Part 20: Movie Night

Previously in the Vines Inquiry— Needing somewhere to watch the film reel Frank discovered hidden in his father’s office (Big Rick ‘77), Frank and Harlow travelled to the Carlisle Town Square and Bramford University, the island’s suspiciously well-appointed higher ed institution. There, they met the Bramford’s librarian, Blevin.

Blevin guided them from the library’s vestibule, where Frank had been more emotionally-tested than he ever could have guessed.

As it turned out, Sanderson Vines was sort of deservedly renowned. Short on square acres, Carlisle’s founders and ole Sandy in particular had taken aggressive advantage of life below sea level.

Just past the library’s entryway, there was a reception desk—a mammoth wood piece that offered a warm amber glow from a few Tiffany desk lamps—and then the compact main floor. Shaped like a U with the mouth facing towards the front doors, the main level of the library held a few shelves against the walls, but was mostly seating and study areas next to cozy fireplaces. In the back corner, a condensed coffee shop sat closed for winter break. Colorful signs for something called a Peppermint Mo-Carlisle stood out against the building’s otherwise neutral stone.

Behind the desk, the pale walls melted into a wide staircase, made of the same rock, that sank two stories deep. The air changed as they descended, but the feeling and warmth fought hard to stay consistent. The stairway was open on both sides, letting any visitor see the rows of wooden stacks and desks scattered throughout the expansive lower floor. Doors with square glass cut-outs on the far walls were labeled in gold lettering like a PI’s office. A luxurious, well-trodden rug met them at the bottom step. 

“This has been here for decades,” said Blevin, pointing to the rug. “There was some push back—big donors didn’t want to cover the tile work. But after the fourth person slipped down the stairs and cracked something important, the university thought it made more sense to have a soft landing.” He grinned again, rarely with teeth, while he delivered this fun little anecdote. He pulled back the rug and Frank spied the bottom corner of an Ionic column, complete with ivy. 

Frank showed Blevin the film reel, careful to cover the label, and followed the librarian through a few stacks until they were at one of the doors on the room’s edge. Inside, three projectors pointed at screens pulled down from hanging rolls with some chairs and a table. Both of these lacked the opulence and majesty of the other furniture—newer, at-one-point modern additions with vinyl made to look like wood grain instead of the real things.

At least my family isn’t the only one running out of money, thought Frank.

It felt grounding, familiar. Frank was happy to have a few lead balloons attached to this strange day. It made him feel less like they were about to watch a snuff film starring his dad and more like it might just be an old family movie. A clue. Something that could finally explain why his parents didn’t believe him.

Why even before Dick died, he’d always been an inconvenience. 

They never faced it head-on, but the question still broke through. A raptor’s attack from the side, livening up a stodgy meal. There were many memories for Frank to choose from, but in that moment, a few blurred together.

“And where are you visiting from?” the dinner guest, usually overdressed and with their checkbook close by, might ask. 

Frank would give it a child’s pause; the vacuum of speech that was a cry for help. This was oft-filled with a slurp of soup or a salad fork scraping against a plate before Lil Frank had no option but to answer.

He’d taken to fabricating an identity these guests expected: that he was spending the weekend home from a prestigious, well-known, but quaint, private, exclusive boarding school. It worked, or fit. His parents both took crooked and random leaves of absence from their work and family life to travel, or immerse themselves in private study. In his fantasy, this meant that Frank was sent off so as to ‘not interrupt his education.’

Why Dick was always allowed to stay home and continue on at Carlisle High was a moot topic.

In these cases, Frank would answer with the (fictional) institution’s name. Something that started with ‘Saint’ or ended with ‘for Exemplary Young Gentlemen.’ 

“An orphan, then?” the guest would say, an excited novelty brightening their glassy eyes. “Or what’s the right word? A ward? Like that gymnastic fellow with the ornithological passion?”

“I’m their son,” Frank would say. It would be the guests turn to take a slurp of soup then. Their eyes would travel to Dick as he sunk into his third helping of mashed potatoes. 

“Their other son.”

“Ah yes,” would say the guest. “You have their…well, their eyes maybe? Erm, no—.”

“Do you know you’re talking out loud?” Dick had said. Once, a trio? It didn’t matter. He’d have repeated himself a thousand times, in the way only he could. Like spitting at someone and having them slurp it down.

Frank looked at Dick to see if he could see the gears turning. To find the card hidden up his brother’s sleeve and learn the trick for himself. Frank said thank you in his own head, for some reason confident that his brother got the message. He said thank you each time Dick extended a hand, always unable to tell the difference between assistance and pity.

“Oh. Well yes,” said the guest. “Speaking inside our heads is something we can all talk about later.” The guest would wink and everyone would giggle. 

In the present, in the library, there was fear. But an excitement, too. They were investigating. Asking questions, and in a family where there was no such thing as a stupid one, Frank felt like he was earning a badge on his Vines family vest. 

I should really see about enrolling in adult Scouts if this is going to keep coming up.

“I can help you run it through, if you like?” said Blevin. Chatting as he went, the librarian fed the film into one of the projectors and by the time he starting talking about Geneva drives, the movie was ready. “Should I stay?” 

Harlow took both of his hands in her own and walked him towards the door. “Oh, Blevin,” she said. “Of course not.” 

She led him out and pulled the shade down over the glass cut-out. “Ready?”

“Just missing popcorn,” said Frank.

First: 

a few scattered, jumping images.

A steadying gallop, more cohesive.

The audio crackled in from the magnetic strip running the length of the film. Slightly distorted. Gaining clarity. Everyone speaking with a sponge stretched over their mouths. Worse. Lower. Unintelligible, numb around the edges. Noises being broadcast through a foot that had fallen asleep. 

They were in a room Frank only sort of recognized. Could he have walked through it with a different coat of paint, or was the miasma surrounding the Big House so unique it couldn’t be missed? The symptoms unmistakable. 

The camera moved around herky-jerky, snapping from one tilted angle to another as the operator settled it into place. Wherever it was, one thing was certain: No windows. 

“Is the camera rolling?” The lower half of Rosalind walked into frame as she spoke.

The camera adjusted again and caught her whole body. She had to be seventeen, younger? About the twins’ age when Dick died. The clip of her voice was already well-established; competent and waiting on you. There was searching in her eyes, but a certainty. She stood taller, with a straight back and a dancer’s shoulders.

Had Frank ever seen his mother’s bare shoulders before? He and Harlow both did now as Rosalind lounged—there was no other word for it—in her youth. She wore a tight black miniskirt and sleeveless top with buttons running up the middle. An outfit with “Suffer” laced into each stitch. 

Richard, or Big Rick apparently, beamed. Himself a younger, sprier version than the one Frank knew. His hair was long, nearly to his shoulders. Rick had a swagger and a cheeky grin that felt too proud, too boisterous, to belong to his father. Not a squirrel in sight. Frank did the math.

Big Rick ’77. Okay, Dad: Twenty-three. Mom: Seventeen.

This Rick had the smirk of a man who got women’s phone numbers. Who would whisper double-entendres in his date’s ear while they waited for a table. It was an energy that hadn’t dissipated, Frank only realized in that moment. He’d just seen it transmuted. Instead of sexiness, of horny prowl, his father had condensed the energy, focused it. A thick beam, white-hot and enduring, that was constantly pointed into the core of Rosalind. A bottomless love, which only spread from her as if by accident, diluted; to his work, his friends, his children.

Another face popped into the screen, swallowing it whole with her huge, almond eyes; the shape and color. More cake than the tart fruit, with brown hair pulled back into a low ponytail over one shoulder, his Aunt Lemony stuck her tongue out at the camera lens.

Seeing her, Frank thought of the supposed deer of Carlisle…and their lungs. He had her nose, which scrunched as she said “Mhm” into the camera. She had a high, jolly voice. One he hadn’t heard since high school.

Hughes House had taken away Aunt Lemony’s phone privileges after she’d convinced an entire sorority to Thelma and Louise themselves over weekly ‘mentorship calls.’ And that was just because she really liked the movie. 

“Then let’s begin,” said Rosalind.