“But I miss her so badly!” Frances often told folks when she went shopping in town. And this became a kind of refrain.

Frances looked at Kenny reclined on the sofa, and rubbed her dry hands together.

Kenny said softly, “There’s a fellow at the station, Morst—Will Morst. He likes you, Frances.”

“Who?” she said numbly.

“Will Morst! You know who I mean. Why don’t you come talk to him? We’ll have some cookies!”

She looked at Kenny tiredly. “Not another man!” She began to laugh with quiet intensity, bowing over. It was so funny!

“Be quiet, Frances,” he said.

“Oh, Kenny.” She grew suddenly severe. “I don’t like new relationships; they’re not my idea of great fun.”

“Well, then, what is your idea of great fun?”

She gave him a hard, withering look.

“Frances, just because I try to help you out—! There are men besides my oddball brother, men I’m fond of. You could meet them!”

She stared at him hard. “Kenny, does it ever occur to you that there are ways to mask despair—turn it into vivaciousness and even purpose?”

“Not really. But despair—well, that’s—”

“What?” Frances challenged.

“It’s a sin!” he posited. Now Kenny seemed rather delighted about something, and sweat shone on his forehead.

“Oh, Kenny, that’s old hat.” Frances flopped back on the sofa cushion. “I’m not talking about ideas you picked up in the school yard. I’m talking about trying to make it through this life!”

“Make it through life—?” he asked. “What’s wrong, Frances? You seem happy enough.”

“Happy? Like Curly-Dawn?” she answered in a nasty tone. Curly-Dawn was Kenny’s girlfriend.

“What’s wrong with Curly?” he said. “She’s saving her money. She likes it at the post office.” Kenny rose and headed to the kitchen, perhaps seeking a cup of coffee, adding aggressively from there, “At least she’s a lady!”

Frances shrugged, coloring, pulling at her skirt.

“She listens to music in her home,” he called. “Say, Frances, what kind of show are you running in this kitchen?” He indicated with a finger that the room lacked a kettle, pans, a spice rack, and the like.

She smirked. “Kenny, I need someone to talk to . . . someone very smart!”

“Smarter than me?” Kenny grinned, poking his head back through the doorway.

She sighed. “You’re right—I’m not like Curly or the others. I’m different from the girls who walk into town with your fireman friends, all dressed up with sandals. At first it’s not noticeable. But the difference is there.”

“Yes,” Kenny agreed solemnly. “But deep down, you must want to be like them, so as not to be left out. You must want something fresher out of life!”

“Occasionally, I have behaved like the town girls, rushing around downtown, laughing, riding in cars,” she mused evenly. “But it never lasts.”