Frank Lee, a Novel
by Julie Miliner
March 2009.
She found him at the lake, sitting on the
dock, one leg hanging below the pier just
above the water, the other pulled close to his
body, his arm resting easily over it. He blew a
plume of silver smoke into the moonlit sky. Its
homemade bouquet seemed more like the
aroma of a cigar than a cigarette; it tickled
her nose as she came closer.
She walked silently to the edge to lean at the
far corner of the post, which reached just
above her head. He noticed her hair
escaping from the tight braids standing
around her head as black children’s hair will
do, like a fuzzy halo exclusively set by god’s
intricate weave.
With her bare feet, she pushed a pebble from
the dock into the black water and watched
the moonlight catch the ripples as they slowly
ambled wider in the inky pool. She stole a
glance at his silhouette, darkened by the light
from the boathouse not far from the dock,
and mustered the nerve to whisper the one
question she dared not ask her mother.
“Are you my Daddy?” She kept her eyes on
the water and could feel her hands begin to
sweat. She hoped he had not heard and for
a moment was convinced and at the same
time elated that her mumble had come to
some good after being told so often that her
shy ways, in not so many words, were a
nuisance and a bore. She wanted to run but
her heart rattled in her chest so that her legs
would not move.
His voice was low, just barely audible above
the crickets and bullfrogs singing in the
woods around them.
“We live by the rules of our society,” he said.
She could feel him peering at her through the
short distance. Her face shone in the light of
the night, and to some satisfaction he found
his own mother’s lips and cheekbones clearly
etched into the child’s face. Then before
lowering his head he added, “and we die
regrettably deficient.”
He flicked his cigarette into the water. Its
singe melted into the air replacing the sweet
smell with a burnt one. Frank Lee was too
young to understand the meaning. In fact,
the moment seemed surreal, as if it never
really happened. For years after she
imagined it to be an illusion but would always
remember the odd smell of his homemade
cigarette.
More to come.... March 2009
by Julie Miliner
March 2009.
She found him at the lake, sitting on the
dock, one leg hanging below the pier just
above the water, the other pulled close to his
body, his arm resting easily over it. He blew a
plume of silver smoke into the moonlit sky. Its
homemade bouquet seemed more like the
aroma of a cigar than a cigarette; it tickled
her nose as she came closer.
She walked silently to the edge to lean at the
far corner of the post, which reached just
above her head. He noticed her hair
escaping from the tight braids standing
around her head as black children’s hair will
do, like a fuzzy halo exclusively set by god’s
intricate weave.
With her bare feet, she pushed a pebble from
the dock into the black water and watched
the moonlight catch the ripples as they slowly
ambled wider in the inky pool. She stole a
glance at his silhouette, darkened by the light
from the boathouse not far from the dock,
and mustered the nerve to whisper the one
question she dared not ask her mother.
“Are you my Daddy?” She kept her eyes on
the water and could feel her hands begin to
sweat. She hoped he had not heard and for
a moment was convinced and at the same
time elated that her mumble had come to
some good after being told so often that her
shy ways, in not so many words, were a
nuisance and a bore. She wanted to run but
her heart rattled in her chest so that her legs
would not move.
His voice was low, just barely audible above
the crickets and bullfrogs singing in the
woods around them.
“We live by the rules of our society,” he said.
She could feel him peering at her through the
short distance. Her face shone in the light of
the night, and to some satisfaction he found
his own mother’s lips and cheekbones clearly
etched into the child’s face. Then before
lowering his head he added, “and we die
regrettably deficient.”
He flicked his cigarette into the water. Its
singe melted into the air replacing the sweet
smell with a burnt one. Frank Lee was too
young to understand the meaning. In fact,
the moment seemed surreal, as if it never
really happened. For years after she
imagined it to be an illusion but would always
remember the odd smell of his homemade
cigarette.
More to come.... March 2009