort of ersatz mother. Or did she? She may have dropped subtle hints of their symbiosis that passed me by. Perhaps symbiosis is too clinical a term to describe their connection. I admit I have a tendency to view the world in an empirical manner, filtering my observations through the objective lenses of scientific methodology. I am infinitely more comfortable with detached observation than subjectivity. But perhaps I need to step out from behind the magnifying lenses so I can see more clearly the extent of her intimate ties with others, binding ties, apparently—a subject with which I have little personal experience.
But the diary reveals how I have failed her. I had no idea Franny was still suffering from the loss of our parents, desperate to have someone take their place, still longing for, still needing, unconditional parental love. When she came to live with me, she was so quiet and well-behaved, always doing well in school and never causing any trouble, that I thought she had adjusted to our parents’ death. I thought she was okay. Several months before he died, my father had called me and said Franny was misbehaving. She was acting like a tomboy, he said, and he hinted about an incident involving stolen bicycles. But when she came to Sacramento, Franny was docile, quiet, timid. There was no misbehavior, no tomboyish activities. She stayed close to home, did her schoolwork, and watched TV. Other than gain weight, each month putting on a few pounds, she seemed relatively normal. How was I to know she was so unhappy? I tried my best to take care of her, but my best wasn’t good enough. I can see that now.
CHAPTER SIX
I’m meeting M. at Fluffy Do-nuts this morning, located in the University Mall across the street from the UCD campus. Fluffy’s is almost a landmark in Davis. It’s long and narrow, with plate-glass windows facing the Safeway grocery store, and, in the mornings, it’s probably the busiest place in town. I don’t know why. There’s a plastic look to it—functional, hardbacked Formica booths, laminated tabletops, overhead lighting that glares, a worn linoleum floor—but the doughnuts and coffee are good, and over the years it’s become a sort of unofficial gathering place for Davis residents.
I don’t jog—I prefer low-impact, high-intensity aerobics—but I’m wearing a pink-and-gray jogging suit so it will appear that I do. I want to attract M., I want him to assume we have activities in common. Attracting men has never been a problem for me, but this morning, as I dressed in the jogging suit—a recent acquisition from Macy’s —and white Reeboks, I was worried. I needed to impress M. I took special care with my makeup, and was pleased with the result. I have a pleasant face, attractive but not beautiful, just beginning to show the wear and tear of thirty-five years—a few lines around the eyes, skin not quite as
A few words of clarification and regret:
In all honesty, I must say I dismissed Franny’s sexuality. It never occurred to me that she had a boyfriend. I thought of her as a neuter, without sensual feelings, as asexual as a piece of furniture. How could she have gotten involved with a man like M.? How could I have not noticed the changes in her? Was I so self-absorbed, as she hinted, that I saw nothing? I think back, I rack my brain, I try to remember: when we met for dinner, were there ever any bruises on her arms or wrists? I’m ashamed to say, I never noticed.
I was also unaware of Franny’s close ties to Mrs. Deever. They had formed a symbiotic relationship that had served them both, and yet Franny failed to mention her to me except in the most casual of terms. Not once did she say she was coming to think of Sue Deever as a maternal figure, as a sort of ersatz mother. Or did she? She may have dropped subtle hints of their symbiosis that passed me by. Perhaps symbiosis is too clinical a term to describe their connection. I admit I have a tendency to view the world in an empirical manner, filtering my observations through the objective lenses of scientific methodology. I am infinitely more comfortable with detached observation than subjectivity. But perhaps I need to step out from behind the magnifying lenses so I can see more clearly the extent of her intimate ties with others, binding ties, apparently—a subject with which I have little personal experience.
But the diary reveals how I have failed her. I had no idea Franny was still suffering from the loss of our parents, desperate to have someone take their place, still longing for, still needing, unconditional parental love. When she came to live with me, she was so quiet and well-behaved, always doing well in school and never causing any trouble, that I thought she had adjusted to our parents’ death. I thought she was okay. Several months before he died, my father had called me and said Franny was misbehaving. She was acting like a tomboy, he said, and he hinted about an incident involving stolen bicycles. But when she came to Sacramento, Franny was docile, quiet, timid. There was no misbehavior, no tomboyish activities. She stayed close to home, did her schoolwork, and watched TV. Other than gain weight, each month putting on a few pounds, she seemed relatively normal. How was I to know she was so unhappy? I tried my best to take care of her, but my best wasn’t good enough. I can see that now.
CHAPTER SIX
I’m meeting M. at Fluffy Do-nuts this morning, located in the University Mall across the street from the UCD campus. Fluffy’s is almost a landmark in Davis. It’s long and narrow, with plate-glass windows facing the Safeway grocery store, and, in the mornings, it’s probably the busiest place in town. I don’t know why. There’s a plastic look to it—functional, hardbacked Formica booths, laminated tabletops, overhead lighting that glares, a worn linoleum floor—but the doughnuts and coffee are good, and over the years it’s become a sort of unofficial gathering place for Davis residents.
I don’t jog—I prefer low-impact, high-intensity aerobics—but I’m wearing a pink-and-gray jogging suit so it will appear that I do. I want to attract M., I want him to assume we have activities in common. Attracting men has never been a problem for me, but this morning, as I dressed in the jogging suit—a recent acquisition from Macy’s —and white Reeboks, I was worried. I needed to impress M. I took special care with my makeup, and was pleased with the result. I have a pleasant face, attractive but not beautiful, just beginning to show the wear and tear of thirty-five years—a few lines around the eyes, skin not quite as
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