John Kenney - Talk to Me

When she came back she looked at her food, then his. “Why didn’t you eat?”

“I…” And here Ted reverted to his old self, the one afraid of a Franny explosion. He was about to say I wanted to wait for you , but he knew that would make her feel guilty and her guilt would manifest itself as anger at Ted when, really, she was angry at herself.

She sighed, annoyed. He could see the inner workings.

“It’s fine,” he said. “I’m not that hungry anyway.”

She was chilled and put her coat on. She picked up her coffee mug and held it with both hands.

Franny’s phone buzzed, a text. Ted’s buzzed at almost the same time. They both looked and saw links to scheisse with a photo of the two of them taken not twenty minutes ago through a window, sitting together.

“Wait. What is this?” Ted asked, confused.

“Fucking dickhead.”

“What?”

Franny was shaking her head.

“It’s my boss.”

Ted stared at Franny and Franny saw that he was actually hurt.

“I didn’t know they were sending a photographer,” she said, hating the sound of her voice here because she thought she sounded thirteen.

Ted nodded, his slow nod, his I’m disappointed in you and will withhold my affection and love for you. At least that’s how Franny read it.

“I have to get back,” she said.

There is an unpleasant secret of family life. It’s not found in movies because it doesn’t hew to a narrative we care for. We are told, instead, that there is always time, always another chance, if only we try. That we can mend relationships. That is a lie. Because with enough pain, with enough time, we close the door on those people and we do not let them back in. We move on. Ted could see it on Franny’s face. He was a stranger to her. He had caused her too much pain. Knew so little about what she felt and wanted and needed and hoped for.

The image came so fast and so clearly that Ted was forced to sit back in his chair. The image was this. Franny, in Ted’s hospice room, watching him die. He sees the scene as if apart from it. He knows she will feel pain and regret and the thought of his death causing her pain forces him to wince. The film continues in his head. The scene switches to Franny, older, children of her own, children who would never know their grandfather, who would hear little of him. Franny going on with her life. He would be forgotten, as if he hadn’t lived. The waitress asked if he wanted more coffee. He managed a nod.

“Your mother told you? We’re getting a divorce.”

“I know.”

“She met someone.”

Franny said nothing.

“Have you met him?” Ted asked.

“Yes.”

“I hear he has his own plane. Not that that matters.”

Franny looked at her phone. She seemed unable to not look at it for more than a few seconds.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but that’s between the two of you.”

“Me and Dodge or me and your mother?”

Franny ignored him.

“So you’ll do an interview?” Franny asked.

“Whose idea was it?” Ted asked.

Franny looked up, a lock of hair falling over her face. Ted wanted to push it back behind her ear.

“Why does it matter?” Franny asked.

“I’m just curious.”

“My boss.”

And something about the answer relieved Ted.

“And what did you say when he asked?”

“How do you know it’s a he?” she demanded.

“Fine. What did you say when your transgender boss asked?”

“It’s comments like that that got you into this mess.”

There was something about her expression, her voice, a meanness, and it’s out before Ted can stop it because he’s under attack, has been under attack and he is so tired of being hit again and again and here his own daughter…

“ Don’t lecture me,” Ted said in a hard voice.

It came out too loud. People a few tables away turned and looked.

They had played this match before, many times. And, of course, Franny couldn’t help but react.

“Whatever.” Her face contorted.

How did he inevitably do this to her, make her feel this way?

“Anyway,” Ted said, trying to move past it, like it never happened, a thing Franny hated. “I was just curious.”

“I said I…” And here her New York confidence deserted her for a moment. “I said you’d never do it.”

On Franny’s plate, next to her untouched omelet, sat a wedge of orange. Ted watched her pick it up and pull the rind off. And then he watched as she began pulling off the tiny white pieces of pith, almost obsessively. Ted ate an orange the same way. That’s how they peeled an orange when she was little. It drove Claire nuts. “I want Daddy to peel it,” Franny would say.

“The network thinks it’s a good idea,” Ted said.

“Is that a yes?”

The waitress brought the check. “When you’re ready,” she said.

Franny had her credit card out. Ted reached for his.

“Don’t worry about it,” Franny said, not looking at him. She felt she’d not been brave enough. She was starting an internal monologue of self-laceration. She needed to leave.

“Franny,” he said.

“It’s Frances ! For Chris sakes .”

It was a screech so painful to Ted’s ears because it was Franny at four, Franny at seven, Franny at eleven, when she was out of control, wide-eyed. She stared at her lap and Ted looked out the window and they waited for the moment to pass, like it had never happened.

And then, in a quiet voice, Ted said, “Sorry. I was just saying that… the network has a condition.”

She had started gathering up her things. Her cheeks were flushed. The same thing happened to Claire.

“What is it?”

“They’ll want to see a draft.”

“No.”

The waitress returned with the check. Franny signed quickly, a woman about town. She stood, grabbing her large leather bag. It looked expensive.

She looked like she was about to go when she stopped and looked at him.

“Do you really want to do this?” she asked.

“Do you?”

Say no. He wanted her to say no. Say something nice.

“It’s my job.”

He watched her go. He waited for her to turn around as she left the restaurant. She never did. She walked out the door, her phone to her ear, made a left, and was gone.

Two months ago, during February sweeps, they went to Afghanistan for five days of frontline reporting. If by frontline reporting you mean many miles back from any activity. They wanted the ground soldier’s experience. They’d run promos with Ted in a khaki shirt from the last time he was at the front. “An exclusive look at the frontline experience. Ted Grayson. Front. And center. All next week.”

They had waited for a Marine Corps platoon to return, Ted and his small crew. It had been raining for days. Cold and rainy. They had waited all night, well into the morning. When the soldiers did return they were soaked and exhausted. They seemed distant. Ted and the crew waited as they went to the tent that served as the mess hall and ate. After a while they filed out, some to their tents, some for a smoke. And one, a lieutenant, stood off to the side, leaning against a rock, looking out over the camp and the hills beyond. He looked to be about twenty-five or twenty-six. Handsome kid. All-American look. Ted looked at Lou, who was looking at the kid, too. They knew. He was the one. He was the face of the story they wanted to tell.

Ted walked over to him.

“Mind if I talk with you, Lieutenant?”

Most times this was all it took. They recognized Ted, smiled automatically. Not this one. He just stared at Ted.