"Kenny, you stole my house, my heart and it's filled to the top with --tears!"
Frances put the bicycle away and entered her home, and suddenly, she was in her white bed. She longed to sleep as a means to stop thinking, stop her awareness, but knew she would not sleep. Then she was in the darkened front room, on the straight chair. Ray came into the room, his large shoes thumping.
"How are you, Frances?"
"All right, I guess. The not-sleeping, though, it's--"
"I know. Hard for you."
She let her head drop back with exhaustion. "Who was it that called," she murmured in a rather agonized way.
"Don't know, Frances. Well, you know, maybe it was one of the children."
"What are you talking about?" She slurred her words.
"Or, I mean, one of the group of The Children. They know you, Frances, and sense a kinship with you.
"Yeah," Ray said. "Are you satisfied with the way things are?"
"You know I'm not," she answered.
The mother had a chiropidist appointment.
They went to a social gathering in the downtown party hall. The entertainment consisted of Judge Lane giving a fine talk on business conditions
and Mrs Newall imitating birds. Someone stood and gave a story about Pat and his motorcycle, using a brogue.
It was a huge room, lit from behind bluishly; before her sat rows of youngish women, all looking at a teacher or leader of some sort, a woman who wore a white pants-uniform. In a room behind, girls tumbled across mats. Other girls were crowded into a maze of small, open room, stretching their limbs, giggling. Then they all sat on hard benches to listen to the woman in the uniform.
During her sojourn there, Frances grew to know a local
policeman, Oran Walker. Often strolling on his downtown beat,
Oran was happy to see a new face. "Hallo!" he said the first
time they met, when Frances had been standing near a barber shop,
looking in. "Are you new here?"
"Certainly am," she answered, full of the vigor that came from
a recent act of rebellion. "I've never seen a policeman's
uniform exactly like yours." She noted his name tag, which had
rows of tiny print below the actual name.
"You're sharp!" Oran said. "These happen to be brand new
uniforms. Come with me, and I'll tell you about them."
"Actually, I'm on my way to buy a box of ice cream," Frances
said skeptically. She did not want to talk for a long time to
Oran Walker.
"It'll only take a minute," Oran said. "I'll walk with you.
First of all," he said, taking her hand, striding forward, "this
is our cap...well, that's obvious!" He laughed, somewhat
embarrassed. "And these are our shoes." The shoes were terribly
long and shiny, with very large heels. Frances had difficulty
looking at them.
"Then there's the bullet vest, brand new and while this
doesn't always prevent a death, the key idea is that it may. Who
knows if a gunman will aim for the neck, head, or chest?"
"I shouldn't think anyone would shoot you at all," she said.
"Has it ever happened in this town? A shooting?"
"Oh, no," Oran answered. "But if it does, I'll be fine.
After all, I believe in health, don't you? I eat pretty well."
"So do I, I supposed," Frances answered.
"I urinate 15 times a day," he said. There's a good reason for that.
"Here's the grocery," Frances said, since they were upon it.
"Goodbye," she said, disengaging her hand and heading into the
store.
"Well, goodbye," he said. "Come talk to me on this
street anytime!" Oran Walker sat on the curb.