lgtwo

Part Two.

II.

�Yessir�I know I can�t expect too much,� Val said, standing in the stale gallery she had not missed. �I am willing to exceed any expectations you may place.�
�Val�how do I know you wont up and leave again? I thought you were done with New York.�
�If I leave you can take everyone of my paintings and sell them�or destroy them!�
�Are you painting?� he asked, curiously.
�I plan to�as soon as I find work and a place to live.�
He looked her over with his wire-framed glasses and exhaled with his thumbs in his suspenders. He plunged his hands into his pockets and extracted a piece of metal in his right hand, soon passing it to Val.
�Oh, thank you sir,� she said.
�I expect you to make proper discretions when we have shows�which, for the most part, I expect you to attend and supervise. No coming and going�the hidden staircase must stay as thus.�
�Yes sir,� Val said.
Mr. Bresson gestured toward the back of the gallery and cleared his throat. Val walked nervously to the back corner of the white walls and followed him up the steep staircase. She listened to the heavy huffing echo he sent against the wall in a cacophonous symphony with her heart.
The room spread across her feet with cold white tile, a blue rug leading her towards the tiny kitchenette and small shower just beside it. There was a very standard and brass structured bed in the center of the room. Mr. Bresson gestured toward it with a shaking hand and gave Val a sly grin.
�I�m not sure how comfortable it will be�but we�you can break it in.� They both coughed and Val crossed her arms sternly, raising her head strongly, and walked away from him.
�This is lovely,� she said. �Thank you.�
Bresson cleared his throat again and began to back down the stairs. Val followed, the key in the pocket of her dress, and rushed onto the street with a smile.

�Did you get it, sweetie?� a dark woman asked as Val approached the outside produce containers embarking on the sidewalk, only feet short of the curb of the street. Val kissed her cheek while waving �hello� at the old man sitting against the wall inside the booth.
�Oh Joanne, I sure did!� Val said. �So now I can get out of your hair.�
�Oh child,� she said, her hand on Val�s shoulder, shaking her head.
�Yer not in our hair,� the man said warmly as he stood and hobbled toward the doorway slowly with arthritic arched legs.
�Max is right, child. You�ve been no trouble at all.�
Val stood happily before them her leg bouncing excitedly under her skirt.
�Good lord! You could scare away the moon with that glow!� Joanna exclaimed, the palm of her hand raised and resting against Val�s jaw softly.
�Is the door open, Max? I�d like to get my stuff,� Val said.
�Let me call for Robbie to help you,� Max said. �He�s prolly just getting into trouble anyway.� He took a deep breath and howled his son�s name into the street and it echoed between the buildings, returning.

Val and Robbie hobbled with sideways leans for 6 blocks before approaching the gallery. The weight of Val�s things slowed them both down and made the trip more effort than expected. Val unlocked the glass door and held it open for Robbie. He looked at the loud paintings hanging on the walls, breathing with the breeze created by the door.
�Don�t touch�it�s over here,� Val said. He followed, his body blending into the dimness and his big white eyes standing out brightly against his skin. Their heavy steps clanked against the hollow steps. Mr. Bresson jumped when they dropped the bags down on the ground with a bang.
�I didn�t know you�d still be here,� Val said. Mr. Bresson looked embarrassed, about to speak but deciding against attempting to explain his presence. He smiled at her, offered his help, and tried to take some of her belongings from Robbie�s hands.
�Any mo� stuff?� Robbie asked, scratching his nose after blocks of desperately attempting to satisfy the pull with his shoulder. He looked up abruptly and was anxious to escape Bresson�s low look.
�That�s it, sweetie,� she said. �Thanks so much.� She hugged him and slid a quarter into his hand and he rushed down the stairs loudly and flew out the door.
�Do you have everything you need tonight?� Bresson asked as Val opened a case on the bed.
�I do,� she said.
�Groceries?�
�Robbie brought me enough to manage,� she said, gesturing at a bag on the countertop.
�All right then,� he said. �I�ll see you tomorrow. At 10.� He fumbled with his hat in his hands and reluctantly started down the stairs.
�Goodnight!� Val called out. �Thanks again.�

                �Do come by and let me thank ya for your kindness the last week,� Val said to Max as he puffed on his pipe. His long, cracked fingers rubbed against his chin and he lowered his lip for a moment to speak.
�Ma�am�we�ll eat your goods but not impose upon your place.�
Val looked at him with moderate disappointment. She carried her grocery bags away and went on her way with a nod.

Despite Bresson�s discomfort with African-American people, the biggest show at the gallery to date was the work of a painter whose skin tone was like deep brewed coffee, reflecting the city around him. Val assisted him in hanging and setting the walls for his show throughout the evening. Bresson was not present, and his absence allowed Val to pry into the painter�s craft. Preston Jackson was a lanky but muscular man with a dark glisten. He wore a chocolate brown suit and a seat-green tie�his hat was crooked and beads of sweat decorated his brow. His movements were smooth and exact.
�Miss Bradden,� he said. �I thank you for your help.�
�Pleasures all mine,� she said. �Your work is exquisite.�
�Do you paint?� he asked.
�I do,� she said. �Would you like to see?�
�Yes! That would be great. I�m a little sick of arranging my work. Staring it in the face.�
Val smiled at him and lead him up the stairs, her hips rolling with each step before Preston�s face.
The room before him was scarce but had character�there was an easel just beside the kitchenette and a dozen paintings stacked against the wall.
�May I?� he asked, leaning to look at a few.
�Of course,� she said. She watched him walk around her place and crouch down to get a better look. She felt like a prowling tiger�just sitting and waiting. He returned before her with his hat in his hands and revealed his ultra white teeth as he formulated a proper response to her work. She interrupted.
�Can I get you something to drink? Eat?� she asked. �Coffee, tea, cookies�cake.�
�My�� he said, watching her rush to the kitchen and pull down cups and plates. He undid his jacket and sat down with a smile, watching her body bend and stretch carefully and slowly as if she knew he was watching her. She smiled at him warmly, placing the coffeepot on the stove, then sat down. The pot gurgled and Val jumped out of her seat and made a small plate of cake bites and 2 different kinds of cookie to avoid having to sit down again and think of something to say.
�Did you make all of this?� Preston asked, eyeing the plates she set between them on the small table.
�I did�I do hope it is good.�
�I do declare it is,� Preston said, crumbs falling on his cream colored plate.
There was silence while they chewed dryly.
�Miss Val�why aren�t you married?� he asked.
Val froze and looked away from him and down at the floor in thought.
�I don�t mean to intrude, but you seem like a real swell woman��
�The man I was supposed to marry left me,� Val said. Her hand came to her face and she rested her hand against it. �Rather�he made me leave him.�
�Do you still love�m?� Preston asked, his mouth beginning to rub dryly against his tongue. His cup was still empty.
�I think maybe you love people more when they aren�t around,� she said, staring intensely at the shiny glass bottom of the coffee cup in front of her. �Or when you can�t have them.�
�I think it could be true,� Preston said, �but love is never finite.�
�Sometimes,� she said, pausing to think. She swallowed her ideas and blushed when she realized the cups were dry and Preston was sitting politely with his hands in his lap, his mouth and throat dry. Preston smiled and rubbed her stationary hand as she poured.
�Sometimes what?� he asked, taking a small drink and swallowing with relief. She set down the pot and took a deep breath. She stumbled across the floor and flipped through a few canvasses propped against the wall and stood up empty handed with her hands on her hips, akimbo. She jolted and crouched to the ground under her bed and slid a painting out. She carried it to Preston carefully. He quietly held it in his hands and looked at the dried paint that was globbed on in iridescent ways. Val sat down and loot at it as she sipped her coffee.
�What does it mean?� he asked. �I see�isolation and lost warmth.� He looked at the creamy claw foot tub popping out of the pitch black background. The tub was full of blue green water and a man�s face was in the reflection� he had dark but indistinguishable features, along with a hat, glasses and the lapels of a suit. The drain was visible just under his mouth and the chain was knotted. A feminine hand with red nails was clawing the curled edge of the tub in the foreground.
�It means nothing,� she said, taking it back and laying it face down on the bed. �Like everything.�
Preston looked at her with concern as she stood at the stairs with authority, her hand over her stomach.
�We should finish up.�

Valentine had become accustomed to living by herself. She was not only the surveyor of what she wore, how she wore it, when she could wear it, but where and when she could go. Despite the freedom, Valentine found herself between the gallery and the cinema at almost all times. She saw �A Night at the Opera� at least 4 times when she finally got settled back into New York. She would take a hearty walk to the cinema in daylight and leave when it was dark. The first time she attempted to walk, holding her stomach with concern as strange people passed by her and slid into alleyways. From that point on she decided she had to take a taxi, or attend the early show.
It was the stomach holding that gave it away. Valentine was as tall and slender as ever; the little bulge beginning to pucker from her stomach was not large enough to notably indicate a child growing within. When she�d get dressed she�d carefully chose clothing with high waistlines or slimming symmetries.
�Listen here, you� she�d say, looking down at her body with stable command. �Don�t grow too fast. Everything will stay okay if you just keep small.�

The first time he walked into the gallery Val rubbed her eyes and had to grab the railing of the staircase she had just stepped off of for balance. She quickly returned to the secrecy of the bottom step and peered over the corner wall at Mr. Bresson welcoming Frank Marot to his gallery. Frank quickly left the conversation, his returned sentiment muffled but clear to Val, and began to walk quietly around the gallery. He strolled hand in hand behind his back as he looked at the name plats with a hint of discouragement after each one. Val held her breath and tried to hold back her nausea.
�Preston Jackson is getting excellent reviews, sir. What do you think?� Bresson asked from in the corner.
�Not what I wanted to see,� he said. �Too masculine.�
�Next week there is an exhibit of three different women�you should come back.�
�I will�thank you,� Frank said. Val�s head leaned against the wall with a small thud and Frank turned his attention toward it. Val inhaled sharply and remained silent, despite her nervous nausea concerning his return. His return to an exhibit she was going to be in.

Val�s bathtub painting was on the first wall when you entered the gallery, and was gaining a lot of attention. Each woman had a radically different approach to their art, and only Val was comfortable strolling around the walls and between people, enveloped in the scene. The artists milled around the grounds, most passing unidentified between the critics and rich that clogged up the walkways. Val tried to remain composed, even though each time someone walked though the door she had the desire to race up the stairs of her apartment and hide behind the kitchen table. The flow of people was steady, in and out, and little exchange was being made. Val listened to various conversations as she passed through groups, and tried not to allow their opinions cloud her own opinion. She looked at the other 2 artists, crowded together for comfort, and gave them a slight smile. As she began toward them she was whisked away by Bresson, and brought into a circular conversation that was less talking and more listening, to a tall, older man with wiry gray hair and a drooping face. He must have had money, for the women watched his every move and laughed just in case he was trying to make a joke, and swallowed their giggles quickly if it was to be serious. Val stood facing him without intimidation and he smiled at her coyly.
                �Valentine Bradden,� he said. �I am Peter Buckley. It is a pleasure to meet you.� Val extended her hand and he kissed it, causing a stir among his company. Val grinned at the reaction and wanted to giggle when he took her arm and lead her for a stroll along the wall, leaving his entourage to chatter behind them.
�I asked Bresson to introduce me to the most attractive young lady he had stored in the room upstairs. He told me to come tonight and see exactly how lovely she was. He was correct,� Peter said. Val tried her hardest to listen to the meaningless words that spewed out of his mouth, but she was quite taken with watching the people walking around, on the lookout for someone familiar.
�So tell me,� Peter said, �anything about yourself. I would very much like to become aquatinted with you.�
�I�m afraid I�m not very interesting, Mr. Buckley.�
�Bullocks,� he said. �Bresson said you just returned from Paris.�
�I did,� she said. �A few months ago.�
�Did you enjoy it there?� he asked, his hand sliding down her arm as he grasped it to walk with her.
�I returned, Mr. Buckley.� He thought for a second, slightly embarrassed and angry, but forced out a chuckle.
�I suppose you are right,� he said. He looked at the painting of the bathtub as they passed by it and he marveled at it quickly, and began to speak about it as it was in the background of their walk.
�Have you sold anything tonight?� he asked. Val shook her head and looked in his eyes trying to figure him out.
�Ah�Val,� he said. �I�m quite taken with you�I�m expecting by the end of the evening to have dropped a heavy sum on your paintings if you did me the honor of spending more time with me.�
�That would be kind of you, Peter,� Val said. �You know where to find me.�
�I mean this evening, of course,� he said. �Did you have another engagement?�
�I don�t have any engagements,� Val said. �Except bed.�
�That could easily be arranged,� Peter said, his hand patting her bottom softly. He grinned at her as she looked up at him sternly, her cheeks growing rosy and her eyes open big.
�Mr. Buckley,� Val said, removing herself from contact with him. �I�m much flattered by your attention, but your social status means nothing to me. If you would like to buy one of my paintings you may buy it, but don�t expect me to give you some kind of compensation for your purchase.� She shook his hand and excused herself, and left him standing alone in shock that anyone would have told him off. His entourage, who was following like a bunch of hungry vultures, rushed to his sides and enveloped him in their trivialities before anything could set in.
Val snuck out the door to the tables in front of the gallery and sat in an empty chair. She borrowed a cigarette from a gentleman next to her and smoked silently, eventually walking around the block in the dark coldness, eager for the evening to end.
Mr. Bresson came rushing after her, a few feet down the street, and Val sighed heavily, putting her cigarette out with anger.
�I know he�s important,� Val said before Bresson could say anything. He looked at her confused and grinned.
�We have a buyer�for the front piece,� he said. �I want you to come and meet him. And be civil.�
Bresson rushed back down the street and Val took a deep breath, following slowly behind. Her jaw was clenched and she rehearsed what she would say to Mr. Peter Buckley when he propositioned to buy her painting.
�A kind sentiment, sir, but it is too good for you,� she whispered under her breath as she passed people and fell into the glow of the gallery on the sidewalk outside. She walked, head down to the painting area, and said hello as she met against Bresson�s shoulders. There was a man staring at the painting, his back to Val and Bresson, and she said hello again, a little louder. Bresson pulled on his shoulder and he turned around quickly to find himself face to face with Val. Both gasped.
�Valentine Bradden, I�d like you to meet Frank Marot�he has expressed interest in purchasing your painting,� Bresson said. Val�s jaw dropped and she couldn�t find the breath to speak. Her knees trembled a little and she went cold.
�Nice to meet you Miss Bradden,� Frank said, taking her hand and kissing it. �This is really quite superb. Amazing.�
�Thank you,� Val stammered. Bresson looked at her in alarm and elbowed her softly and smiled largely.
Frank continued looking at the painting in astonishment and Val looked at him�he was well groomed, thinner, in a new suit. His hair was a little longer and combed back in perfect silken darkness and his face was smoothly shaven. His shoes looked new, with an incredible shine, and his stance was strong and tall. Val felt as though she should fall backwards with all of the overwhelming imagery.
�Frank has just returned from Paris,� Bresson said. �He said he did not see anything as good as this there.�
Val nodded with an awkward smile and tried to take a few deep breaths so she could converse.
�That�s a great compliment,� she said. �Thank you.� Frank turned at looked at her with watery eyes and closed them momentarily as he began to speak to Bresson.
�Right then,� he said, grabbing him by his arm. �Let�s make a deal.� The two of them walked away from Val and she stood for a few seconds more watching them disappear in the crowd before rushing to the nearest wall and propping herself up.

The close of the evening came soon after, nearing 1am. Bresson helped Val clear up the trash on the property and wished her a goodnight after telling her of the pickups she should expect in the morning. He slipped her a handful of cash and kissed her cheek.
She locked up behind him and began to sweep the floor more thoroughly before turning out the lights. Val�s head was spinning, and she was suddenly eager to get to bed. She flipped the lights off and was suddenly frightened by a loud banging on the glass door. She flipped them back on again and saw Frank framed in the reflective glass, and nervously walked to the door. He looked at her carefully as she unlocked the door and he walked inside. He took the keys and locked them both inside and looked at her silently. She took a deep breath and collapsed into his arms, her lips smooshed against his shoulder and neck as he embraced her tightly. He picked her up off the ground and neared the steps. He flipped the lights off and put her down on the second step. She faced him in the dim light with a bit of fear, trembling, and an intense inability to vocalize the things that were inside her heart. He looked at her, taking his hands and framing her face, and kissed her forehead softly. She took a deep breath of his smell and closed her eyes, floating inside herself.
�I know,� he said. She took his hand and they climbed up the stairs and remained in the dark. Frank lay next to her in the bed and held her close, kissing her softly and tenderly, both of their hearts running at an off beat.

***

�I think it�s about time for us to get married, Frank,� Val said, walking around the apartment with extra languor. Frank looked at her from over his morning paper and smiled.
�I�ve been waiting ages for you to say that,� he said. Val smiled at him faintly, her rosy cheeks adding more emphasis than planned, and sat beside him.
�Good,� she said, crossing her hands on her lap.
�When do you want to do it? Should we plan for our families to come?� he asked, excitedly. The paper was squared neatly on the table now, and he was facing Val who was seemingly not enthused with the conversation. Her hand fell over her stomach and she looked at him with a calming seriousness.
�As soon as possible,� she said. He looked at her with a smile and noticed her palm sprawled across her stomach.
�Are you feeling okay?� he asked.
�No,� she said. �But I�ll be better later.�
�Oh god Val�� Frank said. �You aren�t��
�I�m afraid so,� she said. Frank took his hand and touched her stomach and felt her warmth through her shirt.
�Wow!� he said. �I thought this day would never come.� She nodded. �It�s all happening at once, now.�
�The sooner the better, Frank.� He nodded at her, his jaw still open in surprise, as he thought with open eyes that stared into space until she left the table. He watched her walk and finally recognized that she had been growing heavier, and that the high waistlines she had been wearing had been hiding the small pouch growing on her front. Frank thought about the last time they had been together and figured how far along she must be. He held his hands in his head as he thought about that night, and how angry it had been. And now this.
Val wandered into the next room and sat down with a huff on a little wire-framed chair backed against the wall. She put her hands over her still tiny belly and made it seem larger with close and scrutinizing watch. She shook her head and bit her bottom lip, fighting off tears, and balled up against the cool wall, trying to pass time with deep breaths.
***

�The doctor says the baby is very healthy,� Frank said to Val as she dressed after an appointment. Her belly had swollen at the 6-month point and she was beginning to waddle instead of walk. Her innate smoothness and ability to float across the room was ruined, and she could hardly look up in any effort to regain it. She clutched her bag in her left hand, a silver band with a small diamond shimmering against the bright lighting in the office, as Frank ushered her out of the building and back home where she could rest.
�I was thinking earlier�we could do the baby�s room in yellow and green,� he said. �For either a boy or a girl.� Val was not facing him, but both were on the couch in silence.
�That sounds most appropriate,� Val said.
�And�I�ve been thinking of more names,� he said. �Have you come up with any?�
�No,� she said. �Not really.�
�I was thinking�Isabelle for a girl, and Antony for a boy.�
�That�s nice, dear,� Val said, placing her hands on her hips and stretching.
�Yeah�� he said. �Isabelle Valentine Marot, or�Antony Franco Marot.�
�With the middle name, hmm?� Val said. �That sounds okay, I suppose.�
�Well, as a father, I feel almost compelled to name a boy after me, but I think the middle name will provide generational depth the way it is,� he said.
�I wouldn�t want to name a girl after myself,� she said. �I already exist. I�d like to give them a full-reigning shot at life.�
�But you don�t mind the middle name, do you?�
�I suppose not,� she said, knowing she couldn�t win the argument. Val stood up carefully, excusing herself calmly, hobbled into the next room and closed the door. She stuck a chair underneath the handle and opened the curtains with a squint. She dragged the easel from the corner and clanked together tubes of paint until she was satisfied with the color she was searching for: Burnt Sienna. She smeared it onto the canvas and began to highlight in black.
***

�Is it time? Are you okay?� Frank asked Val at every quiet moment in the house. She was full term, bloated and ballooned from the neck down. She rested her hand on her belly and removed it quickly when the baby kicked. Frank took this as his signal to move in closer and push his face against her taut belly, waiting for another sign of life. Val pushed him away and stood up, and almost fell back down. Frank looked up at her with horror in his eyes and Val looked as though she was ready to faint. He stood up quickly, grabbed ahold of her, and started towards the doorway.
Isabelle Valentine Marot took 9.5 hours to squeeze her little 6-pound body out of Valentine�s. Frank was the first to hold her, and when he offered her to Val, she looked away in disgust with her eyes closed tightly. Frank touched Isabelle�s little pink toes and fingers and giggled at the little head of dark hair that brought out the smoky features of her big eyelashes and blue-green eyes. The doctors moved Val into a room and watched her carefully�there were minor complications and tears that needed immediate attention so they did not bleed beyond controllable amounts. Val was pale and very lethargic, hardly answering to any auditory stimulus around her. Frank sat with the baby close to his breast watching his wife lay still in the bed, fully alive but somehow dead. The nurses would take Isabelle and look her over occasionally, and press her little lips against the lifeless breast Val didn�t bother to deny. Frank watched with intense curiosity and how little Val comforted and held Isabelle and was without the words in which to confront such an issue.
Val�s transition home was full of additional doctor�s appointments and a few prescriptions to help her with pain and recovery. Pain, sleep, vitamin. Frank graciously held the baby with one arm and filled them, delivered them and dispersed them with his other. Val made the back bedroom hers, pinning a quilt over the windows and pushing all of her painting supplies into a heap in the corner. She climbed under the covers and stayed as such until her medicine was out�4 weeks later.
Frank and Isabelle slept together in his room, and he watched her every movement. At the slightest stirring he jumped out of bed and paid the proper attention to his little girl�s sounds. Some nights he laid and listened for both Isabelle and Valentine�s breath in the night air. His job had allowed him considerable leave because of Val�s condition, and he spent a lot of time just watching the women in his life overrun his sanity. Some nights he could see Val�s face in Isabelle�s, as she lay sleeping with tiny huffs and yawns. Her tiny pink eyes swelled together and her miniature hands balled themselves into fists which she brought near her face and occasionally banged into her eye.
�Val,� Frank said, entering her dark room one evening after Isabelle had fallen asleep. Val didn�t answer. Frank stepped quietly into the room and sat on the edge of the bed. As his eyes adjusted he could see the trash around the floor�empty paint tubes, dirty brushes, trashed canvasses. He ran his hand over Val�s hip and kissed her forehead. She turned toward him and let out a small breath that sounded like a sigh.
�Val,� Frank said. �Tell me what I can do for you.� She brought her hand to her head and lowered it back down, her palm resting on Frank�s arm.
�Nothing,� she said. �You can�t do anything.� It was silent for many minutes before she spoke again.
�How is she?� she asked.
�We both miss you,� he said. �All we see of you is when you feed her half dead in the dark.�
               �I�m sorry Frank,� she said near crying. �Maybe if I took more medicine I could be a proper mother.�

�Show mommy what you did, Isa!� Frank called out to the wobbly baby as she rocked on her stomach in front of Val�s corner seat. Val watched the baby for a moment and almost smiled before Isabelle looked up at her directly and she was obliged to look away. She remained in her seat as Isabelle carelessly rolled about until she was rescued from the floor by Frank�s large hands. He held her against his shoulder and Isabelle buried her head into his neck, cooing softly, sucking on her hands.
�How are you feeling today?� Frank asked Val, rubbing his hand against her forearm and disrupting her silent stare out the window.
�I am okay, Frank. Thank you,� she said in monotone. Frank leaned close to her face and kissed her warm brow with a loving sweep. Val looked at him, her eyes growing wet, and he walked away holding the baby up over his head as she giggled.

�The Little Tramp,� Val said, walking into the house and staring at Frank and Isabelle as they sat together on the floor. Isabelle looked up at her mother with a smile and Val approached them.
�Little Tramp, Little Tramp,� she repeated. Frank stood up and took ahold of Val�s arm and sat her down.
�Val, darling, what are you talking about?� Frank asked. �Don�t scare the baby.�
�Little Tramp,� she mouthed, near silently. She put her face in her hands and rocked front and back slightly. She shot out of her chair and stormed into her room and slammed the door, which scared Isabelle and made her cry. Frank, despite his desire to follow her and question her actions, picked up Isabelle and held her close as she slowly recovered from the sudden loud noise.

Frank walked into the house with a fistful of letters, smiling at Isabelle as she played at Val�s feet, in the corner. Val looked up at him with excitement and rushed toward him in anticipation of grabbing every letter from his hands. He voluntarily let her have them and she sat hungrily with them in her lap, going through them with a scrutinizing eye. She let the ones she did not care about fall to the ground in an attempt to get to the ones she was seeking faster. She sat back, two in her hand, and let out a large sigh.
�Returned,� she whimpered, flipping between the two of them and looking at their identical status. She stood up, letting them fall at her feet and retreated into her dark bedroom.
Frank picked up the letters, along with Isabelle, and looked at them. Isabelle mashed the corner of one in her wet little fist as Frank read the front of them, the address to Anna, and the return stamp with the date. He looked at Val�s closed door and let out a sad whine. Isabelle turned toward him with a smile and he kissed her cheek, his eyes immediately brightening, and let the letters fall again.

�How was your show, dear?� Frank asked quietly, Isabelle asleep in his lap. Val looked at him with her thin face and gave a moderate grin.
�Why wasn�t I born in the south, Frank?� she asked. �I could have been like Scarlet O�Hara.�
�Maybe you are the Scarlet O�Hara of the north,� Frank said. �I can�t see you as a southern lady. You are too headstrong.�
Val looked at him with the intention of saying something and turned abruptly toward her room and closed the door behind her softly. Frank listened in the quietness of the apartment as she clanked through her painting clutter and moved things around. He closed his eyes for a moment and opened them to find Isabelle looking at him with silence.

�If I die, do you want me to haunt you?� Val asked, sitting in her corner chair. She didn�t look at Frank as he sat, eating alongside Isabelle, but spoke to him nonetheless.
�If you die? Don�t be ridiculous, Val. You are getting stronger by the day,� he said with a worried and slightly dry tone.
�Hypothetically, Frank,� she said. �If I was Catherine Earnshaw I would have haunted Heathcliff, too.�
�Heathcliff asked for it,� Frank said. �She didn�t just decide to do it despite him.�
�Would you want me to haunt you? Would you beg for it?�
�You will always be with me,� he said, watching Isabelle smack her food and make a mess with it, as she smiled at him. �Whether you haunt me or not.�
Val returned to her silence in the dark corner and mumbled some things to herself that Frank couldn�t decipher. Every time Isabelle made a sound, or said anything, she sat back with a sudden scare and slowly calmed back down before it happened again. The days were crafted by these routines, slowly numbing Valentine to anything that took place in the apartment.
�Mother,� Isabelle said, her little 5-year-old hands taking Val�s hand as it hung lifelessly from the arm of her chair. Val looked at her with a blank face and Isabelle gasped for air.
�Will you walk me to school?� she asked. �With father?�
�Not today, Isabelle,� Val said. Frank walked into the room, a cup of coffee in his hand, and smiled at Isabelle.
�Come now,� he said. �Or we�ll be late, dear.�
�Coming father,� she said, smoothing her dress as she skipped into the next room and grabbed her coat. Frank kissed Val�s face and took her hand.
�If you go out today, please leave me a note. You always forget,� he said. �And when I come home to check on you I don�t know where you are.�
�I usually only go to the cinema, Frank,� she said. He kissed her head again and smoothed her hair with his hand.
�I know dear,� he said. �I�m glad you like it.�
�Oh�I do,� she said. �I think I was supposed to be one of them.�
�The actresses?�
�No,� she said. �A film.�

Frank returned home from work with more returned letters and carefully slid them into the trash bin before Val could see them. They came 4 or 5 a week and he only intercepted half of them�the other half left Val in a daze worse than her usual, and it scared Frank and Isabelle to watch. Isabelle sat down, tired from the walk home from school, and began reading from her schoolbook.
�Come now,� Frank said, grabbing ahold of Isabelle and Valentine�s hands. He made them gather their things as they walked down the street in silence, watching the cars go past and people look at their attractive family. Frank bought three tickets to see �The Grapes of Wrath� and excitedly sat between the two women he loved so much as he watched the show with voracious interest. Isabelle soon fell asleep against her father�s arm, and Val watched with a glossed over face.
�That Steinbeck,� Frank said, taking off his coat in the doorway of the apartment. Isabelle walked past Valentine and slipped her coat off and dropped it on the floor as she curled up on the couch.
�What about him?� Val asked dryly, picking up Isabelle�s coat and hanging it angrily on the hanger. She stood akimbo and watched Frank speak.
�He is such a fantastic writer,� Frank said. �He makes me want to move to Salinas Valley and track him down. Force him to work with the company and me. Publishing his books��
�What makes you think he would be interested?� Val asked, lighting a cigarette and sitting in her corner chair. The smoke swirled over her head as she listened.
�Nothing, I suppose,� Frank said, swallowing hard. �But it is a lovely thing to think about. Would you ever move there?�
�I am done moving,� she said. �I was born here and I�m going to die here.�

�I never expected to see you here today,� Frank said, Isabelle on his shoulders as they hiked home. Henry nodded at him with a slight grin and winked at Isabelle as she looked at him curiously from above.
�I didn�t expect to find you so easily,� Henry said. �I just want to say hello.�
�Of course, of course,� Frank said. �Val should be thrilled to see you.�
Frank opened the door and found Val sitting in her usual spot, smoking in the darkness. The three of them stood in the doorway and Val didn�t bother looking. Frank cleared his throat and said her name softly.
�Val,� he said. �We have a guest.� Val took her time in looking at the group of them, first staring at Frank and Isabelle with a sour look, and then arriving on Henry�s face, clueless.
�Good afternoon, Valentine,� he said in his rough voice. Val stared at him for a good minute before recognizing him and shot out of her chair toward him. Val wrapped her arms around Henry�s shoulders, nearly knocking Isabelle down as she scrambled to get out of the line of fire.
�Henry,� she said, kissing his face. �Henry. You�ve come to save me.� She grabbed her jacket and pulled on his as they slid out the unclosed door. They left without speaking a word to Frank, who stood dumbfounded, watching Isabelle stand the same way on the other side of the apartment.

***

Val had sent little Isabelle to school in the morning, her little ringlets bouncing against her shoulders as she walked. Her dress seemed to flow and fly above the concrete of the ground, and she managed to only wave a goodbye, which was customary, as Frank took her little hand and they started down the street. They laughed and talked, facing one another until they were out of sight. Val breathed deep against the wall, peeking from the window, and pulled her cardigan on hastily and grabbed her hand bag as she entered the street in a panicking fashion and walked quickly down the street two blocks east and four blocks south.
The sign on the door was lined in scratched silver, and read J. B. Smith, MD. She held her bag close to her body and entered the door with silent contempt. The persons in the waiting room looked at her young and slender body and took a moment to return to their quiet conversations and reading material.
�Mrs. Marot,� the nurse said. �We were expecting you.� Val looked at her nervously and walked into the back of the office and into a small room where she sat alone, holding her bag close and her cardigan closed, tight. The doctor walked in a few minutes later and smiled at her; Val didn�t even look at him until he sat before her.
�We have your results in,� said Dr. Smith. Val looked at him with concern and began to perspire around her hairline. She dabbed her neck with her handkerchief. �It does seem as though you�ll be bringing another beautiful child into the world, Mrs. Marot.� The words rang in her ear and she sat dazed without a spoken reaction. The doctor tried to speak to her and it was silent in her ears: her jaw was open slightly and hardly any air came out.
�Did you hear? Are you okay?� the doctor asked. Val looked at him, breaking free from her meditative thinking, and stared at him. She stood up and shifted her bag to her right hand.
�Thank you Dr. Smith,� she said. She nodded at him with a plastered smile and turned to leave.
�We�ll need to schedule future appointments,� he said. �We have things to discuss.�
�Of course. I�ll be back sometime next week,� she said. He smiled at her and opened the door quickly, racing towards it, and watched her walk out.
Val walked quickly, out the door and onto the noisy street where she drew in a large breath of air and nearly choked. She stumbled back to the apartment and up the stairs. The mail had come and delivered a large bundle of returned letters to Mrs. Valentine Marot. Val picked the bundle up and held them against her breast as she opened the door and locked it behind her, going directly to her room where she set them on the night stand and stared at them with cruel curiosity. She took short, sharp breaths trying to suppress tears and eventually searched for her stash of morphine, always a little in the back of the drawer where Frank couldn�t find it. She sat back and chewed them into tiny pebbles in her mouth and sucked them down. She stood quickly, her balance shaky, and made herself a drink from Frank�s private fancy bar, and resumed staring at the letters some more. They were tied with a small brown knot�months of failed attempts to express her heartache, and love. Anna had never taken the time to read them�just scribbled �return to sender� upon them hastily and set them back outside to oppose the elements. Val had scraped her senses to write down what she felt�and they were returned. She laughed at how silly she had been her whole life and finished her glass and poured a new one. After 5 she lay on the bed with a full belly and let her hand fall over it with apparent fright. She rolled over and took another injection and buried her head under the pillow.

�Congratulations Mr. Marot,� Dr. Smith said as he saw Frank and Isabelle walk down the street hand in hand. They were all heading home for the day, and often crossed paths without speaking.
�Congratulations on what, I ask?� Frank said, pulling Isabelle to a stop with his hand. Her little feet hopped into place and she stared at the doctor in the shadow her father�s body created.
�On your wife�s condition,� he said. �I fully suspect the second will be as beautiful as the first.� He crouched down and touched his thumb and forefinger against Isabelle�s chin and stole her attention from the busy street in a scared, but confused moment.
�I must admit I have no idea what you are talking about,� Frank said, �But if you are right I thank you considerably.�
�Oh, I hope I didn�t ruin the surprise.� Dr. Smith said. �Are you heading home now?�
�Yessir,� Isabelle said, pulling on Frank�s arm. Frank smiled at her and pulled her to his shoulders playfully. They said their good-byes and walked off, tower-tall, towards the apartment.

�Don�t say anything, now,� Frank said to Isabelle as she held herself crouched against his head, holding on for additional safety. They ducked under the doorstops and quietly entered the silent house. Frank and Isabelle both let out a small giggle as Frank tried to tiptoe across the floor with the additional 50 pounds on his shoulders.
�Val, darling,� Frank said clearly. His voice echoed against all the walls and came back at him without response. He walked toward the bedroom door, cracked open slightly, and pushed it open as he ducked to let them both inside with a surprising giggle.
Val laid on the bed completely still�her head was buried under a pillow and her fingers were bent in a strange way. Isabelle looked at her and grabbed a hold of her father�s head tightly, begging to be put down.
�Valentine?� Frank asked, crouching down and letting Isabelle off of his back. She held onto his leg as he carefully moved the pillow at the lack of response and saw her eyes open in shock, and her lips near blue. She was as pale as her slip, which stuck out under her skirt on her stiff leg. Frank gasped and immediately grabbed Isabelle and expelled her from the room with a small push. He took a quick look and tried to gain his breath back. He closed the door with a quick movement and sat down next to Isabelle and covered her ears and eyes and smothered her head close. She could not hear him cry�she could feel it.