Harry on the Prairie

Chapter 38

AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Frankie's mama is played by Kim Cattrall (Sex & The City).
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*****

It sounded like somebody else
That was talkin', askin',
"Mama, what do I do?"
She said, "Just be nice to the gentlemen,
Fancy, and they'll be nice to you."
    —Reba McEntire

*****

HARRY:

"I don't think I'm followin' you, Frankie. It's like you're talkin' in circles." Just say it. Please. Put me out of my misery.

"My mama was a hooker at the Hullaballoo. She was a whore, Harry."

*****

FRANKIE:

In all the days I've lived on God's green earth, I ain't never called my mama a whore. Now I'm standin' here shocked by the words that done come outta my own mouth, and judgin' from the look on Harry's face, I ain't the only one. His hands squeeze mine tight, and after a pause long enough I coulda gone and milked the cow and come back, Harry finds his words.

"You mean . . . she'd lay with men . . . for money? Like sellin' her favors?" He whispers like people do in church when they ain't s'posed to be talkin'. The cogs and wheels are a-spinnin' in his head as he tries to grab onto what I'm sayin'. He don't look mad, and he also don't look like he thinks less of me none. He just looks kinda . . . blank.  I need to make sure he understands.

"Yeah. Umm . . . she'd lay with men . . . without her clothes on." The silence would be unbearable if it wasn't for the storm outside, which I'm thanking God for cause it's coverin' up how hard my heart is smashin' up against my ribcage. "Nekkid," I tack on for clarity.

His eyes, which are dartin' every which way all over the cellar, return to my face with a movement so sudden that I can feel the weight of them. "I know what you mean, Frankie. I'm just . . . "

"Just what?"

"I'm just thinkin', that's all." Harry pulls me close and hugs me so I can barely breathe.

"Thinkin' you don't want to marry me anymore?" I whisper into his chest.

He pushes me back gently by the shoulders, the spark in his eyes bolder than the lightnin' strikes outside. "I love you. I want you to be mine. I will always, always want you to be mine."

I throw my arms around his neck and he crushes me to him, liftin' me up so my slippers fall off. When he sets me back down, he looks a bit nervous and bleary-eyed, like he's just had a realization. Uh-oh.

Harry takes an angry breath. "That fella in the wagon I was beatin' up — did he . . . does he . . . do you . . . know him?"

"I didn't recognize him right off, Harry, or I never woulda gotten in that wagon." He thinks I'm soiled like my mama. Unable to look him in the eyes, I hide my face in my hands and remember mama's words.

"I hated livin' in that place. It was filthy and I was privy to things little girls should never know about. Some men would come in and lay with a different woman every time. They might see the same one for awhile, but if a younger girl come in, they'd all flock to her — showerin' her with presents like they meant somethin.' They'd walk right by their previous lover without as much as a glance! That house was full of canoodlin', but empty of what matters most. Genuine affection."

"So you do know him? Frankie?  Were you with him?" His voice cracks in desperation.

"How can you ask me that, Harry? Do you really think I could sell myself like that? After the tender ways that you and I have been together - you think I'm capable of that?" My vision a blur, I pummel his chest with my fists and only realize I'm screamin' when I hear Duke's whine. "Is that what you think?!" I continue to lash out at him even though I can't see a damned thing on account of my tears and the candle gettin' low.

Harry turns me and pulls me to his chest with my back against him, his hands grasp my wrists and pull my arms down to my sides so I can't continue to hurt him. I feel his body pressed against me, his lips on my ear, "Shhh, Frankie.  No, darlin'. That isn't what I meant. Please, hon' — lemme explain." He slides his hands up and down my arms in calming strokes, cooing sweet words of comfort in my ear. Please, Jesus. Help him to understand me. Don't let me have him for this short while just to have him taken from me like this. Please.

When he trusts me enough to turn me to face him, his face is red and tear-stained. He brings his palm to my cheek. "The thought of you livin' in that place rips my heart up, Frankie. And the notion that your first time could have been against your will in a place like that — I just can't stand it."  His thumbs swipe away tears beneath my eyes. "When I ask you these things, I'm not judgin' you, Frankie. I want better for you. So much better."

"I hadn't even kissed anyone before you, Harry." I sniffle and wipe my nose on the long-sleeve of my white nightgown. "The guy from the wagon, he was one of mama's regular visitors. He'd give me candy so I'd make myself scarce and he could have his way with her. I'd go out on the porch of the Hullaballoo to get as far away as I could from what they were doin' in there. I didn't want to accept his treats, but I did since they were the only treats I ever got. Mama couldn't afford nothin' extra. It was bad enough she had to work extra for my room and board, until I was grown enough to 'earn' it myself, mama said. I'd sit on that porch and look at the people walkin' by in the street, wonderin' what kind of lives they led. Surely they were better than mine was. Sometimes I'd pretend I was sittin' on the big front porch of my own house. That only lasted a short while before mama'd come out and drag me back inside, tellin' me to quit daydreamin' 'bout things that weren't never gonna happen. She said once I lived in the Hullaballoo, the townsfolk wouldn't bother to spit on me if I were on fire. I was branded a whore, whether I'd done anything whorish or not. She'd say I might as well get used to the idea of earnin' my keep, cause in another couple years I'd be old enough to work just like mama was. And she didn't mean in the kitchen."

Harry asks gentle questions and nods in understandin' as the pieces start fittin' into place. Do I know who my daddy is? No. Do I recall ever livin' anywhere other than the Hullaballoo? No. Did I go to school, or have any friends? No. I learned how to cook, clean, and to mend garments for the ladies.

"I even learned how to read some cause one day a little boy dropped his reader in front of the Hullaballoo. He'd come 'round on occasion and stare 'til his mama done drug him off for gawkin'. I scrambled off that porch so fast and snatched that reader. Tucked it under my apron 'til I got to my room, where I hid it 'neath the threadbare mattress in the corner where I slept. I've held onto that book ever since. It's always given me hope."

"Holy shit, Frankie." Harry seems more surprised over me pilferin' this kid's reader than the revelation about mama.

"I know, it was wrong of me to take it. I coulda called out and—"

Grabbing me by the shoulders, Harry's excited eyes bore into mine. "That was my book, Frankie. That kid was me."

"Shut up, Harry. That's not very nice to make fun of somethin' that meant so much to me in a time where I had nothin'. I still have it. It has his initials in it —"

"I know, cause I wrote 'em, Frankie."

Then, at the same time,

"H.E.S."