‘frank’

I HAD A SON whose name was Frank. My mother did not approve of this name. “Why did you name him after my brother?” she asked. But her brother, who was also called Frank, did approve. “Good choice,” he said with a supportive wink. Frank looked nothing like me. He had blonde hair and was dressed in overalls. His features were so rounded and button-like that he resembled a doll. Like all boys, he got into trouble. When I brought him to the gym, he created a toboggan from the barbells and went sliding across the room. Such is the nature of sons.

The saddest thing about Frank is that I didn’t want him. I remember that long drive into the mountains. His mother was in the front seat. She was wearing a yellow dress and her legs were up on the dashboard. Her belly was already showing. The driver kept driving. I had no idea where we were headed. “But I don’t want to be with you,” I told Frank’s mother. “I didn’t want any of this.” “It’s too late for that now,” she said while reading Pere ja Kodu magazine. “You’re stuck with me whether you like it or not. “Please,” I said. She said, “It’s too late for that now.”

Through the windows I could see sheets of pines and stunning ravines. Frank’s mother told the driver to pull over. She got out of the car, opened my car door, and slapped me once across the face. Then she returned to the front seat, and we continued our journey. “It’s too late for that now,” she repeated to me. I just waited until we got to the next rest stop. Then I escaped into the fresh air of the mountains. It was years before they found me, by which time Frank had grown into a restless and busy boy. Frank was a good lad. None of it was his fault, you know.