Meet Francine Pt. 11
I sit here listening to Bunny tell me the story of Rachel’s decision to keep the baby she had conceived through rape and Bunny’s refusal to accept her decision.
Who can answer for the conscience? Is it not letting on you care? Is it not caring? Is it holding back or letting go?
Bunny raises himself out of the armchair, looking out the window.
“Brannon is here, he’s early,” he tells me.
I feel a little fluttery and giddy, like a sixteen-year-old. This afternoon has been full of emotion, hearing what Bunny has had to say. It has been gut-wrenching, and while Bunny has never said Brannon is the child in question, this is where I think he’s leading.
“I’ll just get the door for him, Francine.”
I’m at the wrong angle to view out the window. I hear the door of the truck slam and heavy footsteps on the gravel.
“Hey, lad. You’re earlier than I thought you would be,” Bunny says.
“Aye, Brian said he would finish up and put the cows back in the pasture.”
“That’s grand, let me take that, you go through,” Bunny says.
The odour of farming arrives ahead of Brannon.
“Hi, Francine. How are you feeling?”
“Hello, Brannon. I’m being treated like a princess in a fairytale,” I say.
“Aye, well, Dad can do that. He’s got the charm. I’m going to hop through to the bathroom and get cleaned up, then I’ll begin dinner.”
“You’re doing dinner, Brannon?”
“Aye, lass, lest you’ll go hungry, or eat beans on toast. Dad couldn’t cook a boiled egg…”
“I heard that, lad. Mind your cheek. I’ll have you know I’ve been looking after myself very well,” Bunny says, returning.
Brannon smiles, then spies the photo album. “Oh God, tell me you haven’t made Francine too weary for dinner with photo albums, Dad.”
“The smell of you will turn her off dinner, get yourself cleaned up, boy,” Bunny says, picking up the album and placing it on a shelf.
“That’ll be true enough. Why don’t you offer Francine a pre-dinner drink, dad. I’ll change my signature smell to that of a fragrance counter,” Brannon jokes, winking at me before disappearing out of the room.
“I never give the lad credit, Francine, it’s just the way we are. When he was a wee one, he liked to help Rachel with the cooking. She’d have him stand on a chair at the kitchen counter, let him add ingredients into a bowl, stirring them into the flour with a wooden spoon almost as big as him.”
There’s a rumbling sound on the ceiling. “Don’t worry, that’s the water going up to the shower, the cottage still has some of the original plumbing,” he says. “Brannon is right, what can I get you to drink. We have red or white wine, and whiskey. Not much of a choice, I’m afraid.”
“I’ll have a red wine, Bunny.”
“Good enough, I keep it in the kitchen, the Aga keeps the chill off the wine. The kitchen is the warmest room in the house,” he says and wanders off to the kitchen.
I can hear the shower and think of Brannon, the soap suds running down his body. God, what is wrong with me? Still, I’m not dead; I have desires, and the thought of his tight buttocks covered in soap has me feeling a little heated.
“Here we go, lass,” Bunny says, handing me a glass of red wine. “I must say I haven’t had a glass of wine in several months. Don’t worry, Brannon enjoys a glass. He keeps a bottle of white wine here, too,” Buuny says as Brandon reappears.
“White what, Dad? Oh no, Francine, hand me your glass, will you?” Brannon says. “Dad, my God, this is a tumbler, used for water!”
“The glass doesn’t change the wine, son,” Bunny calls after Brannon, who has already left the room. “That boy is never satisfied,” he says.
I feel myself smiling at the two of them, like children together.
Brannon returns, holding a beautiful glass of full-bodied red.
“Sorry, Francine,” he says, handing me the glass.
Bunny is sitting in his armchair, smirking. You’d think the two were Steptoe and Son, but the love is evident no matter how they disguise it.
“This is beautiful, Brannon.”
“Aye, it’s from California, Josh wineries. It’s nothing special but a lovely dinner wine. It will go beautifully with our Filet Mignon later,” he says. Then looks over at Bunny. “Dad, where’s yours?”
“I’m fine, boy. You both enjoy.”
“Dad, you think there’s not enough. I brought more wine with me, so what do you think?”
“Aye, well, in that case, I could have a dribble, maybe.”
The glass Bunny had given me would have filled two wine glasses. It sounds like Brannon has his Dad well figured out.
“Here ye go, Dad. By dinner time, we’ll have warmed another bottle to room temp.”
“Thank ye, laddie,” Bunny says, receiving the glass.
The first sip of wine runs down my throat and warmly into my tummy. These two men have no idea of the comfort they are offering me. I’m living back in ancient times with two Norsemen who knew glory and cruelty. As if to prove their love for each other, they would slash themselves and drink each other's blood.
How much I want my pen while their love is so apparent. Two men, as father and son, as can be imagined, tight, closed to the outside world, full of backcountry words. I can only imagine that whatever affects one affects the other. I want to be angry that I don’t have my pen or a piano while I have their melody in my head and heart.
“How’s the pain level, Francine?”
Pain, what pain… I have no pain.
“Oh, it feels fine, Brannon. Honestly, I’m sure I can manage at home,” I tell him as he comes around the armchair to kneel at my raised foot. He places his hand on my toes, “Feel everything okay?”
“Yes,” I say.
This handsome man is touching my toes, but it isn’t my toes that are tingling.
“You’ll stay off it for three or four days; let Dad work his charm on you,” he says. It was the sweetest order I’d ever been given.
“I can’t intrude that long, Brannon. Your father has been wonderful, but I cannot put him through three days of this.”
“Probably four days, but I can work on the farm knowing someone is keeping him out of trouble.”
“Do I get any say in this?” Bunny interrupts.
“Nay, Dad, she cannot stay forever; she has her writing and a piano to return to. Francine writes songs.”
“Yes, lad. I do know something about the lassie.”
“Okay, well, I’ll get dinner started. Francine, how do you like your steak?”
“Medium rare, please.”
“Dad?”
“Well done. You know I like my beef well done?”
“Aye, Dad, which is why I never buy it for you,” Brannon says. “Francine, I’ll come back and carry you to the bathroom for you to wash up closer to dinner, unless you need to go earlier?”
Oh please, lift me now, hold me in your arms, Brannon.
“I’m fine, Brannon.”
Brannon nods sideways, encouraging me to glance at Bunny, fast asleep. “A little wine takes care of him,” Brannon whispers and pulls the glass to a safer spot should he wake in a start. He then takes a throw off the settee and carefully folds it over Bunny’s legs.
Brannon quietly exits the room, closing the door behind him. Can anyone in the world be doomed to such happiness? Is life just a way of ruining strength? A means of destroying nerves? I wish Bunny would fall into a sleep that lasted days and days at a time, and when he woke up, all his sorrowful dreams would be just that: dreams.
We cannot escape suffering. Drinking helps; making a fool of oneself hides the hurt, but the world is unforgiving, and we continue to exist. Mending ourselves isn’t like a turn in the weather; there are no monstrous clouds, only monstrous loves.
Dream on, Bunny. See the endless shores, feel the morning breeze, and be a child again.
