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Fagan Corners was an idyllic, storybook town by all accounts except that of Karen Page. The front stoop of the old wooden Joe's General Store was neatly swept every morning by Joe himself, and his wife kept her apple stand outside on the corner, sweetly chattering with passersby. The church bells sung every hour on the hour from the pearly white steeple with the green copper top. Most residents timed their days around the chimes - up at the 6AM bell, out at the 7AM bell, home for dinner at the 5PM bell. The only school in town was swarming with tons of smiling kids, running about freely. Fagan Corners had so few children that everyone aged four to eighteen attended class in the same building, where Karen's mother had worked in the front office throughout Karen's attendance, and she still did. The honey locust tree in Fagan Square Park off Main Street had began to bloom in the early spring months, and an elderly couple was sitting on the wooden bench beneath it, reading separate copies of the Windler County Gazette. It all made Karen sick.
As Karen and Frank zipped down the road in their flying shadow of a car, the pedestrians on the street craned their necks with suspicious glances. Karen knew it wasn't personal; a strange car hadn't passed through Fagan Corners since 1999, when news vans came into town to interview Tim Ealy when he won the Vermont State Spelling Bee. She was very confident that bringing Frank here despite his notoriety would be fine, since Fagan Corners barely got news from Burlington, let alone New York City, save for the... incident. Karen gave a quick glance at Frank. He seemed to be subtlety taking the sights in as well, yet still kept his gaze more firmly on the road in front of him. On the right, they drove passed the old Fagan Corners Cosmic diner, an old steel trolley car with a mural of the galaxy painted along the side. It fascinated Karen as a child, and she'd often insist on her parents taking her there for breakfast on the weekends just so she could stand outside and play spaceships in front of the mural. She pointed it out to Frank as they passed.
"We should go here," she said. "After we get settled. They have the best coffee." She turned to face Frank. "You could probably use some, right?" She examined his face. The bruising looked alright, and if he kept his hat tucked over his face like he was now, Karen didn't think people would ask many questions. His eyes were certainly tired though. He could most definitely use some coffee.
He grunted at her affirmatively. They were still a few miles away from the Page house; Main Street was about a mile long, but the majority of Fagan Corners lied either hidden within the rolling, Northern Vermont mountains and hills to the left of Main Street, or closer to the Passumpsic River to the right. Karen directed Frank left onto Pinewood Drive, on which her house was, still way down the dirt road. They passed a few houses on the way, all of which were identical, big farmhouses with separate barns and silos, all on about 8-12 acres of land. They rolled up the one-lane street, rocking back and forth and side to side atop the bumpy earth. Karen felt queasy, half from the motion, half from other anxieties. She knew her mother would be at work at this time, and being around her father alone made her nervous. It sounded terrible, but other than the obvious, something about her father was unsettlingly different. He was sick, she knew that, but he never looked sick. He had lost his speech, but he looked at you like he was completely conscious of your presence, very bright-eyed, very aware, yet disturbingly blank and unresponsive.
Soon enough, there it was, coming up on the right – the Page’s two-story sage green farmhouse, with the red detached barn, on the ten-acre plot. It grew closer and closer as the wheels crunched the rocks and dirt on the road. Karen gulped loudly, rubbing her sweaty palms along her pant legs. Frank pulled up the winding driveway, and Karen began to make out all the details. She saw her mother’s hand-sown floral curtains in the window, the white whicker furniture set on the porch, the vegetable garden her mother kept by the barn. The tractor they used to mow the land was parked besides the barn; a neighbor, Mr. Feldman, came by every other week or so to mow the plot. Kevin had done it before that. One thing, though, was noticeably missing.
“Huh,” Karen grunted as they pulled into the dirt lot next to the Page house.
“What’sa’ matter?” Frank asked, looking over to her. Her gaze was set into the field.
“The horses,” she explained. “My… my mother used to have horses. We had two before I left. She loves horses, we’ve always had them around.” Perhaps her mother had given up that venture as she got older, Karen thought. They were particularly difficult to care for, even for Karen. Still, their absence threw Karen off just that much more.
They had only been stalled in the driveway for about twenty seconds before a middle-aged, slightly heavy-set red-headed woman came bounding out of the porch door, glaring at the car angrily, like they were trespassers. Out of instinct, the sudden movement made Frank quickly reach for the gun on his side holster, and Karen, instinctively, through her left hand onto Frank’s to stop him as she waved to the woman.
“Irina!” Karen called, a hesitant smile on her lips. The woman halted and squinted dead into the passenger’s window. Her fiery hair and equally so lipstick shimmered fiercely in the early morning sun. Finally, Irina's face lit up, and she threw up arms up jovially and she jogged towards the car.
"Oh, Miss Karen!" she hollered. She bounced over to Karen's door, flinging it open and practically pulling Karen out. Irina flung Karen into a tight hug, swinging her back and forth as dust from the ground started flying around them. Karen opened her mouth in a silent scream as Irina pressed against her wounded shoulder.
"Oh, Miss Karen!" Irina repeated. "Oh, what a surprise! It is so good to see you!" Irina pulled back, examining Karen up and down. She scowled slightly. "You have gotten thin, no?"
Karen gave an awkward laugh. "Yeah..." she grumbled. Irina then looked passed Karen and over to Frank, who himself had gotten out of the car and was leaning his arms on the hood as he watched the reunion.
"You have brought company?" Irina asked redundantly, raising her eyebrow at Frank.
"Yeah!" Karen answered. She stepped back from Irina and turned to the side, allowing Frank to approach. "Yeah! Irina, this is Frank, my... friend. Frank, this is Irina, our nurse."
Frank extended his cut hand to Irina. "Ma'am..." he rasped. Karen smirked.
Irina grabbed Frank's hand politely, incredulously scanning it. She gave a good yank to it, and Frank took a tumbling step closer. Irina reached out and cupped Frank's chin in her hand, lengthening his neck so that the shadows of his cap were cast away and she could see his bruises.
"You fight?" Irina asked.
"Yeah, yeah, he's fine," Karen scrambled. "Just a little... misunderstanding, it's okay!"
Irina studied Frank's face sternly still.
"This is alright. Where I come from," Irina started, "man who fights is a man who is brave, man who has honor. Especially if he fights..." she threw a look at Karen. "For his woman."
Karen laughed apprehensively again, blushing bright pink.
"Oh no," she laughed. "no, it's, it's not like that!"
Irina laughed back at Karen. She let go of Frank's face and began to approach the front door again backwards.
"I am not born yesterday," she chuckled, turning now. "Come, come! Grab your things! You are staying, no?"
Karen and Irina approached the house while Frank grabbed their bags out of the trunk. The screen door to the porch clapped shut as Irina opened the chestnut front door. The smell of lemon and cleaning fluid smacked Karen in the face as she entered, and her moccasins slipped on the waxy mahogany.
"I am just cleaning," Irina said, herself sliding in her rubber-soled house slippers. "Your father is still sleeping, so I have time." Karen gave the front living room a once over. It was almost exactly as it had been when she left. A large, 3x5 oil painting of Karen and Kevin as children was hung along the sidewall over a small coffee table commissioned for junk and key-holding. The fireplace was shut up for the spring and summer months. Above it hung a 42'' flat screen TV, offset by Victorian cream sofas and pink floral wallpaper. Noticeably missing were the many blossoming houseplants Karen's mother kept all over the room, which had been replaced with plastic counterparts. This room was never as comfortable or as homey as Karen's mother intended it to be while she was decorating it. The only member of the family who regularly spent time there was the Page's German Shepherd, Dolly, whose blanketed spot on the left sofa was neatly made.
"Dolly!' Karen called softly, slipping small whistles through her teeth. As she bounded through the kitchen to the bedrooms, Irina turned to Karen, a sympathetic frown on her face.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Miss Karen," she said. "No one told you. They put her to sleep. She was old, poor thing, could not use her legs anymore, could not drink water." Karen's heart sunk a little. She never spent much time with Dolly after she'd gone away to school, they'd only adopted her as an older puppy just after Kevin's accident. The dog wouldn't have been more than 9 or 10 years old now. Yet, she was always a sweetheart, and Karen enjoyed snuggling up with her on the sofa by the fire during her winter breaks.
"Come," Irina beckoned again. Karen continued through the kitchen and into the downstairs hallway. Irina led her straight into her old bedroom, which upon opening the door, Karen found, had still not changed since she'd left, or rather since she was about thirteen years old. The walls were painted Granny Smith green, and a pink and green paisley quilt was drawn over the bed sheets under a framed drawing of her name spelled out in flowers (which she'd gotten from her first trip to New York City when she was ten), and a dream catcher that she'd probably be taking home with her when she left. The same cork boards with tacked pictures of herself and her middle school and high school friends were still hung up as well, along with the same old computer desk, same big white wardrobe, the works.
Behind her, she could hear Irina making small talk with Frank as she helped him into the guest room at the other end of the hall. Karen quickly dropped her bag on the bed and turned to leave, but not before she stepped over towards the window overlooking the perplexing empty field and stared. She swiftly exited the room, wood creaking beneath her, and headed into Frank’s room. Irina had stepped out again to continue cleaning, and Frank was left in the room alone, his dark silhouette clashing with the white lace bedding and the smooth warm sunlight that was spilling into the room. He also was gaping out the window.
“You left all this to live in a dump like Hell’s Kitchen?” he asked, his eyes never wavering from the outside.
Karen leaned on the doorframe and crossed her arms. “Wouldn’t you?” she asked.
Frank shrugged his shoulders and turned toward Karen, slowly pacing toward her.
“I don’t know any better,” he said softly. He stopped as he was within five feet of her, and pulled up his cap up so that Karen could see into his eyes for a moment. He looked exhausted, so much so that Karen thought about scrapping the diner idea all together.
“C’mon,” Frank ordered as he approached her again, grabbing at the small of back, ushering her out. “How ‘bout that coffee”
* * *
Karen chose a quiet corner booth for her anonymity’s sake. Frank, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying the fact that no one in this small town knew who he was. Everyone was kind and pleasant to them, from the hostess, to the waitress, to the old man canning for the local VFW out front. Frank was smiling at everyone and laughing every chance he got, and though she felt nothing for this town anymore, Karen was glad it seemed to make him happy. The waitress, a frizzy-haired woman named Francine, came back shortly with their black coffees and rested two laminated menus on the table.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” Frank cooed at her, tipping the brim of his cap.
“You’re welcome, sweetheart,” Francine flirted back. “When you’re ready, you’ll know where to find me.” She winked and Frank and walked away. Karen snatched her menu up, eyeing it up and down. Yet, she continuously broke her concentration to glare around the room at the patrons. They were mostly older men, transients, the postman, just the folk who didn’t have to be at work at this hour. A very top-heavy man with a handle bar mustache, likely a truck driver, was talking to another waitress behind the counter, asking if they’d seen a friend of his who might’ve passed through here. Karen leered at them, almost disgusted at their simplicity.
“Yknow…” Frank started, staring at his menu. “I thought we were comin’ up here so you could relax, not eyeball everybody and get all jittery and shit.”
Karen slammed down her menu defensively, but them slow picked it up midway embarrassed, looking around at everyone again. She took a deep breath.
“I’m not jittery,” she insisted. “I’m just… I just…”
“Ya’ hate it here, you don’t have to say it.” Frank lowered his menu to look at her. “So why are we here?”
“I don’t… I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
Frank raised his menu again, taking a long sip from his coffee cup.
“I don’t get why you wouldn’t like this place. It’s kinda’ cute, a little ‘Leave It To Beaver’ maybe, but it ain’t so bad. What did these people ever do to you?”
“It’s not what they did to me, it’s what they didn’t do,” Karen blurted out. She hadn’t meant to say that much. She tightened her fingers around the menu and pursed her lips tightly to keep anything else from falling out.
“What’s that mean?” Frank interrogated
Before she could answer, Francine returned.
“You two ready to order?”
Karen fidgeted in her seat, trying to act casual. “I’ll have a short stack,” she said calmly as possible, “and a side of home fries, please.”
Francine scribbled it down.
“And for you, sir?”
“I’ll take one of these Super Cosmic Platters, over-easy, both sausage and bacon if ya’ can, white toast, home fries, pancakes, if ya’ don’t mind.”
Francine smiled slightly. “Straight shooter, huh? I like that.”
Frank smiled back. “Yeah, you can say that again,” he chuckled. Francine grabbed the menus and walked away as Karen shot Frank a curious look.
“Were you always this good with the ladies, Frank?” she asked coyly. Frank tensed, and his smile faded. He took another swig of his coffee.
“I got by,” he choked. He focused again on Karen, “but we’re not talkin’ about me now. So what’ve you got against this town, huh?”
“Doesn’t matter I guess. It’s all in the past now.” Karen twiddled her thumbs on the table avoiding eye contact with Frank. She could see Frank’s head sink lower, though, in an attempt to look her in the face.
“If it didn’t matter, it wouldn’t bother you like this,” Frank said. He shifted in his seat, leaning in closer and lowering his voice.
“This about him?” he whispered.
“Who?”
“Your brother.”
Karen winced and rubbed her tired hand along her forehead. Frank could read her like a book.
“You wouldn’t…” Understand? Of course Frank would understand, Karen thought. She looked up at him again; his dark eyes bored at her longingly, prying the answer from her, like they could help. Perhaps they were right, Karen thought. Maybe a little Frank Castle logic would help. Karen leaned in and whispered back to him.
“Yeah, yeah it’s Kevin,” she started.
“What happened to him?” Frank questioned.
“He… I was a senior, in high school. It was towards the end of the year, I remember being outside hanging some banners with student council for Spirit Week. Kevin and I never missed a day of school. Our mom works there, she’d never let us skip even if we were sick. That day, though, she let Kevin stay home. My dad asked her too; he wanted the two of them to go fishing down at the river for the day, it was beautiful out. My dad headed down there earlier than Kevin, took different cars. They were on their way home around one, two in the afternoon. Jesus… you’ve seen the roads around here Frank, they’re all one-way, one lane, dirt roads, no traffic…” Karen paused to compose herself. “The cops… the cops said it was an accident, he just… ran off the side of the road. In the middle of the day. They said… ‘maybe a deer got in his way and he swerved, he was only sixteen, he hadn’t been driving long’. It was all bullshit. Nobody even bothered….” Karen was huffing almost uncontrollably. She ran her fingers through her hair and rubbed at her scalp trying to calm down.
Frank watched her all the while listening intently.
“You’re saying you don’t think it was an accident,” he prodded.
Karen took some more deep breaths before answering. “No, no I don’t think it was an accident. That’s why I hate this… piece of shit town… because nobody batted an eye about it. It was all ‘Oh, poor Paxton, poor Penelope, they must be feeling terrible!’ They had a big pep rally for him and all, put his picture up with wreaths outside the school, it was a real piece of work. But, nobody wants to ask what a local boy, knows the roads, in broad daylight, why he would just swerve off a one way street down a hill. No, it’s too important to… put your best face forward, pretend the bad stuff isn’t there…I tried to say something, to anybody, school counselors, my parents. They all just said I was ‘grieving’, that I was trying to hold someone accountable for what was just a tragic accident… Maybe, maybe that’s why I got involved in all this.”
“Involved in what?” Frank asked. His gaze never left her.
“You know. This hero, villain, vigilante shit. I guess… I guess I know what it’s like to feel wronged, like nobody did anything to help you. I guess it’s all taught me to…” Karen trailed off.
"Hey," Frank whispered. He extended his right hand to hold her left. Karen stared this gesture, unsure of exactly what it meant in context of what was going on between them. Frank, however, kept his head fixed towards her in a kind of protective trance, his eyes intense. He flipped his open hand listlessly into the air.
“I mean, I’m not one to tell you how to deal with that shit, I think we both know that,” he rasped, “but for what it’s worth, I believe you.”
Karen darted her eyes up at him. “Yeah?” she asked gratefully, and slightly choked up.
“Yeah, I believe you,” he affirmed. “I ain’t ever seen you wrong about something before. Hell, you might even be the smartest person I met in a long time when it comes to shit like this. Clues, hell even conspiracies and all that. You get it all, you can see it all, and even if you don’t at first you can sure as hell figure it out.” His thumb tenderly stroked her hand. “You’ll get it one day, I know it.” Just then, Francine returned with their food. Frank ripped his hand away, smiling and thanking her, excitedly preparing for his massive meal. Karen left her hand in the same place on the table, nervously looking out the window, all of her jitters now concentrated in her left hand. She sighed heavily and grabbed her fork and knife to begin eating as well.
* * *
Frank and Karen returned to the house a little before ten o’clock. When they pulled up, the kitchen windows were open, and they could hear the kitchen sink running and something sizzling on the stove. They entered the house, and sure enough, Irina was busy cooking, busily running around their kitchen. She stopped in place when she heard them come through the door.
“Miss Karen,” she called. In a more hushed tone, she added, “your father is awake,” pointed upstairs. Karen turned back to Frank.
“Are you okay if I…” she said hesitantly.
“By all means,” he obliged.
“Don’t worry, I will keep him company!” Irina laughed. She turned to Frank as well. “Tell me, my dear, do you like porridge? You must taste this for me…”
She faded out as Karen entered the first floor hallway and ascended the stairs, pacing herself, the stairs creaking one by one as she climbed. The second floor of the Page home had always gave Karen the creeps, which is why she insisted her room be on the first floor. It was short and very narrow, and the doors lined up uniformly with one other, so if you were standing with a door in front of you, you were also standing with a door directly behind you. Ancient paintings of Pages passed hung on the walls. The two windows at either end of the hallway were facing north and south, so there was never adequate sunlight during the daytime. Her parents’ bedroom was at the end of the hall on the east side, so in the morning, as it was now, the bedroom door was cast in shadow, while the door in front of it, to Irina’s bedroom, was illuminated.
Karen crept down the hall towards the bedroom. Her pulse had quickened and little beads of sweat began to form on her forehead. You shouldn’t be nervous, she thought to herself. He’s your father. He’s only your father. Karen rubbed her temples in circles as she stood just outside the bedroom. From inside she could here the slow, purposeful movement of her father’s rocking chair. They kept it facing outside so that he had something to look at. She took a deep breath in and a deep breath out. She thought she could hear the faint sound of humming. Karen knocked softly out of habit. She turned the knob slowly and pushed the poor ajar.
“….Dad?” she called. She pushed the door open some more. As she suspected, her father was there, rocking back and forth in his chair, and the humming noise had stopped. His long, wispy, silver hair was blowing back gently in front of the open window. His wrinkled bony fingers rested lazily along the arms of the chair, and he rocked, and he rocked, sitting straight up and rigid. Karen approached him, taking a knee beside him. He gazed out the window blankly, but still so stoically, like he was still present somehow and thinking.
“Hi, Dad,” she whispered again, rubbing his shoulder. “I came to visit you. How’re you doing? How’re you feeling?” These were question she knew he couldn’t answer. “I’m sorry to hear about Dolly. I know you really loved her. She was a great dog. Maybe… maybe if Mom is up for it, we can get you a new puppy, or maybe a cat to have around, they’re easier to take care of. More your speed,” she said jokingly, patting him a little. Still, there was no response, just a dead blank gaze.
Karen put both of her hands on her father’s, half-smiling.
“I haven’t been back to visit Kevin yet,” she admitted. “I’ll probably head over there later with Frank. You’ve never met Frank; he’s my friend from back in the city. I think you would like him. He’s a real guy’s guy, I guess. He’s pretty tough, rugged. Could’ve done a lot of good work around the farm, I’m sure. He’s sweet too.” Karen giggled a little with a deflated smile. “Yeah, you would like him.” She looked up towards his face again, furrowing her brow, squinting her eyes, trying to focus wholly on the expression on his face. He was there somewhere, Karen could swear it. He was quiet, but he just looked so aware. Karen heard someone charging up the steps. The sudden noise made her flinch. She jerked her head over to the door to see Irina coming towards them with her father’s breakfast. She let out a little sigh, laughing a little at her nerves. When she looked back at her father, his head had turned. He was looking directly at her now, the same expressionless, thoughtful look on his face. His eyes were large, enflamed even. This startled Karen again, and she quickly dropped his hand and stumbled back a few steps as Irina entered.
“Mr. Page, come, come, I have your breakfast,” she sung happily. She was confused by Karen’s distress. Thinking on her feet, Karen responded quickly.
“I’ll leave you two to eat then,” she said enthusiastically, smoothing her shirt and pants with her hands. She quickly kissed her father on the forehead and scurried away. Perhaps it was a good idea to have a nap, she thought. Her father’s eyes followed her out of the room.