Bleeding Out

'Wha-wha. You going to whine or play?'

They played while the roast burbled and steamed out smells that made Kennedy sigh and drool. Frank actually managed to win a couple of hands, more through luck than skill. As she finished the kitchen details, Kennedy set the table. Then she surprised Frank by going to her truck and producing a bouquet for the centerpiece.

Dinner was outstanding. The beef was tender, the outer pieces pink for Kennedy, the inner ones deep red for Frank. The pudding had a golden crust with a soft, buttery underbelly, and the peas popped sweetly between Frank's teeth in a creamy, peppery sauce. Kennedy raved, but Frank didn't taste much. She took little bites and spent a lot of time rearranging what was on her plate. Frank knew it was good. She was pleased that Kennedy thought so, too.

Drinking the excellent wine, watching it glow like liquid ruby against the fire, Frank knew that Kennedy was carrying the evening. She was lively and animated, chatting about Christmas in Texas, telling stories about being a female cop in Corpus Christi. Frank responded with vague smiles and tried to ask questions that would keep Kennedy talking, but half the time she wasn't hearing what Kennedy said.

At length, Kennedy groaned and stretched away from the table. She started clearing their plates while Frank stared into her jeweled wine. A cello suite played softly in the background. The fire popped and flickered warmly. It was a lovely Christmas Eve, and Frank was intensely detached from all of it. She felt like she was living the night from inside a plastic bubble. She could see and hear everything around her, and seemed to respond to it appropriately, but she couldn't feel any of it. It was like watching herself in a dream. She started to wonder if maybe she was asleep. Maybe she'd taken that nap after all and was just dreaming all this. When she woke up she'd taste the food and laugh at Kennedy's stories and be grateful for all that she had tonight.

Frank realized Kennedy had said something to her, had knelt next to her chair.

'I'm sorry. What'd did you say?'

'I said, 'Where are you?' You're a million miles away.'

'Sorry.'

'It's okay. Just tell me where you are.'

Kennedy's face was compassionate and concerned. Frank wanted to ease her worry but didn't know how. It was an effort just breathing around the cold heaviness in her chest, no less speaking.

'Sorry I've been such a drag tonight.'

'You haven't been a drag. It's just obvious you're not all here.'

Frank reassured Kennedy it wasn't anything to do with her.

'You sure? 'Cause I can go home. It's no big deal, it's still early.'

'No. Stay.'

'You sure? I feel like I've been in your hair all night.'

'No.'

Frank looked at the shiny hair, remembered how she'd wanted to touch it that night. The feeling seemed distant.

'I'm glad you're here, sport. I've just got to.. .I don't know.. .get some sleep.'

'Tell you what. I'm gonna go for a walk. Why don't you head on to bed? Get a good night's sleep.'

Facing the night alone and so early was the last thing Frank wanted to do.

'I might go read in the den for a while.'

''Kay,' Kennedy said, rising, 'I'll try to work some of this food off.'

'Hey.' Frank took Kennedy's hand. She wanted to explain where she was but she didn't know. She studied the young face as if a clue might be there. Finding no answer and no words she finally said, 'Be careful, huh?'

Kennedy chuckled. 'As always, mother.'

Emptying the wine bottle, Frank paced slowly in front of the fireplace. She was restless but exhausted, tired but not sleepy. Pausing in front of an old marble-topped desk that had belonged to Maggie's grandmother, she wondered about her folks, how they were doing, how old they were now. She shook her head, definitely not wanting to go down that road. Frank moved in front of the fire. She wondered what pressed logs were made of that made them flicker blue and green. She hoped Kennedy was safe. A sigh did nothing to ease the weight in her chest. Frank meandered into the den. The Bach had grown wearisome, and she flipped it off.

The fire crackled in the living room. Frank closed her eyes and saw Maggie on the floor, glistening and sated, her breath slowing to normal. Frank remembered feeling sure her heart had to burst because it couldn't possibly hold that much love.

She held the wine up in front of her. Red. Like the blood in all her dreams. Frank's life story was written in blood. Suddenly, the house was too quiet. Frank searched through her CDs. Plopping Donizetti into the CD tray, she cued it to 'Una Furtiva Lagrima.' She listened to the music sitting on the couch, and when it ended she played it again.

Frank had laughed when Maggie'd lovingly unpacked all her opera tapes, but before long she found herself walking to class whistling a love song from Turandot or Tosca. After she'd died, Frank had put all her tapes into a box and stored them in the hall closet, planning to get rid of them eventually. Then, almost two years to the date of Mag's funeral, Frank heard the 'Flower Song' on the radio. She'd been driving home from work on Manchester and had to stop in a U-Auto-Do-It parking lot to listen to the music. Cranking the Honda's creaky stereo up as high as it would go, she'd let the music wash over her, cleansing her. She'd been glad it was dark and that no one had seen her wiping her face.

Yet here she was, years later, hoping that another opera could force the tears. Frank was even willing to cry to rid herself of the hollowness inside her. At least then Frank had had a good reason to cry. Now she had none, and that was even more maddening. Her life was good—she was a lieutenant with the LAPD; she'd found a serial killer, the largest coup of her career, even if she hadn't gotten any credit; she was healthy, physically at her peak; she was financially secure. She didn't have Mag but she'd learned to live with that. It was okay.

So what's your problem? Frank asked herself. She promptly assured herself with another sip of wine that there was no problem, she was probably just getting her period. Relax, she told herself, don't worry about this. Listen to the music.

She'd self-medicated for so long she really believed that arias and alcohol could cure anything. So she drank and let the music cry for her. Picking out each tremulous note and haunting chord, Frank gave herself up to the opera. She regretfully turned it off when she heard Kennedy close the front door. The silence flooded back into her like cold, gray river water. When Kennedy popped into the den, Frank stared at her. In the handsome young face, brown again from sun, Frank saw happiness and confidence, optimism and courage—all the things that Frank had lost. She felt broken, and wanted to push Kennedy away.

'Why don't you go home?' she asked quietly.

'Do you want me to?'

'You should be out having a good time, dancing and laughing with someone your own age instead of nursemaiding a broken-down old cop.'

'I am having a good time. I had an incredible dinner with a wonderful woman and I'm gonna go to bed and sleep without an alarm clock and have wonderful dreams.'

'I hope you do.'

'Are you sure nothing's wrong?'

'Very. You get to bed, sport. Have those sweet dreams you're talking about.'

'You too. Go to bed soon.'

Frank nodded, aware of the soft breeze Kennedy left behind. Now there was nothing left to do but stare down the night.

Kennedy wasn't surprised when she woke up thirsty; Frank was a great cook, but heavy on the salt. Throwing the covers back she heard music playing in the den and saw the lights on. Frank had probably fallen asleep in there. Kennedy popped a Coke and downed half the can. She put the rest back in the fridge and tiptoed quickly to the den, the tile like ice against her feet. Peering around the doorway, she was surprised to see Frank awake and sitting on the edge of the couch.

'Hey, girl, you're supposed to be asleep.'

When Frank didn't respond, Kennedy walked into the room. She stood right in front of her, but Frank wouldn't look up. Kennedy bent over, her face just above Frank's, and said her name. She still didn't respond. Kennedy felt