moment, then says, “Home.”
“Alone, I suppose.”
“That’s right.”
“How convenient. And you don’t know anything about a dark car with blackened windows that nearly ran me down?”
M. stops jogging. “Are you serious?” he says, a look of concern spreading across his face. I keep on going. He catches up to me.
“I’m not about to run you over with a car,” he says. “Obviously, it was an accident.”
“Obviously.”
He looks over at me with a droll smile. “If I decide to come after you, Nora, you’ll know it. I won’t hide behind blackened windows.”
“And it’ll take more than a near-miss to scare me away. I intend to find out the truth about Franny. And you.”
We jog without speaking. To the right, a lone tractor slowly trundles across a patch of brown land, and in the distance I see a man rambling through a field in some sort of three-wheeled vehicle, stopping every now and then to check on the irrigation pipes.
Breathing heavily, I run along, my feet pounding the asphalt, feeling ungainly next to M. with his light-footed, easy pace. “I usually work out in the gym,” I tell him, trying to breathe normally. “Swimming, weights, aerobic classes, Jazzercise. I haven’t jogged for years.”
“I can tell,” he says, and I hear the condescension in his voice. I pick up my speed, even though it makes my lungs ache.
“You said you knew about Franny’s diary,” I begin.
“Yes, I even read it.”
“Then you know how sketchy it was. And that she stopped making entries toward the end. The last part of her life is missing.”
I stop speaking to catch my breath, and we jog in silence. A backhoe, like a defunct dinosaur, is poised on the edge of the road with its clawed scoop turned in on itself, as if it were digging its own grave.
“You didn’t tell me anything about Franny the other night,” I continue. “I want to know what happened in the weeks right before she died.”
“Not so fast,” M. says. “Time to back up; we’re going to do this chronologically. I’m saving that for last.” He hesitates, then adds, “And I can only give you information up to a certain point. I didn’t kill Franny; you’ll have to search elsewhere for that piece of information. Even so, there’s plenty I can tell you.”
We jog on. I am irritated but try not to show it. This is, after all, his game, and I have to play by his rules—or so he thinks. My shoes thud rhythmically on the road. I thought my reservoir of energy was near depletion, but I feel a renewal, a determination to continue, despite the pain in my calves and lungs.
“Okay,” I say finally. “We’ll do it your way. Tell me something about Franny—something I don’t know.”
In thought, he gazes across an immense field of sod, the grass gathering color in the lightening sky, flocked like velvet in the early-morning dew, seemingly endless. M. does not vary his pace; it is steady, even, and, for him, leisurely.
He says, “There were two things Franny was very good at: communicating—which I know comes as a surprise to you—and oral sex.” He pauses. “On second thought, I suppose both will surprise you.”
Oral sex? I say nothing. After reading Franny’s diary 1 realized she had, like everyone else, sexual desires. Still, I have trouble imagining her sucking this man’s cock—and being good at it. Or even liking it.
He continues, “At the beginning, she was horrible at both. She was very shy when we first met and had a difficult time speaking about you, or your parents or brother, or what she was feeling inside, but once she trusted me she opened right up. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say I forced her to open up. I gave her no choice: I questioned her relentlessly, probing deeper into her psyche each time. She was timid and apprehensive until the end, and she never stood up to me, but at least she got to the point where she could articulate her feelings quite well—to me, if not to anyone else.
“Alone, I suppose.”
“That’s right.”
“How convenient. And you don’t know anything about a dark car with blackened windows that nearly ran me down?”
M. stops jogging. “Are you serious?” he says, a look of concern spreading across his face. I keep on going. He catches up to me.
“I’m not about to run you over with a car,” he says. “Obviously, it was an accident.”
“Obviously.”
He looks over at me with a droll smile. “If I decide to come after you, Nora, you’ll know it. I won’t hide behind blackened windows.”
“And it’ll take more than a near-miss to scare me away. I intend to find out the truth about Franny. And you.”
We jog without speaking. To the right, a lone tractor slowly trundles across a patch of brown land, and in the distance I see a man rambling through a field in some sort of three-wheeled vehicle, stopping every now and then to check on the irrigation pipes.
Breathing heavily, I run along, my feet pounding the asphalt, feeling ungainly next to M. with his light-footed, easy pace. “I usually work out in the gym,” I tell him, trying to breathe normally. “Swimming, weights, aerobic classes, Jazzercise. I haven’t jogged for years.”
“I can tell,” he says, and I hear the condescension in his voice. I pick up my speed, even though it makes my lungs ache.
“You said you knew about Franny’s diary,” I begin.
“Yes, I even read it.”
“Then you know how sketchy it was. And that she stopped making entries toward the end. The last part of her life is missing.”
I stop speaking to catch my breath, and we jog in silence. A backhoe, like a defunct dinosaur, is poised on the edge of the road with its clawed scoop turned in on itself, as if it were digging its own grave.
“You didn’t tell me anything about Franny the other night,” I continue. “I want to know what happened in the weeks right before she died.”
“Not so fast,” M. says. “Time to back up; we’re going to do this chronologically. I’m saving that for last.” He hesitates, then adds, “And I can only give you information up to a certain point. I didn’t kill Franny; you’ll have to search elsewhere for that piece of information. Even so, there’s plenty I can tell you.”
We jog on. I am irritated but try not to show it. This is, after all, his game, and I have to play by his rules—or so he thinks. My shoes thud rhythmically on the road. I thought my reservoir of energy was near depletion, but I feel a renewal, a determination to continue, despite the pain in my calves and lungs.
“Okay,” I say finally. “We’ll do it your way. Tell me something about Franny—something I don’t know.”
In thought, he gazes across an immense field of sod, the grass gathering color in the lightening sky, flocked like velvet in the early-morning dew, seemingly endless. M. does not vary his pace; it is steady, even, and, for him, leisurely.
He says, “There were two things Franny was very good at: communicating—which I know comes as a surprise to you—and oral sex.” He pauses. “On second thought, I suppose both will surprise you.”
Oral sex? I say nothing. After reading Franny’s diary 1 realized she had, like everyone else, sexual desires. Still, I have trouble imagining her sucking this man’s cock—and being good at it. Or even liking it.
He continues, “At the beginning, she was horrible at both. She was very shy when we first met and had a difficult time speaking about you, or your parents or brother, or what she was feeling inside, but once she trusted me she opened right up. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say I forced her to open up. I gave her no choice: I questioned her relentlessly, probing deeper into her psyche each time. She was timid and apprehensive until the end, and she never stood up to me, but at least she got to the point where she could articulate her feelings quite well—to me, if not to anyone else.
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