Chapter 12: Hail Mary, Full of Grace

At 5:46 am, Francis Webb, DBA from UCLA stepped into the main lobby at 220 North Avenue West. He removed his galoshes, gave his umbrella a good shake, and stuffed them both into the recycling bin behind the main desk. As an afterthought, he placed his hat on top of the phone. Frank poked his sister in the arm and was rewarded with a good look at her teeth. He didn't want to think about what Greenwich had going on in her mouth, so he kept his shut. It wasn't raining outside. It hadn't rained anywhere in New England in the last two weeks; even the drilled wells were starting to spit up silt. 

Frank repeated to himself with his inside voice: There is no rain. There has been no rain. There is no forecast for rain in the immediate future. There is no rain.

Dr. Webb looked around as if he'd never seen the lobby and joined them on the staircase. He shook Frank's hand, enveloped it in both of his, as if they hadn't shared lunch on the Welcome bench last week. Greenwich pinched the back of his arm. "Be polite, dammit! he's here as a personal favor to me."

Without letting go of Frank's hand, Dr. Webb smiled, and said, "Nonsense! I would have come even if you hadn't called! I wouldn't leave Frank and Margaret here by themselves. I've got hopes for Frank and Margaret! Someday they're going to harness the stars! By the way, where is Margaret?"

Frank removed his hand from Webb's leather clad paws. "Dr. Webb, Margaret actually left the building last night, can you believe it? When she goes home, she generally arrives by 6:30 the next morning."

"Fabulous! If your father's on time, the dust will have settled before she gets here. I'd like to see it work out that way, wouldn't you, Frank? I'm quite fond, as are you, of Margaret."

"That's it? You're quite fond of Margaret, hard stop?" 

"Frank, dear Fourth Frank, youth will get the better of you every time. I'll walk you through it. How do you feel about my appearance this morning? Do NOT pinch him again, Greenwich. The man had best get used to speaking his mind; he'll have to depend on it. Frank?"

"You want the truth?"

Francis Webb laughed until his belly hurt. Catching his breath, he said, "Frank, you fuck, if I don't want to hear something, I don't ask the question. I wasn't expecting to have to beat it out of you, of all people."

"Fine! Dr. Webb, you walked in here not one minute after my sister bothered to mention we might be seeing you, right on cue. You walked in here shaking off a bloody monsoon. Your umbrella and, I don't know what the hell those things are, were deposited in a RECYCLING BIN! Who does that?"

"That's a little better, Frank. But it's not where I put them that's got you rattled; it's the condition in which they arrived."

"Yes."

"Alright, Frank, here comes your Hail Mary Pass.”

“What the fuck is it with all the God damned Hail Mary Passes in this building?! Isn’t that a one-time play?”

“Frank… oh, hell, here we go. I see five sets of headlights, nope, make that six, just pulled into the parking lot."

Dr. Webb removed his gloves and handed them to Frank. "Put these in your pocket please, I'll need them back when I'm finished. And, Frank, I'll assume you know better than to put your hands into my gloves." Frank opened his mouth to scream at his sister, but the implosion took his wind. 

The entire glass wall of the building, left to right and up three floors was gone. The damn thing vaporized. He looked at the parking lot and saw his father leading a dozen Mr. Andersons in their Men in Black outfits. Unlike Coop, these Mr. Andersons were armed to the teeth. Frank couldn't seem to do the math. They were still a good twenty yards out and none of them had drawn a weapon, and yet, the glass had vaporized.

“Greenwich?”

“You should give Dr. Webb back his gloves now. The last thing we need is an accidental blast.”

Frank noticed the last two cars had put some distance between themselves and the fleet of mean machines his father cultivated. One was Coop's Prius; the ’73 cherry red Camaro had to be Margaret and he stopped that thought in its tracks. Coop and Margaret were out of their cars and following Dad's convoy at a reasonably safe distance, although reasonable and safe seemed to be missing from Coop's vocabulary. 

Greenwich stood with her arms crossed looking straight at their father. If she wasn't wishing him dead, she was doing a fine impression. Dr. Webb gave him a shit eating grin. "You want to know why I blew away the glass, is that it?" Frank shrugged and said he was just doing his best to follow all the Hail Mary Passes that seemed to be going down lately. "Don't worry son, when it's your turn to catch, I'll let you know. Your turn's coming in about ninety seconds. Look menacing.”

Greenwich glared at Dr. Webb. “Frank does NOT look menacing. It’s not in his, um, well I just don’t like the thought of it.”

“It'll keep him busy, Greenwich, it won't stick! He's a good boy, always has been. It's why your father can't seem to stop trying to ruin his life; no matter what he did, your brother never fell, and he never got mean. You, on the other hand, are a natural born pissant." Greenwich was kind of spooky when she smiled but she was downright terrifying when she grinned.

Frank III's posse stopped, dropped, and stayed on the ground. One of them asked if that was a nuclear explosion and should they maybe start looking for a fallout shelter? Frank III put a bullet through his head.

"Get up! That was a parlor trick! There are exactly three people in that lobby and they're all standing on the stairs. I don't see a weapon on any of them. Shit, one of them is wearing a fucking cat suit to my party! How fucking festive!"

Frank III continued his march across the parking lot. Eleven MIB followed in tight formation, although at least six of them seemed to be muttering a string of Hail Marys with the occasional Our Father thrown in. Frank III chose to ignore it. If he paid attention to every little quibble, he'd turn up on the doorstep by himself.

From the staircase, Dr. Webb and Greenwich stood watch with Frank. An internal timer must have gone off because Dr. Webb was winding himself up. "Annnny second now, Frankie Boy. Any second. Here it comes... here it comes... and there she is!" Frank was confused. There who was? Dr. Webb pointed straight up and said, "Her. Margaret's golem, and what a face on that one! Aren't you the architect on that, Frank?"

"Huh? Christie? No sir. I just dug the clay and formed the body. Margaret got her here."

Greenwich gave Frank a hard look. "Got her here? Is that how you see it? Looks more like entrapment to me."

Dr. Webb clucked his tongue. "Children, we're talking semantics. One of these days you're going to work that out. We are always talking semantics. Tomato... Tomahto... and Frankie Boy, here comes your pass! Catch!"

Frank looked back up at Christie, hanging over the third-floor balcony, another inch and she'd fall. She was singing in her stardust voice. It was very beautiful, and he had no idea what she was going on about. Her outstretched hands looked to be cupping water...

"Frank! Frank! Put your hands out, Frank, they'll come right to you. Gotta have faith now, Frank. Catch!"

Christie went over the balcony and Frank put out his hands, as if that would do a God damn thing to save her. He saw Margaret see Christie fall and nearly tumbled over his own railing. His hands were still out; empty, grasping, useless hands. He started to drop his arms, but Dr. Webb poked him good and hard. "Ya haven't made your catch yet, boy! The ball’s still in play! Focus up!" 

Frank held his hands out, palms cupped like Christie's had been. He held his hands out and held his breath. He couldn't see through the tears, but he felt a gazillion microscopic particles fill his hands to overflowing. He closed his hands on Christie's gift, closed his eyes, and dropped to his knees. 

Dr. Webb bent down and whispered, "You're almost home, boy. Find your heart, get back up and don't let that stardust loose, not just yet."

Ten yards off Frank III's rear flank, Coop had Margaret in a death grip. Coop might have been immune to loud, but the sound of her grief was unbearable. He wondered, briefly, how there could be a single star left in the sky. Margaret's tears were enough to bring the stars down on their heads. They should all be covered in stardust by now, what with every single light in the sky heeding Margaret's call. She stopped struggling. The only sounds coming out of that mouth were hiccoughs, and then, "Look, Coop, look up."

She had cried the stars right out of the sky. If he'd bothered to look up, he might have dropped her in his confusion because the sky was still full of stars. If anything, there were more. But they were covered in stardust. The parking lot was covered in stardust. Tiny twinkling lights; dancing, laughing, singing, making love. He tripped over an MIB on his knees. The man was looking at the palms of his hands as if Christ had just made a personal appearance. All that light could bring anyone to his knees. That's what Coop thought. 

He pulled Margaret off the ground and apologized for dropping her. She shook herself like a wet dog, kicked off her shoes, and bolted toward the building. Coop thought she looked like a runaway horse; except she was running straight to the stable. He hoped it wasn't on fire.

There was nothing in Margaret's way. All eleven MIBs were either prone or on their knees. Except for the dude in the herringbone jacket. He straightened his tie, did his best to wipe the shit off his jacket, and continued his forward march. When Margaret ran past him, Frank III failed to register her presence. Coop stayed back and paced the man from a reasonable, according to Coop, distance. 

Frank was still standing on the staircase. He was watching his wretched father march onward. A Brigadier General without so much as a Private to keep his powder dry and wash his socks, on he marched. Greenwich sat down and put her elbows on her knees. She didn't want to, but it was time to take the damn boots off. Her lower back was a hot mess and she lost feeling in the balls of her feet before company arrived. She grumbled, unzipped them one at a time, and slid her feet out of the hot leather. Dr. Webb looked down and shook his head. "Woman, your feet stink. Seriously, they smell hyena poop. Don't you bathe?" He took a boot to the head with good humor.

The self-anointed Brigadier General Frank Johnson Evans III breached the non-existent glass walls. He stood in the middle of the lobby looking up at the only two of his four children with half a brain between them, and his godforsaken brother. Fine. Circumstances being what they are, we carry on with Plan A until we hit a wall, and a wall has yet to be hit. Frank III looked up at his firstborn son and yelled:

"YOU are fired, you little fuck! Pack your shit and get out."

Frank looked at Greenwich and mouthed, "is that it?" Greenwich shrugged and went back to massaging her feet. Dr. Webb leaned over the railing to get a better look at his older brother. "You're getting soft, Frank. You're getting soft and stupid and neither suit you."

"What the fuck are you talking about, Francis? I just fired the little shit and by this time tomorrow, his name will have been stricken from the Evans Family Records. For good. This time."

When Dr. Webb smiled just so, like his niece, most people within close range were left with the distinct impression of multiple rows of very sharp teeth. Dr. Webb gave Frank III his very best, only used on special occasions, smile. "Frank, I think if you stick around another hour or two, you may discover you don't have the authority to fire the boy."

Frank III raised one defiant fist, and promptly fell over. Christie kicked him onto his back and stood on his chest like a big game hunter. Greenwich pulled her phone out of somewhere and took a picture. For the family photo album.

Margaret’s fighter stance was ‘drill sergeant’. From the middle of the lobby, Drill Sergeant Don’t Fuck With Me Abegg screamed:

"Everybody in the clean room, NOW!"

Coop jogged up beside her and pointed at Christie's trophy. "Him too?"

"Yes. Him too, Coop, ALL of them. Don't worry about the dead one in the parking lot, just corral the rest. I don't know how much time we have before Laura arrives with the crew, but I do know we'll be getting more than the usual straggler. Two carloads, at least, and Matt's in crisis." 

*

The Clean Room held four to six, comfortably. With eleven bodies piled against a wall, Frank III strapped to a table, and the surgical equipment shoved in a corner, it was a little tight. Frank wasn't sure he wanted to talk to Margaret, and Coop wondered what the hell he'd done this time. Frank was always getting mad at him and not bothering to say why. Christie asked Greenwich, didn't she think this was all very exciting, and Greenwich asked if she'd like to have her scroll removed. Dr. Webb excused himself and went to have a chat with his brother. 

"Frank, you know you're a certified sociopath, right? Mom had you tested after you shaved the dog and garnished eleven dinner plates with Fido fur sometime between the chef’s plating and arrival at the table. That could be considered an ill-advised but mostly harmless prank, after all, you weren't even eight yet. But that wasn't the first incident, was it?”

 Dr. Webb took advantage of Frank III’s circumstances and bit off his right earlobe. Just a snack. The table snack thrashed against his restraints and hissed obscenities. Dr. Webb dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief, gave thought to a possible group brunch and decided he wasn’t interested in sharing; Greenwich would have fits. He pulled up his suspenders and regarded what surely looked like a lost meal.

“Frank, I’m going to do you the courtesy of communicating bluntly. You seem to need to crush anything smaller or weaker than you. I'd just call that a bully, but Mom had some serious concerns. Did you know she tried to talk Emma out of marrying you? Offered her a rather substantial sum of money if she'd just walk away. Unfortunately, to someone like Emma, that's an aphrodisiac. Are you listening to me, Frank? You need to be listening to me."

Frank III opened his eyes and spit. Francis smiled, and gently wiped his face. He hadn't managed to launch past his chin. 

"Frank, do you know why our parents named me Francis? I want you to give this some thought. You never brought it up which I've always found a bit odd. Frank and Francis, they're almost the same name, wouldn't you say?"

"What's your point, Francis? That our parents lacked imagination?"

"That's not my point, Frank. Our parents weren't lacking in that department at all. If anything, they might have been overcompensating. How many years have you got on me Frank?"

"Two years, Francis. I am two years, to the day, older than you."

"Do we have any siblings, Frank?"

"No. Francis. We do not have any siblings and next you're going to ask me why not and I'm going to tell you because Mother decided two boys were more than enough."

"And Father didn't want me at all. Did you know that? Do you know the reason he did not want me is exactly what Mother used to convince him that they had an obligation to produce a second?"

"Francis. Get to the bloody point before that lunatic comes back here with a scalpel. I know we've had our differences, but I've always believed we could count on each other. I'm going to need you to get me out of here. You can have the other ear if you want"

"I can't do that, Frank, I'm sorry. And I can have the other ear if I want, with or without your permission. But not tonight, you're about to be prepped for surgery and we wouldn't want you to miss that."

"FRANCIS!!!!"

"Pay attention or don't, Frank. It's no skin off my nose. If you wake up with zero answers, that's on you, but I'm going to say this once and be done with it. Our parents knew you were a genetic disaster by your first birthday. Every recessive trait our family spent generations trying to send back to the dark ages, appeared out of nowhere in the package of a bouncing baby boy named Frank Johnson Evans III.

Frank. You lit the cat on fire before you could walk. No one has any idea how you managed to do it, but there she was, six inches from your face and Kaboom! Toasted Cat. You needed to hurt things, Frank, but they might have been able to work with that if you hadn't been so God damned stupid. Are you even remotely aware that Father is still running around cleaning up after you? And from a financial perspective you've been a nightmare. 

So, let's revisit our names, for clarity. Mother and Father chose to have a backup baby. This is a very common practice and shouldn't have come as a surprise to anyone. The odd part is my name. Do you know my name? Not the Francis part, all of it."

"Francis, you have no idea just exactly how much I don't care, have never cared, have never even bothered to wish you dead. You are that insignificant."

Francis gave him another sparkly smile. "I've got some interesting recessive genes, as does your daughter, but we have another thing called discretion. My name, Frank III, is Francis Johnson Evans III. How odd is that, us having the same middle name? How odd is the III at the end of mine? I don't recall a Francis one or a Francis two, do you?"

Frank III looked up at his little brother, and with his very best fuck you smile, said, "Good luck with all that, Francis". He might have said something else, but Fourth Frank leaned in, shoved a long tube down his throat and slapped a mask over his face.  

Margaret pulled the needle out of the IV bag and said, "Sorry, Dude, I just couldn't listen to that anymore. And, also, I've got work to do and you're leaning into my clean space. Don't worry, I'll have him back to you in under an hour. This is a very straight forward procedure; I just need to get his corneas off."

Francis chuckled and wandered off toward the team. He threw one last barb, hoping his brother could still hear. "A very straight forward procedure, indeed. I understand Matt Franklin's found this all very beneficial."

"Shut it, Dr. Webb. I've got a pair of very ugly eyeballs to gussy up with a matched set of brand spanking new lenses”.