Vincent Zandri - The remains

The studio was silent when I arrived. If anyone aside from Franny and Robyn had been there while I spoke with Caroline Scaramuzzi, they were gone now. Setting my knapsack on the coat hook and my jean jacket over that, I felt the deadweight of two sets of wide eyes focused upon me. Breathing deeply I made my way across the paint-stained floor toward Franny’s corner with the same enthusiasm a condemned prisoner might face the electric chair.

“Let’s see it Fran,” I said in the place of a hello.

“Bec,” Robyn said, her face a painted mask of awe and wonder. “I don’t know how-”

“Don’t,” I broke in. “Don’t try and explain it.”

As I came around to face the canvas, Robyn stepped off to the side, as if the corner wasn’t big enough for the three of us.

“Don’t, don’t.” Franny mumbled to himself.

“It’s okay, Franny,” I said, “I think I know what’s happening now.”

Before entering the art center just minutes before, I’d wanted to scream at Franny. What kind of game are you playing? Why are you playing it? I wanted to know if he was the one who walked to my parents’ house, dropped the photograph to the porch floor. I’d wanted to know if he was the one who tried to break into the house. But looking at the newest painting (the third in three days), I could only feel myself breaking down. I felt my limbs tremble, my throat close up on itself. I felt my heart lodge itself inside my sternum.

A tear rolled down my cheek.

“How is it possible to know these things, Fran?”

Painted on the canvas, an oil portrait of two blonde-haired girls, down on their knees at the edge of a stream. They were surrounded by deep woods. To their left was the even deeper forest. To their right, a waterfall bound on both sides by an open cliff face. Beyond that, an open valley that led further into the country. You saw only the backs of the girls, their long blonde hair draped down their narrow backs like silk veils. The girl to the left-Molly-had her hand dipped in the rushing stream water as though about to take a drink. The girl to the right-me-was looking down at the hand, curious but at the same time, afraid to drink. At least, that’s the way it had happened in real life.

That’s the way I remembered it.

I stood back, pressed my spine up against the wall, my eyes glued to the painting. I took a more focused look at the woods, the girls and the stream. Inside the water I made out the faintest of words: ‘Taste’.

I shifted my eyes to Robyn.

She appeared even more shocked now that she could see that I was crying, her normally happy-go-lucky tan face having turned pale, her expression tight-lipped and bug-eyed.

“Is that you and Molly back when you were kids?” she softly posed.

I nodded, swallowed.

She raised her right hand, pointed to the stream in the painting.

“T-a-s-t-e,” she spelled out. “I see the word this time, Bec. I see the word.”

My eyes focused on her.

“Do you have a date tonight?” I whispered.

“Yes,” she said, her eyes still focused on the painting.

“There’re no more classes today,” I said, wiping the tears from my face with the backs of my hands, composing myself. “I’m going to close up shop for the rest of the day. Franny and I need some privacy to talk alone.”

“Alone,” Franny softly spoke in rhythm with his rocking. “Alone.”

Robyn shot me a pensive glance. Then, without a word, she grabbed her jacket and her bag. Silently she walked the length of the studio toward the exit. She turned, looked not at me, but into me.

“Bec, what’s going here? Why is Franny making these paintings for you?”

“I can’t tell you that now. But soon I’ll tell you everything.”

With that worried expression still masking her face, my partner turned and disappeared out the door.

Drying my eyes once more, I swallowed a breath, tried my best to regain my equilibrium and my sanity.

“Franny,” I said. “It’s time you and I talked the truth.”

As I stood before Francis inside a studio filled with easels, unfinished paintings, clay sculptures and sketches, and not a soul around to work on them, I found myself alone not with a man but a different creature altogether. But then I also knew that this creature had to know something about me; about my past; about Molly’s past. Even more frightening, he might also know something about my future. In either case, I was determined to get the whole story out of him.

A metal work table was set only a few feet away from Franny’s stool. I sat down on top of it, letting my legs dangle off the side.

“I need to ask you a few questions, Fran.”

He rolled his eyes. I recognized the reaction. It meant he was receiving me loud and crystal clear.

“Questions,” he mumbled. “Questions, answers, questions…”

I inhaled.

“Why did you paint Molly and me, Franny? Why did you paint the woods in back of my mom and dad’s home? Why are you putting words in the paintings?”

His eyes, still rolling in their sockets, never stopping to focus on anything, let alone me, for more than a couple of second at a time.

“Molly and Rebecca,” he said after a long beat. “Molly and Rebecca go into the woods. Molly and Rebecca go into the woods where they don’t belong.”

My stomach dropped. Pulse picked up inside my chest and temples.

“What do you know about Molly and me and those woods?”

Eyes rolling rapidly inside their sockets, Franny rocked back and forth on his stool. Chubby face grew redder and redder, like a red balloon about to burst. I recalled what Caroline had said about his heart. But it didn’t matter. Didn’t matter enough.

“Molly and Rebecca,” he chanted, voice growing louder. “Molly and Rebecca go into the woods where they don’t belong. Monster man is in the woods. Monster man does bad things to Molly and Rebecca.”

Body trembling, my blood shot through the veins.

“Franny how do you know this?” I screamed. “How can you possibly know?”

I was standing now, in the middle of the studio floor. I stood over him, where he was seated on the stool, left hand clutching his red T-shirt. I pulled the black and white photograph from my jeans pocket, held it only inches from his nose. I screamed in his face. “Did you put this on my parents’ porch? How did you know I was going there? How did you know?”

But that’s when something stopped me. Something invisible reached out for me, pulled me back. I let go of him, collapsed onto my knees. Franny had been right here at the art center studio while I made my stop-over at Caroline’s. Franny could not have known that I would be visiting my childhood home. That is, unless somehow he was able to intuit it.

What have I done?

I looked up at Franny, looked at him rocking. I stood up and wrapped my arms around his barrel chest. When I released him, I saw that his eyes were no longer rolling but focused up at the ceiling. He was crying.

I whispered, “Franny were you there when it happened all those years ago? Did you see Joseph Whalen attack Molly and me?”

He was crying hard now, rocking so violently on that stool I thought he might fly off. He was mumbling something. But the words were impossible to understand. I hated to see him like this, hated myself for causing him pain. I inhaled and exhaled until I felt some calm enter back into my bloodstream.

I shoved the photo back in my pocket, went to Franny, once more wrapped my arms around his bulk. I held him so tightly I thought I might break my arms. He stopped rocking, but he was shivering. I dried his eyes with my hands, brushed back his thick hair, whispered, ‘shush’ the same way a mother might calm a little boy.