Frances Johnson

Stacey Levine

© 2005, 2010 Stacey Levine

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

First published in 2005 by Clear Cut Press.

The author would especially like to thank Corrina Wycoff, Glenn MacGilvra, Matthew Stadler, Emily White, Rich Jensen, Deborah Woodard, Paul Constant, the Levines, and Steve Connell at Verse Chorus Press.

Copyedited by Allison Dubinsky

Cover image enhancement by Scott Nasburg

A portion of this book appeared in the Santa Monica Review.

This book was written with assistance from the 4Culture Commission of King County, Washington.

ISBN 978-1-891241-80-2

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010925517

for CEMW

Frances Johnson sat on her front porch, listening to the radio in the dark. She wore a blue dress.

Frances Johnson sat on her front porch, listening to the radio in the dark. She wore a blue dress.

Beyond the wooden porch, night was thick. Frances stood, walking into the living-room, listening. A train lumbered across a nearby trestle, halting as it reached the center of the weak bridge. Below the trestle was a curving road, leading in one direction toward the town, and in the opposite direction toward the sea.

The train hissed. It would follow a tricky, meandering route that would probably lead to another state.

Frances was an expressive woman in many ways.

There were so many people and things to think about, such huge compendiums of circumstances.

Sometimes Frances was afraid for no real reason, it seemed. Oftentimes, waking in the middle of the night, she was uncertain who she was. Frances did not like that. Stumbling to the bathroom, she feared that who or whatever she was would be inappropriate or cause a calamity of some kind—and that was the most frightening thing of all. Standing on a little foot-rug, she would calm herself by rubbing her limbs briskly, hoping the heat would fill out her body and make it more dimensional.

“We can’t know the future,” she said dully to someone on the telephone, then hung up the heavy receiver.

Outside, the porch swing creaked.

“I will not attend the dance,” she spoke aloud to herself.

Frances had a suitor, Ray Garn. Ray was fine, though sometimes his enthusiasms were hard to understand. The two had been together for quite some time, making vague, halfhearted plans for the future.

Ray was mild-tempered, and things generally went well. Once, though, they traveled a few miles south to search for the sea—just that once—and Ray hid behind a wall for hours, causing Frances to feel a kind of fury.