Free Object of Desire by William J. Mann Page B

isn’t interested,” I said.
    Randall snorted. “Thad says he’s a scared little twenty-one-year-old who pretends he’s seen it all and done it all. He’s got a chip on his shoulder the size of Nevada. He might be cute, but Thad assured me I was better off staying far, far away from him.” He gave me a pair of very big eyes. “And I’d suggest the same thing to you, Danny.”
    I saluted him.
    It was time to go. The sun was becoming unbearable. My armpits were wet, and I could feel the bridge of my nose starting to burn. It was time for us humans to retreat into our air-conditioned hiding places and not emerge again until after sunset, when we might wade into our pools or sit under the misters on our decks, gazing up into the purple sky.
    â€œYou know,” Frank said as we walked to the car, his joints stiff from sitting so long, “maybe I ought to start jogging. I’ll get up early in the morning, before it gets too hot.”
    I gave him a look. “Jogging?”
    He nodded. “Yeah. I’m out of shape. I’ll firm up a bit, and then we can go hiking again.”
    â€œIt’s okay, Frank.”
    He stopped walking and looked at me. Randall was ahead of us, rolling down the windows of the car and running the air conditioner full blast so the interior could cool off. I held Frank’s eyes. In many ways they barely resembled the eyes I had known for so long. The lashes had gone gray, and the whites of his eyes were perpetually bloodshot. But the color of his eyes had never changed. They were still as green as they’d been that night on Santa Monica Boulevard when I’d run out of the bar, chasing after him, worried I’d never see this beautiful, mysterious stranger again.
    â€œDanny,” Frank said, and he was holding my gaze as tenderly as he ever had. “You know that when I look at the mountains, I see Becky, too.”
    I managed a smile but said nothing. As always, Frank understood.
    Yes, Becky was always there—not just in the mountains, but in everything I saw, everything I heard, everything I felt—and Frank, dear Frank, knew this. That was the way it always was this time of year, when August turned into September, when the late summer sun was at its peak, and lesson plans were being made, and schools were opening their doors, and parents worried about sending their children off into the world, and young boys did their best to pretend that they were brave.

EAST HARTFORD
    T he rattle of the garage door startled me. I was on my bed, engrossed in the latest issue of Action Comics —Superman and Green Arrow—when I heard the unmistakable sound of my father’s return from work. I slid off the bed and headed into the hallway, pausing at the top of the stairs, my hand resting on the banister.
    â€œBecky isn’t with you?” I heard my mother asking from the kitchen.
    â€œNo,” my father said. “Should she be?”
    I began to descend the stairs slowly.
    The first thing I noticed was that Mom had gone ahead and hung the HAPPY BIRTHDAY sign, anyway. I sighed. The cake was now frosted, placed in the center of the table, my name spelled out in M&M’s. Six places were set around the table, adorned with blue plastic plates, American flag napkins, and the wrapped Hershey’s Kisses. By now the curlers were out of Mom’s hair, which had flipped up like Mary Tyler Moore’s on the old Dick Van Dyke Show. She had changed into a pink plaid pantsuit and pink high heels.
    â€œWell,” Mom was huffing, “it’s almost four! Becky was supposed to be back here by now with the balloons!”
    â€œMaybe the balloons weren’t ready,” Dad was saying as he set his briefcase down on the counter.
    â€œFor crying out loud, the balloons were already paid for! I went down and paid for them myself yesterday! She drove me down there, for God’s sake! They were all ready and set to be