She looked up to Happy, wishing to like him, knowing the man was firm in his opinions and could be very stern. Happy chewed a root, staring at her. Frances fidgeted, then finally burst into a terribly nervous smile with an accompanying honk of laughter, for she had begun to imagine—and nearly believe—that after this meeting with Happy, her life would change without her consent, and that it would, from this moment on, revolve solely around Happy Jaine and his life and concerns. Helplessly, she saw her future busy and full of motion, beginning and ending always with Happy, the ups and downs of his job, his preferences, and his tough, wiry beard.
The man prodded a dozing rabbit with the toe of his shoe, then spoke, coincidentally, about the very thing Frances was pondering: the future.
“Years from now, the world will improve from the state it is in today,” he explained, “but not before a disaster happens. Times are getting so tough that in a few years, people will be forced to give up their fancy home heating and mouthwash, and they won’t have anyone to cry to. See, the people of today are lazy, Frances, because they’re soft and lost their backbone. They’d rather have a lot of comfort and pampering than getting prepared for the worst, like me. Someday they’ll see I was right. Florida’s lazy habits will disappear.”
She did not follow his train of thought. “Do you like comfort, Happy?” she asked, and the man narrowed his eyes at her, smiling, as if to chastise.
To break the long silence and eye contact, Frances spoke again. “Have you ever been outside the state, Happy?”
He chewed the root more actively. “You play your cards right, Frances. That’s your ticket to a better life in this world. I’m always careful to play my cards right.”
“You are?”
“It’s fifteen years since I left Little-Munson by my wits alone, and I wouldn’t go back there for money.”
“But you are in Little-Munson now, Happy; we’re both here, more or less, because the bakery’s oven-room is partly there, and partly—”
“You idiot! That’s not what I mean!” Happy thundered. But the man’s fury soon changed, and he looked down at Frances, ready for a full kiss. She looked up at him with shining eyes, as she knew she should, sensing with disappointment for Happy that she was not really the girl she should be for him, though he did not know it.
Who could Frances Johnson be?
Smiling to him, trying hard, Frances existed partially. Her hands and mouth working as if to rudder herself, she kissed Happy, catching a scent of some sweet-sour esculence in the air around them, which she judged to be a flavor perhaps in the recesses of Happy’s body itself. The kiss slid around her face like a wet rubber ring, and Happy said again, though in a softer tone, “Play your cards right, Frances,” as the kiss incited in her a steamy, unpleasant sensation. To answer Happy’s remark, she could think of nothing more than to smile and instigate another long, crawling kiss; and after some time she was able to convince the man that she must go home to her mother, who would be waiting by the telephone.