Callie felt her breath leave her body as she stared in disbelief at the figure across the street. Callie Mason wanted to jump out of the car and run to her long-lost friend; Callie Hethers wanted to start the car and leave Rainytown as fast as her BMW could take her. Callie Mason felt joy at seeing her old friend; Callie Hethers felt guilt and shame. But Callie didn’t know what to feel, and certainly had no idea what to do.

Finally, a compromise was reached. Callie Mason agreed to approach her old friend (after all, a meeting was inevitable), but Callie Hethers insisted on doing so cautiously. There would be no outstretched arms seeking an embrace (rejection would be too devastating), and any hint of affection would have to be initiated by the other party.

Callie opened the car door. Having a plan of action, it was relatively safe to advance. But the moment she stepped out of her BMW, the surrealistic veil of protection she had worn escaped her, and the Rainytown summer of her youth, with its frayed edges and prying eyes, enveloped her. Oh, so little had changed. There they were, the catty, well-intentioned souls who loitered on their own stoops and porches, their ears trained on each other, their eyes, always watching the neighborhood, making mental notes of each other’s comings and goings, sending out red alerts any time a stranger, especially one as incongruous as Callie Hethers, came to call.

As the hot sun beat down on her, Callie crossed the street, shrugging off the glances and feigning oblivion to the world around her. She pretended not to see the beer cans that sat, one after another, on the porch railings, like ducks in a row. She pretended not to hear the music that came from multiple radios—each one vying loudly for center ring, as the voices of children and the songs of traffic intensified the discord. She pretended not to feel the scrutinizing glances searing like the sun on her tanned brow. But most of all, she pretended not to notice that Frankie, who had finished her watering, had finally noticed her.

And now it was Frankie’s turn to experience the surreal, as the day she had long imagined and feared was upon her. There was no time to prepare, no time to smooth over the rough patches of indignation and indigence that ignored her pleas to play dead. No time to paint the house, to move away, or to jump into a new persona. No time for anything, except to be Frankie Cavalese.

Frankie had assumed that someone would be coming to clean out Emily’s home; she just never imagined it would be Callie. She had been expecting a hired hand, someone whom Callie had paid to collect the past and pack it into boxes.

Holding tightly onto her watering can, Frankie walked two feet forward on the tiny porch until she reached the railing. She looked, without expression, into the eyes of the woman approaching. The woman looked back and smiled reluctantly, stopping right in front of the Cavalese stoop.

 “You look familiar,” Callie said, looking up at her, trying to ease the tension with a weak attempt at humor. “Do I know you?”

Frankie hesitated, then spoke. “No, I don’t think you do, Callie.”

Callie cast her eyes downward. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…that was stupid.”

 “Don’t worry about it,” Frankie said. “How have you been? You look well.”

“Thank you,” Callie said, feeling the awkwardness of not being able to return the compliment.

“I was very sorry to hear about Emily. You stayed close to her over the years?”

“Very,” Callie said. “I miss her terribly.”

“She was the best,” Frankie offered.

“Yes, she was.”

Both women were in deep pain. It was an awful, torturous moment that should have been joyous but didn’t know how to be. Callie, standing on the sidewalk with the eyes of Rainytown upon her, felt naked and demeaned. Frankie, standing a few feet above her clutching an old green can for comfort, felt worthless and ugly.

“Guess, in every way that counts, Emily was your mother.”

“Yes, she was.”

“Did you ever…”

“Did I ever what?” Callie asked. “Find my mother, Anisa?”

“Yeah, I guess that’s what…never mind. It’s none of my business.”

“No, it’s all right. I never found her. Nor she me.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Besides, I never really looked. It’s like you just said: Emily was my mother.” Callie turned her head to see if the neighbors were still watching.

“They’re worse than ever,” Frankie said. “You wanna come in?”

“Oh, yes. I would love to,” Callie said, feeling greatly relieved. “Thank you.”

Frankie laid the watering can down on a small glass top table, turned, and pulled open the old screen door with a quick tug on the rusted knob. Callie climbed the stoop quickly and followed her inside.

“Sorry it’s so hot in here,” Frankie said. “I’ll put on the fan, but it don’t really help all that much.”

Callie recoiled with grammatical umbrage but tried not to let it show.

“Sit down, please,” Frankie said, indicating the couch with her left hand as she turned on the fan. “The sofa don’t bite.”

Callie smiled and took a seat. “Thank you.”

“What can I get you? Ice tea? Water? Soda?”

“Iced tea sounds great.”

“Ice tea it is,” Frankie said, heading back toward the kitchen. “Oh, by the way, if it’s too dark in there for you, switch on a light. I just keep ’em off in the day ’cause the lights make this place even hotter.”

Frankie was right. The room was dark, and the fan did little to quell the intense heat. Unfortunately, the slight relief it did provide was not worth the swell of dust it stirred in the process. But Callie didn’t want to turn the fan off or the lights on. And so darkness prevailed in the small row house, where there were no side windows to provide illumination. The only natural light appeared through the slats of the yellowed blinds in the front window. Callie watched as the particles of dust danced in the long streams of light, ironically the sole activity in the still, gray room. She looked to her left at the old leather recliner and remembered Louie Cavalese as he watched the Phillies on his Motorola console. He had saved long and hard for that television and was none too pleased when Ruby refused to let him take it with him after he had abandoned the family. The console set had most likely died years ago but had been too cumbersome to remove. So there it sat, just where Callie had last seen it. Only now there was an old color portable resting on top of it, one with a twisted wire coat hanger where the aerial should be.

The hypnotic darkness pulled Callie even further back in time. For a brief moment, she could hear the laughter of two seven-year olds, Callie Mason and Frankie Cavalese, as they smeared each other with the copious drool of Louie’s old basset hound, Snoogie, screaming “Gross out!” as Ruby Cavalese screamed at them to stop.

“Sorry, I don’t have no lemon. Can you drink this plain?”

Callie was momentarily startled by Frankie’s reappearance in the current decade.

“Thank you,” she said, taking the glass from her. “This will be fine. Aren’t you going to join me?”

“I just finished a can of soda before you came,” Frankie said, taking a seat on the nearby armchair.

“Oh,” Callie said, wondering what to say next.

It was a clumsy, fantastic moment, pregnant with apprehension, uneasiness, and unrequited joy. Neither Frankie nor Callie wanted to make herself vulnerable by showing affection for the other, or by admitting that, despite the past twenty-three years, seeing each other again meant everything.

“You know who I was thinking about when you came back in the room?” Callie asked.

“No,” Frankie said. “Should I?”

“Snoogie.”

“Oh,” Frankie said. “The droolmeister.”

“Right,” Callie said, feeling ridiculous that she could think of nothing else besides the saliva of a long-deceased, droopy-eared dog to open the lines of communication.

“When I was twenty,” Frankie said, “we got another hound, Figaro. He didn’t drool like the Snooge did. Thank the Lord.”

“You got lucky,” Callie said, having no idea where to take the inane conversation she had initiated. “Wow. This is pretty difficult, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I’d say so,” Frankie said, looking directly at her. “Pretty damned difficult.”

“We could talk about the weather,” Callie said, “and about how hot it is. And we could talk about the neighbors and their problems, or even the man in the moon…but inevitably we’d end up back here, with you and me. So we might as well skip all of that and…”

“What, cut to the chase?”
“I suppose so,” Callie said. “That’s what you always used to tell me.”

“The chase don’t matter now. Nothing does,” Frankie said, tightening her defenses. “Look at us. We’re so different now. Worlds apart.”

“Don’t be silly…”

“Look around this room,” Frankie challenged her. “Look around this room and tell me that you can relate to me. I dare you. Tell me you ain’t thinkin’ ‘Thank God it ain’t me in this hell hole.’  Just don’t insult me by pretending you don’t know what I’m talkin’ about.”

“I’m sorry. Frankie, I hope you’re not feeling bad that I’ve been fortunate…”

“Damn it, Mason, it ain’t about you. I don’t even think about you. You’re just some doll I used to play with when I was a kid.”

Ouch. Callie felt that one. Frankie’s words had stung and were certainly worthy of painful contemplation and some hurt feelings. But before she could feel the full impact of it, she was distracted by a faint medicinal odor in the house, one that clashed with the smell of her iced tea. She put her glass down on the cluttered coffee table and turned to Frankie, then tried to hide her discomfort and pretend that she wasn’t hurt by what Frankie had just said.

“Maybe you’d like to talk about things?” Callie offered.

“I got other shit on my mind.”

“I really think it can be helpful to talk about things.”

“Then talk to yourself,” Frankie said. “You seem willing to listen.”

Now Callie was amused but kept her smile hidden. That was the Frankie she remembered — the smart-mouthed little girl with the big heart who called ’em like she saw ’em.
“No, seriously, Frankie…”

“I’ll tell you seriously,” Frankie said, looking directly into Callie’s eyes. “Seriously, you don’t really wanna talk. Seriously, you just wanna unload the sack of guilt you’ve been carrying around since the day you left this town and swore never to come back. Seriously, you wanna dump your damn guilt right here in the room…on me. Only I don’t wanna hear your excuses. I don’t wanna hear how your momma never came home, and how your rich friends wouldn’t have understood me. Or how you were young and stupid and wish you could take it all back. Save that crap. As you can see, I got more garbage in this house than I can deal with. I don’t need yours.”

“I’m really sorry,” Callie said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Look, Mason,” Frankie softened, “I get no thrill comin’ down on you like this. And I’ll be glad to help you with whatever you need while you’re cleanin’ out Emily’s house. I loved her too, you know. Only I got my own problems right now.”

“Maybe I can help,” Callie said.

Frankie rolled her eyes. “Woman, don’t you know when to shut up?”

Before Callie could mumble another hopeless apology, she was blasted out of her seat by the sound of a ringing bell.

“What the hell is that?” Callie said, panicked, as she quickly rose to her feet.

“Time to evacuate,” Frankie said. “It’s the Martian bell. An official government warning that alien spacecraft is about to land.”

“Seriously,” Callie said. “Where’d the bell come from?”

“It came from my mother. She’s upstairs, dying. And she’s ringing the damn bell because she wants something. Hell, you can’t get any more serious than that, can you?”

Callie fell back onto the couch cushion, as if an invisible vacuum had sucked her back into place. “Oh God, I’m so sorry.”

The bell sounded again. Only louder and for longer.

“I gotta go see what she wants,” Frankie said, as she got up from her chair and headed toward the stairs. “She ain’t gonna stop if I don’t.”

And in an instant, she was gone. Callie looked up at the empty staircase Frankie had just climbed. She could hear her old friend talking faintly in the distance, but the soft whir of the living room fan made it impossible to decipher her words.

Frankie was right. Callie did consider herself lucky as she surveyed the life that wasn’t hers but that easily could have been. There was something deathlike about the room; even the plants looked gray. Callie listened as Frankie’s voice got louder. She wondered what she was saying. Suddenly, Frankie came clumping down the stairs with a plastic pitcher in her hand.

“She wants juice.”

Frankie hurried into the kitchen without waiting for Callie to respond. Callie listened to the sound of the refrigerator door open, the pouring of juice, and the closing of the door. She watched as Frankie emerged from the kitchen, as if it were all part of some morbid ritual.

“What’s wrong with you, Mason? You got the strangest look on your face.”

“It’s nothing. I’m just thinking about your mother. I’m still processing the fact that she’s upstairs…and that…I was so sure you were alone here.”

“Oh, I am,” Frankie said. “I’m Norman Bates, and I’m delivering this juice to the skeletal remains of my dead mother. Sometimes I talk for her, and we have long conversations. But not when I have company. Wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m crazy.”

At that moment, the bell rang again.

Frankie looked at Callie. “That…I do by remote control. Sounds pretty real, don’t it?”
“Oh God, Frankie. Please. Stop it,” Callie said, as Frankie raced up the stairs without paying attention to her.

The bell rang again, and Callie could hear Frankie mutter some words of annoyance. Then all was quiet. Callie rose from the couch and walked over to the long table by the foot of the stairs. There were all the Cavalese family photos, still in the same place. She turned on the little Tiffany lamp and for the first time saw color, albeit faded, in the smiling faces.

Ruby had been a real knockout in her twenties, with her long, dark hair swept up on top of her head, her dark lipstick perfectly in place. Callie picked up the frame and shook off the dust. She hadn’t remembered Louie Cavalese being so handsome; she had only remembered him leaving.

Callie never knew the Cavaleses when they were so much in love. She looked first at Louie, tightly clutching Ruby’s waist as he posed for the camera, then at Ruby, bursting with love for the man beside her. What the camera had captured would outlive their love by many years. Perhaps, Callie thought, the photo had been a portent of things to come. Louie, seemingly more impressed with his own good looks than with Ruby’s, was flirting madly with the camera…or perhaps it was the photographer. Ruby, on the other hand, unaware of her lover’s self-absorption and roving eyes, had most likely been the kind of woman who catered so heavily to his needs in the beginning of their relationship that she inevitably disappointed him in the end. It was foolish, Callie decided, to assume so much from a photo that represented only seconds in time, even if everything else indicated that her assumptions must be correct.

In a small blue frame with painted daisies, Callie saw her friend Frankie laughing at, not smiling for, the school camera. Frankie never primped for pictures the way the other little girls had. Though she couldn’t quite articulate it, she thought tomboys who smiled in photos looked silly. And so Frankie dismissed the annual process of freezing one’s image for posterity as a minor inconvenience, passing off her insecurities with a great big laugh — leaving absolutely no one the wiser.

Paulie’s school photos, however, which Callie noticed next, implied a proclivity toward narcissism not unlike his father’s. Even at twelve, Paulie’s slicked back crop of dark brown hair and smoldering brown eyes revealed a young man bent on capturing the attention of anyone he chose.

Partially hidden behind a larger photo of Ruby’s older sister, Belle, Callie discovered another photo of Paulie that had been taken years after she had last seen him. Callie quickly did the math: Paulie, three years her junior, had been only fifteen when she last saw him, and most likely, had been approximately thirty when this photo was taken. Callie picked up the framed photo for closer inspection. Wearing a saxophone around his neck, Paulie was smiling, standing with two other men who also wore musical instruments. Logic concluded that Paulie must have followed his musical aspirations and joined a group. Whether music was Paulie’s vocation or avocation, Callie had no idea, but he was amazingly handsome, she thought. Even more so than his father.

“If you put that picture down, you can have the real thing,” a voice said.

Callie was so startled that she lay the frame down with a thud, then turned to find Paulie, grinning coyly at her, standing by the front door.

“Oh God. Paulie. I didn’t realize you still lived here.”

“I don’t, babe. Just came to see Ma. Heard you were here…Murph, you remember him, don’t you? Just had to chase me down to tell me you were here. Well, well…my little Miss Callie-fornia.”

Callie blushed. She had completely forgotten about the nickname Paulie had for her when they were children.

“You’re looking even sexier than I remember you,” Paulie said.

“Thank you,” Callie choked. He was even more breathtaking than his photograph, and he knew it. His tight jeans and painted-on black T-shirt were a clear indication that he had made a full inventory of his assets.

“How do I look?” Paulie asked, as if he could read her mind.

“Uh, you look…”

“I look pretty good. Huh, babe?” Paulie said, as his eyes danced dangerously around Callie. “In fact, if you look around this room, I’ll bet I’m the only thing that looks better than you remember it.”

Paulie laughed. He knew he was right.

But Callie wasn’t giving in so easily. She looked around the gray room. “It’s not like you’ve got a lot of competition.”

“Touché, babe. A woman who can think on her feet as well really turns me on.”

“I don’t really think I really needed to know that,” Callie said, determined not to let him get the better of her.

Paulie leaned against the front wall and folded his arms. He grinned at Callie, then said, “I’m getting to you, aren’t I, babe?”

“Like a mosquito…or a gnat.”

Paulie laughed. “Ooooh, squash me, babe. Like a bug. I’m ready. Squeeze me till I’m dry. C’mon, baby. Squash!”

 “Oh, go squash yourself!” Callie said, feeling strangely stimulated by the repartee. “Are you always this obnoxious?”

Paulie looked right through her, his grin on temporary hiatus. “I can be anything you want me to be.”

“How about quiet?” Callie asked.

Paulie’s mouth turned slightly upward; he continued to gaze at her as if he could see her undressed. “If that’s what you’d like.”

Callie, despite her efforts, was feeling intimidated. “Where did you come from? The cover of some cheap romance novel?”

Paulie challenged her with his eyes. After a long pause, he spoke: “I think you know better than that.”

Callie couldn’t believe what this man was doing to her. She turned to look at his photo. “You play sax?”

“Tenor sax. Yeah. I play. I’m good.”

“I’m sure you are,” Callie said, swallowing the lump in her throat.

“She’s been asking for you,” Frankie said from the top of the stairs. “She thought you were coming yesterday.”

Callie looked up to see Frankie glaring angrily at her brother. For a moment, she felt angry at Frankie for interrupting her verbal ping pong game with Paulie, then quickly chastised herself for such ludicrousness.

“Sorry, Sis. I got tied up.”

Frankie began her descent down the stairs. When she got close to the landing, she said, “Hope Ma don’t die on a day that you’re ‘tied up.’ ”

“It couldn’t be helped, Mary Frances. Whattya want? A note from my teacher?”

Frankie’s look of anger suddenly dissipated, as if she couldn’t bear to be at odds with him anymore. She looked at Callie, then at Paulie.

“Just go see your mother,” Frankie told him. “Like I said, she’s waiting for you.”

“I think I’ll head next door, now!” Callie said brightly, trying to swim quickly out of awkward waters.  “I’m sure I’ll see you both at another time. Please, send my love to your mother.”

“Later, Mason,” Frankie said, barely looking at her.

“See ya, Callie-fornia,” Paulie said, as his eyes followed Callie out the door. “Real soon.”
Paulie was too entranced by Callie’s backside to feel the eyes of his sister beading down on him. Finally, he turned to Frankie.

“I’ll go see Ma now. Hey, your old buddy…she’s a knockout.”