Frances raised a grin; the grin trembled. A knot of tension lifted in her chest, and she fell to Kenny because it seemed she must, kissing him in great, long, inhalatory movements, as if these breaths could pull her through the episode more quickly. Kenny’s arms dropped, then wandered behind him awkwardly for a moment, reaching as if for a ballast.
The kiss felt strange, membranous to Frances, and as he reached for her, she stepped away, saying, “Kenny, don’t touch my hair or arms.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t care for it, that’s why not.” She stared to the barn area and its syrupy surrounding darkness.
“Things in this town simply happen, arising out of nowhere,” she said.
He looked up at the sky’s star-specks. “I suppose.”
“In that same manner, I will leave Munson,” she stated airily. “Out of the blue, I’ll leave. I’m on edge here, Kenny. Besides, I’ve never liked . . . well, my you-know.”
Kenny nodded.
Frances was referring to the fact that, every month or so, she kept appointments with her physician to address an old medical ailment that was both awkward and embarrassing.
The first treatment had occurred during Frances’ early teenage years. At that time, her mother and older sister also received the treatment from the doctor, and they encouraged Frances to do the same. However, the sister grew abruptly angry about something Frances did not understand and abandoned the treatment, going to settle at the farthest possible edge of Munson—beside an old mud lake—with a man, a barrel-maker who disliked cities and towns, and to this day, Valencia led quite a separate life. Meanwhile, Frances’ mother became cooler toward the doctor, saying her heart was in poor shape, and she stopped the treatments as well. Only Frances continued to see the old physician regularly through the years, and when he died, she continued the treatments with Palmer, in part because she felt the treatments were an obligation she must keep.
“You oughtn’t leave Munson suddenly, Frances,” Kenny insisted. “You’d better not! It’s plain crazy.”
“Go away now, Kenny. It’s time for me to think.”
His voice was serious. “When someone leaves a town, it’s terrible. The people left behind can’t get back on their feet.”
Frances said nothing.
He lingered, then drifted off, voice stabbing into the sky’s cold margin beyond the barn. “All right, then, if you think you’re so free and wonderful, go ahead and leave! You’ll see where it gets you!” Kenny drew an angry breath, then raced away, his thin figure blurred blue.
* * *
Frances pushed her bicycle home. The air was no longer cold, nor did it seem warm, but instead neutral, without temperature. Frances was regretful. For the second time in a day, she had failed to understand a kiss. “I lack a certain resolve,” she stated aloud.
What would happen if she left Munson? Frances was unable to imagine this scenario, or life in another town. Kenny was probably right, though: it would be unpleasant. Ray wouldn’t want her to leave Munson either, she knew.