Page 20 of Supernova

Whit Evans lived at the top of a tall apartment building with a doorman and a bank of elevators. Frankie remembered that the night had shifted for her at some point after she’d gotten up to use the ladies’ room and Whit had ordered her another French 75, but she couldn’t recall quite what had changed.

“Good evening, Mr. Evans,” the doorman said, tipping his cap at Whit and looking away discreetly as Whit held Frankie by the elbow with one hand, his other arm around her waist as he helped her to the elevator.

Frankie slumped slightly against the handrail in the elevator, giggling to herself at how lightheaded she was feeling. “Is this normal?” she asked Whit, falling against him as he reached for her. “Does a French 75 usually make you feel like your head isn’t connected to your body?”

Whit didn’t answer, but instead punched the button for the top floor. “Uh huh,” he said, holding onto Frankie. “It can do that.”

Frankie wasn’t sure why, but the warmth of his attentiveness seemed to have cooled, and now he was answering her the way a grown-up not used to dealing with children might: he brushed off her questions, sounding just a touch impatient each time she spoke.

Whit’s apartment door opened onto a vast, open space. The walls were covered with artwork, and the kitchen looked unused. Frankie stumbled through it as he took off his overcoat and set his keys and wallet on a table by the door.

“This view,” she said, walking over to a wall of windows that looked out towards Central Park at night. “During the day…”

“Yes, it is amazing,” Whit said. The heels of his shoes clicked on the parquet floors as he walked across the room to her, positioning himself behind her with his hands on her waist. She still wore her trench coat and heels. “But you’re more amazing.”

Frankie moved her head from him as he tried to nuzzle into the back of her neck; she wanted to look at this apartment more than she wanted Whit Evans to touch her in any way. On second thought, how had she even agreed to go up there with him? That wasn’t like her. She frowned at her own reflection in the window, the dark night beyond it, watching his hands as they unbelted her coat. The trench fell open, and Frankie’s black leotard revealed her hourglass figure. Whit slipped her coat off her shoulders and tossed it aside.

Frankie was suddenly tired—so tired. Her limbs felt like they’d been dipped in cement, and her head was bleary. Whatever Whit was offering, she didn’t really want.

“Whit,” she protested weakly, placing her palms against the cold window for support as he put one leg between hers and spread them, pressing his body against hers from behind. “I don’t?—“

But she couldn’t even finish the sentence; her tongue turned to stone.

The last thing Frankie remembered was Whit sliding her leotard off her shoulders as she began to crumple to the floor.

Frankie’s memories of New York have been stirred. Normally, she does not allow herself to think of Whit Evans, of the things that happened in 1958, and of the way she very nearly wouldn’t allow herself to fall for Ed because she didn’t want to hurt him. But now, here she is, hurting him. And she knows it: she can see in his eyes the feelings of rejection when she turns from him at night, and she can read the hopeful surprise when she opens her arms to him, as she had right before he left for Seattle.

Ed deserves so much more than a woman who is hot and cold towards him for reasons he can’t possibly understand. He deserves a woman who doesn’t occasionally stiffen up entirely at his touch (not because it’s him, but because it frightens her to be that vulnerable). Frankie wants to be the kind of wife he deserves—she wants it so much. But she isn’t sure how to turn herself into that person, how to get there from where she is now.

“What are you doing today, Francesca?” Her dad has emerged from the bedroom in a clean shirt and belted pants, as he always wears. He is freshly showered and smells like the same aftershave that he’s used her entire life.

Frankie looks up at him from where she’s sitting at the kitchen table in her bathrobe, hands wrapped around a warm coffee mug. “I don’t know, Papa. What are you gonna do today?”

Enzo smiles at her, hands gripping the back of the kitchen chair as he and his daughter look at one another in the yellow light of morning. “I would like to take you and your mother for a drive. Can we do that?”

Frankie gets up from the table to pour her father a cup of black coffee, just the way he likes it. “We can do that,” she says, handing him the mug. “Of course we can.”

Within the hour, Enzo Lombardi has his wife and daughter bundled into the white convertible Corvette with the top down. The women wear headscarves and sunglasses, and Enzo whistles happily as he gets behind the wheel of his son-in-law’s car.

“Where are we going?” Allegra asks. He’d rushed his wife through coffee and preparations so that they could get on the road, and now she wants answers. “Why are we leaving so early?”

“Because we have a long drive,” he says, pulling out of the neighborhood and driving through Stardust Beach with both hands on the steering wheel like he’s driving a tank. “I want to see the show.”

Frankie has no idea what show her father is referring to, but she sinks into the backseat with her arms folded across her chest, enjoying the wind as it blows across her face. She tilts her chin up toward the morning sun, closing her eyes behind her sunglasses as he winds through a series of state roads and two-lane highways.

By lunchtime, they’re on the other side of the state in Weeki Wachee, home of the live mermaid show, and Frankie is sitting upright, looking around at the small town as they drive the main drag with Allegra holding a paper map open against the wind.

“Let’s stop there,” Enzo says, pointing at a mint green and pink drive-through restaurant. They wait in a short line of cars to order their food, and then choose a parking spot while a carhop brings them cheeseburgers, french fries, and Cokes.

Frankie is eating happily in the backseat, marveling—not for the first time—how much like an only child she feels right now as she gets all her parents’ attention for herself. Not to mention the fact that shehasreverted to being a kid around them, letting Enzo drive Ed’s car, waiting for her mom to choose which cut of meat they’ll eat for dinner, and listening in the evening as her parents debate President Johnson’s policies over their evening cocktail.

And she kind of loves it—all of it. Sure, there have been moments when she’s retreated to her room for some peace and quiet, but there’s a distinct feeling that someone has applied a balm to her soul these past weeks, and that she’s somehow started to exhale again after holding her breath for far too long. Maybe it’s just having a little distance from Ed while she thinks, but it’s been nicer than she thought it could be having the safety of her mom and dad right there with her.

“Fries,mia perla?” Allegra asks, handing a small container of french fries over the seat from the front. Frankie takes them and nibbles on a hot, crinkled french fry as she holds her sodabetween her thighs. When she’d woken up that morning, she hadn’t imagined that she’d spend the day on a road trip with her parents, but she’s actually excited to see the mermaids, which she’s been wanting to do. After all, they’re really just underwater Rockettes, aren’t they? Women performing gracefully on a stage of sorts to entertain the masses? Frankie can relate to that.

“Let’s get to the park and buy our tickets, girls,” Enzo says, starting the car. The engine rumbles to life, and he pulls back out onto the main road, following the signs and the traffic towards Weeki Wachee Springs State Park.

Frankie is immediately enamored of the show—or rather, of the showmanship that goes into it. The women perform feats underwater that seem nearly impossible. They move gracefully like synchronized swimmers as the onlookers sit comfortably in a glass-walled underwater auditorium. The mermaids are all so young and beautiful, and as they move through their routines, doing things like eating bananas underwater, drinking a bottle of Coke, and pretending to talk on the phone with one another, they stop intermittently to sip air from long tubes. The fact that they can perform underwater for this length of time, keeping their eyes open and smiles on their faces, astounds the audience. Hell, there were times when Frankie felt her smile falter on stage, so these ladies have her full admiration as she watches them soar and slide through the water like fish.

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