High School Football
Fran Flowers was a junior, long-limbed and athletic. She stood a full head taller than the other cheerleaders and had an engaging way of rolling her eyes as if to ask, “Will this high school BS ever be over?”
A senior, Galt McDermott was taller still and seemed to grow some every day. He was a starter on defense for the Blue Springs Bearcats and backed up the quicker and more elusive Keyshawn Wardlow at wide receiver.
Last spring, Fran traveled with the Bearcat track team to the tri-state meet. When her roommate, Renata the shot putter fell ill, Fran found herself alone in a Birmingham hotel room with Coach Ambrose, who proposed to personally treat her strained hamstring. A little analgesic balm on the inner thigh led to clitoral stimulation followed by an arduous night of physical engagement and sexual exploration. This led to weekly sessions with Coach Ambrose in his office, the back of his van, and once in a Sunday-school room where Fran was introduced to, among other procedures, the peculiar opportunities and obligations of anal intercourse.
Coach Ambrose resigned abruptly to take a position as counselor at a Presbyterian boy’s camp in Tyler, Texas, where he now awaited arraignment on four counts of child molestation. His heterosexual proclivities never came to light, but Fran and several girls at Blue Springs High exchanged knowing glances when they passed in the hall.
Fran told Galt all of this soon after they started seeing one another. Not out of guilt or shame but to let him know it was an option were he interested, which of course he was. A sore ass was a lot better than coming up pregnant, Fran reasoned.
Keyshawn Wardlow had a fever of 101 degrees when he dressed out for the Coldwater game. The Copperheads were up two scores on the Bearcats in the fourth quarter when Keyshawn went down and didn’t get up. Coaches and trainers came out, and finally an ambulance took him away.
“McDermott, get in there for Wardlow,” Coach Hardy grunted.
Forty-four fake left—tinderbox on two, a classic hook-and-go, would be Galt’s first offensive play of the season. Keyshawn hadn't done a great deal, and the Coldwater defense didn’t expect much from his substitute. But the Blue Springs sophomore quarterback, Brent Frohm, and Galt had grown up together, were in fact cousins who'd spent countless hours playing catch, and intuitively knew each other’s tendencies.
When the ball was snapped, Galt fired out of his three-point stance and sold the inside hook to the DB, who came up fast. Brent’s pump-fake was perfect. Galt planted his left foot, pivoted 180 degrees, and was at full speed when Brent lofted the ball into his outstretched hands. Forty-five yards later he crossed the goal line. Extra point, good.
Galt ran back to a Blue Springs bench gone berserk. To the surprise of no one, an onside kick was called. Galt took his position to the right of the kicker. The Copperheads were all up on the line in anticipation of the short kick. The ball arced up and sailed well beyond the mandatory ten yards. Galt sprinted through the line, went high in full stride, caught the live ball, and glided into the end zone untouched. Extra point, good. Score tied.
Fans were out of their seats. Players, coaches, and cheerleaders mingled about, hooting and hollering and jumping up and down. Galt brushed by Fran as he jogged back to the sidelines, caught her scent, and tried to catch her eye.
“Get your mind on the ballgame, McDermott,” intoned the ever-observant Coach Hardy.
Galt sat out the kickoff and went in at strong safety. On third and eight the Coldwater QB threw a pass that was tipped. Galt gathered it in and returned the ball to the twelve-yard line before being run out of bounds. Three running plays got the ball to the four. With six seconds left, the ever-shaky kicker was asked to make the equivalent of an extra point for the win. Brent bobbled a bad snap, defensive linemen converged, and overtime seemed imminent. Brent threw the ball where he knew only Galt would be—deep in the left corner of the end zone, alone.
With three TDs and one interception in less than six minutes, Galt McDermott's reputation in the small town of Blue Springs was secure, at least until next week, when the Bearcats would play the 8-and-0 Pulaski Academy Patriots.
Adolescent boys never go anywhere alone when they can go in a pack. After celebration and showers, two carloads headed toward the Blue Springs Hospital at a high rate of speed to check on Keyshawn. Among them were Fran, Purvis “Parson” Weems, and Rick “Ricardo” Rawls, the 4’10” bandy-legged savant Galt and company kept around for amusement. Ricardo knew every song recorded since World War II, and could recite and act-out most movies. He also proved useful on science and math quizzes.
The nurse at the reception desk eyed the exuberant throng suspiciously. This crowd seemed far too jolly to be in the ER at 11:30 p.m. on a Friday night.
“Help you?” she asked, clearly irritated.
“Want to see about our buddy Keyshawn Wardlow,” said “Parson” Weems, answering for all. “Ambulance brought him in about nine.”
The nurse picked up a stack of file cards from her desk and leisurely thumbed through them. “What's that name again?”
“Wardlow. Keyshawn Wardlow.”
The nurse looked up, held out a card. “You boys done come to the wrong place.”
“Say what?”
The nurse chose her words carefully. "Better check the morgue.”
“The hell you say!”
“Bullshit!”
“God damn!”
“That can't be!" erupted the Blue Springers.
“Hold it down, hold it down, we got sick here.” A red-faced, large-bellied orderly with RON emblazoned on his nametag rushed up. “Y’all go out and come back in like civilized human beings,” ordered orderly RON as he grabbed Galt by the arm.
“Get your goddamn hands off me,” Galt spat, and jerked away.
At that moment, the Reverend Wilbur Wardlow and his wife came into the ER, looking most concerned. Fran went to head them off as Galt vaulted the reception desk, shouldered the nurse aside, and begin rifling through her file cards.
“Here, here! Now, now!” A new voice from an older man in a white coat cut through the cacophony. Galt recognized Dr. Benjamin Mallard as one of Fran’s father’s golfing buddies and immediately went up to him, hushing the gathered throng.
“Dr. Mallard?” Galt said. “Keyshawn Wardlow was brought here from the Coldwater game. Is he okay?"”
“Why, yes indeed. Treated him myself. Three liters of saline and some glucose. That boy has the flu in the worst way. Fever was 102.2. Shoulda never been on that field. He's in room 324B. By the way,” he said, “as for the Coldwater game, you boys done good. Congratulations!”
RON fumed as he watched this pacifying exchange. Behind the registration desk the nurse read from a file card. “ 'Scuse me. I got one Castor Wildeman, black male, 5 feet, 11 inches, 175 pounds, DOA. Possible drug overdose. Sorry if there was any confusion."
After leaving Keyshawn’s room, Galt went directly to the nurses’ desk, his entourage in tow. “Where's RON?”
“On break. Outside. Waiting on you I expect.”
Galt slammed through the ER doors at a full run and found RON with two other orderlies smoking on the loading dock. RON saw them, stepped on his cigarette, and came at Galt with a slow right hand that was easily dodged. Galt’s fist sunk into a belly that was the softest thing he’d ever hit— then his left found a kidney. RON turned, and Galt grabbed his collar with one hand, the seat of his pants with the other, and frog-marched him to the railing, slamming his face against the bars and forcing RON down to the concrete.
The two orderlies started to intervene in a half-hearted way. Galt held up his hand: “Don't even think about it. When asked, and you will be asked, you will say RON swung first.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sure enough.”
“Easy now.”
RON crawled on all fours. His outsized butt presented an irresistible target, and a quick kick to the testicles brought events to a proper end.
Galt pulled Fran aside and asked if she would discreetly inform her father of this unpleasantness. “I might need some legal advice or maybe even representation.”
On their way back to town, Ricky “Ricardo” Rawls was beside himself, re-creating with commentary and sound effects all the evening’s activities, to the delight of everyone except Fran.
“Take me home,” she demanded under her breath.
Galt shuffled a bit as he walked Fran to the door of the Flowers’ three-story brick Georgian home. He apologized for the fight and his friends. This was not how they had hoped the evening would progress.
Fran turned abruptly and said, “Here’s what you’ll do: dump those idiot friends of yours, come back, park down the street. The back gate and pool house will be open. I’ll talk to Dad, then meet you. Be very, very quiet.”
Fran’s father, Judge Winston Flowers, found the events of the evening rather amusing and agreed to help Galt if need be. She kissed him goodnight, spent a little time in the bathroom, and made a big show of closing her bedroom door before slipping down the back stairs. A full moon illuminated the town of Blue Springs in a warm, embracing light, casting rich, dark shadows. Fran slowly opened the French doors of the pool house. In it was a double bed, bathroom, and kitchenette. Along the back wall, louvered doors opened to a walk-in closet.
Fran whispered: “Galt, you here?”
“You bet!” was the reply.
“Are you alone?”
“Of course.”
“Shhhhhh!!!”
Fran and Galt’s consensual acts of coitus were perfunctory and efficient. They undressed each other and stood entwined. Hands, lips, and tongues worked to stimulate every pleasure center. Moans, gasps and groans, and invocations of various deities were emitted. Then came alternating sessions of fellatio and cunnilingus.
Fran readily admitted to being something of a screamer; a rolled washcloth was often between her teeth. They worked their way through myriad positions: missionary, doggy-style, double-blind overlap, him on top, and so forth until she maneuvered Galt onto his back, straddled him, and began the slow, rolling motions that would inevitably lead to elevated levels of sensuality and nonverbal communication for them both.
It worked every time. The difference tonight was that this pageant of lust and flesh, usually performed in the dark, was played out in the light of a full harvest moon. It was a stunning and erotic visual spectacle.
Fran, as per Coach Ambrose’s precise instructions, always gave herself a rectal douche followed by a generous application of Preparation H, which not only eased the initial discomfort of anal penetration but helped lubricate as well. Fran had admonished Galt time and again not to deposit a single drop of his manly essence into her vagina. As he came close to completion, Fran lifted herself and reinserted Galt into her anus, which hurt at first but soon gave her an overwhelming sense of mastery and control, to say nothing of a peculiar pleasure that was so far unmatched by any other physical experience in her young life.
They lay there spent in pools of light, perspiration, and over-the-counter lubricants.
“Don’t you go to sleep on me,” Fran whispered as Galt breathed deeply.
She extracted herself. With a wet cloth she washed her long lean body before doing the same for Galt.
“If my daddy catches you here in the morning, there’ll be hell to pay.”
“Okay, I’m up. I’m off. I’ll lock the gate.”
They dressed and straightened the room, touching and caressing each other in the bright, natural illumination.
“Goodnight,” Fran said in a manner more declarative than salutary.
“Yes, it was, wasn't it?” Galt sounded almost philosophical.
Then she was gone, dancing from one shadow to the next through the side door, up the stairs, and into her room. She went to the window and smiled as she watched Galt’s athletic form move slowly and confidently along the fence. Then he paused, looked back, and held a finger to his lips as if to quiet someone.
The jerking, hand-flinging figure of Ricky “Ricardo” Rawls emerged from the pool house door. Fran watched them move together as one, Galt’s arm around Ricky’s shoulder, into the light and out of sight, laughing.
She stood at the window for a long time before closing the blinds. Her room dark, she slipped into bed. The effects of Phenylephrine HCI, the active numbing ingredient in Preparation H, began to fade, as did her anger and rage, until Fran was left in the dark with a single, over-arching emotion she would come to know time and again in her encounters with men: deep and abiding disappointment.
High School Football and Consequences
Well, at least the natural world did not disappoint. Fran had never seen the moon so full, so luminescent. Friday night and its well-lit activities were one thing, but Saturday and Sunday nights were so bright and otherworldly they almost blurred out her memory and embarrassment. Then it rained.
The thought of going back to school filled Fran with dread. She and Galt were in Mrs. Hindemuth’s Geometry class, but at least they didn’t sit near one another. She had not counted on Ricky “Ricardo" Rawls being anything but the jerk he was. Every time he saw her that day, he made like a wolf and howled at some imaginary moon. Then he made muffled cries of the sort Fran assumed she made during coitus.
When the 3 PM bell rang she had had enough. Ricky commenced with his howl followed by his perfect imitation of Fran in ecstasy. She drew back to slap him when Galt grabbed Ricky, shoved him into an empty locker and shut the door. His cries really were muffled now.
Galt was enjoying the post-game adulation of the entire student body with the exception of one rather long-legged comely cheerleader.
“Fran, what’s wrong? You haven’t spoken to me all day.”
“You know what’s wrong, you son of a bitch! I hope you enjoy that asshole's impersonation of me, because you’re not likely to hear the real thing any time soon."
“But, Fran! Honey! Baby! Darling!”
She refused to make eye contact or speak to Galt for the rest of the semester.
Blue Springs lost their final two football games. They did not make the state championship playoffs, but went to the Timber Bowl in Liberty to play the Newton Cardinals who were six and four. It was a cold night in late November. Blue Springs pulled out a 7 to 6 victory. The cheerleaders rode back on the football bus, which reeked of sweaty adolescent males. Fran could hear Galt snore.
The Christmas holidays came and went. Fran's grades were lackluster. She had little interest in Chaucer, but had a natural gift for languages and was president of the French Club. There were half a dozen Mexican kids at the school who were always pleasantly surprised when one of the “cool kids” like Fran would come over and join them at lunch. She engaged the Spanish speakers in their native tongue and learned a lot, like answering some question or the other about a purchase with the rhetorical, “What are we going to use for money, pendejos?"
Spring semester brought two practice teachers from Austin Wells University. J.R. Holiday, a football player who planned to go into coaching, naturally taught Driver’s Ed. Samantha Springfield was a lively, delightful mathematician. She added pizzazz to Geometry lessons. When working on a problem with her back to the class her butt tended to shake as she wrote on the board. This was much to the delight of all except Mrs. Hindemuth, who had a word with Miss Springfield and gave her less than satisfactory practice teaching evaluations.
Samantha asked to coach the non-existent tennis team at Blue Springs. She was a varsity player at Austin Wells and in possession of a devastating backhand. Two abandoned concrete courts were cleared. Nets were stretched and lines freshly painted. She worked with anyone who would come out after school. Galt did and was a natural, a regular tennis handsome. He took to Ms. Springfield's personal approach to coaching and practiced his serve until it was respectable. Galt made it to the state quarterfinals in men’s singles and was accepted to the Austin Wells summer tennis camp, where he and Miss Springfield continued the affair they’d begun in the backseat of her car around Easter. Samantha was three years older and almost as tall as Galt. Rumor had it she liked to keep her stockings and garter belt on for all occasions. This rumor was naturally spread by Ricky “Ricardo" Rawls who was seldom wrong about such things.
High School Football Goes Abroad
Judge and Mrs. Winston Flowers were concerned about their daughter Fran. After the three of them returned from a two-week trans-Canadian train trip which provided, among other things, a change in scenery from the mundane to the magnificent, Mrs. Flowers told Fran about a DAR-sponsored exchange program for high school seniors. Fran could live with a French family who had a daughter about her age. She would totally immerse herself in the language, attend occasional lectures at the Sorbonne and receive her high school equivalence certificate. She began to pack immediately.
Fran’s Air France flight landed right on time at Charles de Gaulle airport. She was met by the Fontenot’s driver, who held up a sign with her name on it. Marcel looked her up and down, and took a long drag on his Gauloises before tossing her duffel bag in the trunk of the vintage Citroen limousine.
They drove directly to the Fontenot’s 17th century château near Paris’s Bois de Boulogne in the 16th Arrondissement. Waiting for her on the gravel drive was the entire Fontenot family, Sarah, Sylvain, and their daughter, Valerie. Also Dimitri, their Russian wolfhound who licked everything he did not hump.
“Oh, don’t mind him,” Valerie said, in perfect English before swiftly switching to French. “He’s never met a woman he didn’t love.”
“Oh, well then, we will get along famously!” Fran countered.
It took Fran little time to adapt her formal, academic French to the idiom Valerie spoke, to which her mother and father despaired, but it was so au courant.
Fran had packed light, figuring she would shop when she was in Paris. The exchange rate was favorable and she wanted to look the part, to be Parisian chic immediately. Valerie however could not say enough about Fran‘s look, her presence, her “haute couture bas de gamme.”
For the flight over, Fran dressed for comfort. She had taken to wearing her father’s old Turnbull and Asser shirts and sport coats he’d outgrown. Her skin tight Levis puddled around her much loved and twice resoled cowboy boots. Valerie had never seen anything like it and insisted Fran wear this ensemble when accompanying her to the Ecole de Couture where she was taking classes.
The girls got along from the beginning and were inseparable. They were about the same size, and swapped clothes and ideas readily. Both had a serious side, an obsession with French literature. Valerie was reading Moliere and Victor Hugo; Fran, Simone de Beauvoir, Albert Camus, and Marcel Proust.
Valerie introduced Fran all around the courtyard of the Ecole de Couture. Her friends, soon to be the next generation of Parisian designers and mavens of haute couture, were charmed by this American original, so tall, so sure of herself, and her French was perfect! One of the girls, Monique, was having a Guerilla Runway Show of her designs right away, and immediately recruited Fran to model. The plan was to fall on some unsuspecting public place, this time the Place des Vosges in the Marais, Paris’ oldest square, crank up the music, roll out a runway of sorts on the grass, and strut their stuff until stopped, arrested, or applauded by the gendarmes. Any of these responses would be acceptable and would have the desired effect, to call attention to themselves and their designs. The whole affair would be documented and the images made available to media outlets. Fran was game for anything.
On the designated day, Fran arrived a little early and walked all around the well-preserved square with its shops, cafés, and children. There were also old men, clochards, on benches taking in the sun. She climbed the stairs to the apartment where Victor Hugo once lived. She paid the entrance fee, went in and felt the palpable presence of this artist in the rooms he had once occupied. Fran had read Hugo but knew nothing of him as a visual artist. His drawings and ink studies from the 19th century were so contemporary, almost modern in their exploration of media and material. She felt small and insignificant, overwhelmed by the power and history of a place and the things arranged in it. Then she looked out the window, saw her new friends mingling about, and went down to join them.
The fashion show was a success by any measure and went uninterrupted by officialdom. Children playing in the sandboxes and swings joined in. Clochards got up and danced. Fran was a huge hit. She came out for the last trip up and down the red carpet wearing a chic, almost transparent, single piece dress designed by Monique, and her very own cowboy boots. The crowd went wild. The ghost of Victor Hugo smiled down on the Place des Vosges.
High School Football and Other Options
Galt took to college life like a duck to water. He was rushed by several fraternities, found the classwork easy and was a natural at socialization. He was offered a football/tennis scholarship at Austin Wells. He demurred to the former and embraced the latter.
The head coach, Derwent Rollo, tried to cajole, browbeat and finally shame him into playing football. “Son, you can help us out. We need players who ain’t afraid to stick their heads in a pile and come up with the ball. I saw your high school films. You was underutilized! You can play this tennis business the rest of the year, except of course for spring practice,” (which is when the tennis team was most active.) “Besides,” said coach Rollo, “that’s a sissified way to get an education. Son, you are agile, mobile, and hostile, and I guarantee you’ll play.”
Galt’s natural quickness was an asset in both sports but when he read about a minor player on the tennis circuit who earned over $100,000 in a single year by just turning up and winning a few matches, Coach Rollo might just as well have been pissing into the wind. Besides, there was all the exotic travel and the beautiful people.
He worked tirelessly on his serve and he volleyed well. The lovely Miss Springfield and Galt kept up their surreptitious relationship and played mixed doubles to great effect. They won their collegiate conference tournament and on a lark paid the forty-dollar fee and entered the Memphis open, which they won as well. The press made much of their youthful good looks and the rumors of an off-court romance. They found themselves ranked and semi-finalists at the USTA National Championship, with an invitation to play in the French Open at Stade Roland-Garros.
Galt didn’t need much convincing to drop out of college and go on the tennis tour. Samantha Springfield broke off the engagement to her oblivious longtime boyfriend, who was off to Michigan to read Foucault and Kierkegaard and pursue a Ph.D. Passports were applied for and received, and Galt’s first airplane ride was across the Atlantic to Paris.
Paris to the Moon
Fran bid tearful goodbyes to the Fontenot family and promised to see Valerie, Sylvain, Sarah, and Dimitri the Russian wolfhound often. It had been a glorious year but it was time. Fran was coming and going at all hours of the day and night. She had made a noticeable impression on the Paris fashion scene, and had signed with the Ford modeling agency, who got her on the cover of Paris Match and profiled in Le Figaro. She was occasionally recognized on the streets, even applauded, and loved every minute of it.
What had been the contents of a single duffel bag when she arrived, now filled a vintage Louis Vuitton trunk purchased at the Marche’ aux Puces and three other designer bags, which Marcel dutifully put in the back of the vintage Citroen while never removing the half-smoked Gauloises from his lips.
Fran moved into an apartment on the Ile de la Cite’. It was all her own with a doorman, a guest room and a terrific view of the Seine. It was close to Notre Dame Cathedral, but not too close.
Her mother and Judge Flowers came the next week and were the first occupants of the guest room. The three of them, shameless tourists, did Paris to a fare-thee-well. They visited the Eiffel Tower and its restaurant Le Jules Verne, with its four-star view and cuisine. They walked the Tuileries, visited the Jeu de Palme, Louvre, and Musee d’Orsay. They rambled through the Luxembourg Gardens and Jardin des Plantes, all in the most gorgeous weather. The Bateaux Mouche was something Fran had never been on, and to see Paris in the afternoon light from the Seine was heavenly.
Chez Ami Louis was the Judge’s favorite restaurant. They had dined there and it had changed very little since Winston Flowers had first eaten there as a young GI. He swore he recognized some of the waiters. “And the service,” he exclaimed, “is still the same. Tres snobbinard!”
This new culture was fascinating, and thank God Fran had the language and could comprehend the nuance, of which there was much in the fashion world. They were so dismissive, even cruel and cliquish, but demurred to Fran because of her meteoric and immense success and good nature, plus she understood everything they said.
She missed a lot about home. She missed men: pick-up driving, hay-baling, beer drinking, hunting and fishing, football throwing, and lying, womanizing men. Oh, she met some attractive specimens at work: models, designers, photographers, but they for the most part were interested in one another.
As she looked back on her young life and her relationships, something was lacking. Galt had not been her last. She managed to get one-on-one with the practice teacher, J.R. Holladay, who was coaching the Blue Springs linebackers in spring training. He was older and had travelled. He took a serious risk fooling around with a student, but it was worth it for them both.
She was riding her ten-speed around town one night when she noticed the lights on in the coach’s office. She slipped into the gym where J.R. Holladay was watching old black and white football footage on a 16mm projector. Fran was wearing cut-offs and a tank top, but not for long. There was an overstuffed leather couch in the coach’s office and that’s where he took her, licking the sweat from between her breasts and legs. Coach Holladay was experienced, patient and gentle in bringing her around. By the time they consummated Fran was a deep breathing, squirming climax waiting to happen. All this occurred in the flickering light cast by the projector showing single wing football. It wasn't the moon but it worked just fine.
And suddenly he was gone, back to Austin Wells University, a wife and child. Oh well, lucky Mrs. Holladay.
Then there was the French-Canadian college student on the trans-Canadian train trip with her parents. They had agreed to meet in the observation car at 2 AM. Everyone was sure to be asleep in their various compartments. It was the first time anyone had talked dirty to her in French. She certainly hoped it wasn’t going to be the last. Fran found French men she met somewhat sketchy, but Paris had other charms.
High School Football on Red Clay
For Samantha and Galt the flight over was uneventful, and Galt’s initial nervousness dissipated. Fondling Samantha under Air France blankets helped pass the time and he slept some, if fitfully. On the way into town they passed a number of billboards containing Fran’s larger than life likeness. She was selling clothes, cosmetics, perfume, jewelry and an exotic lifestyle. Word had filtered back that she was something of a sensation in Europe, and Galt would be lying if he said he didn’t think of her. Well, here they were, both in the same city and on the big stage, but Galt had other things to be concerned about.
Samantha and Galt were staying on the park, just a short walk from the courts of Stade Roland-Garros, in an apartment provided by the French Tennis Association. It was sparsely furnished but they were welcomed with a fruit basket, several bottles of wine, exotic cheeses and a baguette. It was all ever so French.
Unlike Samantha, Galt had never played on clay. During the warm-ups, he watched players slide and the ball bounce in unpredictable ways. Everything seemed to slow down, negating his overarching gift of quickness. It was immensely frustrating for him. Samantha became impatient and unconsciously resumed her role as coach, telling him where to stand, how to play and to protect his backhand at all costs. Galt felt his manhood shrink.
On the second day, while he and Samantha warmed up, they were approached by a gorgeous young Dutch player. She ambled over, introduced herself and asked if anyone here was thirsty. She held out a bottle of Perrier. Looking right through Galt she offered the water to Samantha. This kind of ego crushing snub would be repeated time and time again as the week went on. Samantha was quite a hit amongst the female players and Galt was invisible. Well, at least they were due for a full moon any day now, and maybe that would help.
Samantha and Galt were matched against the number two seeds and lost in straight sets. She was disgusted with their performance but was still in the mix. At the last minute, Samantha agreed to play women’s doubles with the gorgeous Dutch player. Galt began to pack.
His tournament was over but not his life. These feelings were not new to him. He had suffered loss and rejection before, but he had four more days in Paris, and decided make the most of them, so he began to walk. Spring was in bloom, even as a post-winter chill hung in the air. People rushed about talking frantically to one another. Galt understood not a word but he had a map and fearlessly descended into the Metro. If he was never to get back to Paris, he wanted to at least say he had been. He visited every cemetery he came across and was especially taken with Pere Lachaise. He even found his way to the catacombs. Galt thought the sight of death might cheer him up. It didn’t.
He emerged from a Metro stop just as the afternoon sun was painting the city with a golden glow. He could see the spires of Notre Dame Cathedral, the stone façade warm and rich in the light. Galt crossed the Seine on the oldest bridge in Paris, the Pont Neuf.
Halfway across there was a commotion of sorts. A fashion shoot was underway with lights, reflectors, racks of clothes, and lots of people scurrying about. He recognized her boots. They were empty but Galt knew Fran could not be far away, and then she was there, barefoot and backlit, wearing a neck to ankle voile dress appearing for all intents and purposes, naked. As if seeing ghosts, they both froze.
Fran spoke first. “Here ... my keys. The address is on the ring. Just go to the Cathedral and turn left. I’ll be there soon.”
“S’il vous plait,” a frustrated voice called out. “Mademoiselle Flowers, if you please!”
“I have about another hour of work,” Fran said, and then, “I’ll see you there!”
It was dark when Fran opened the door. Galt had made himself at home, opened a good bottle of Meursault and dispensed with half of it.
The first thing out of his mouth was, “I am sorry. So very sorry.”
“Hush,” she said. “Just hold me and tell me about home.”
“Well,” he said. “Miss Hindemuth had a stroke and retired. The old gym caught fire and burned to the ground. Someone was smoking on that old leather couch.”
Fran smiled. She had seen it smoke a time or two herself. “Don’t you have any good news?”
“Well,” Galt continued. “I saw your folks a while back. They seemed fine. And Ricky Rawls is in jail. He got a scholarship to Austin Wells but was caught spying on girls going to the bathroom. He disturbed a wasp nest while filming from the attic of Fulmore dorm and they stung the shit out of him. He fell through the ceiling into a toilet. First offense, he’ll get off light.”
“Actually,” said Fran. “It’s not his first offense.”
Fran and Galt came out of their clothes simultaneously. She checked the armoire to be sure Ricky “Ricardo” Rawls was not hiding there, opened the shutters and let in the moonlight reflecting on the Seine. The months, years, offenses, and slights all faded away and they were back in Blue Springs again. It was Friday night; the moon was full and nothing had changed.
Gault stayed his last three Parisian nights in the Ile de la Cite’ apartment where he enjoyed the view, the food, the wine, and Fran. On his last morning Fran helped Marcel, whose occasional use she had been granted by the Fontenots, put Galt’s bags and rackets in the trunk of the vintage Citroen and waved goodbye as off they went to Charles de Gaulle airport.
Fran’s ass was a little tender, as she and Galt had picked up where they left off, and there was satisfaction in that.
High School Football: It Never Ends
Galt would return to Austin Wells University, finish his degree in Hospitality Management and be asked to come back to Blue Springs to teach English and coach tennis and the skill positions in football. He would spend the next decade there, single but hooking up with an occasional practice teacher and tennis widow at Blue Springs Country Club.
He made all his football players come out for tennis, and with weighted rackets had the backs perfect their serve, i.e. throwing motion. The halfback run-throw/option became a crucial offensive weapon for the Blue Springs Bearcats and the Galt-inspired tip drill had even oversize lineman demonstrate their dexterity.
Gault would be named coach of the year three years running in the Calcasieu conference.
Samantha stayed on the tennis tour for several seasons. Her backhand improved until it was her most potent weapon. She had many lovers, most of them women.
Ricky “Ricardo” Rawls never finished college. Instead, he was institutionalized in the state mental hospital and given shock treatments. He was on the wait list for an involuntary lobotomy.
Mrs. Hindemuth recovered from her stroke and returned to Blue Springs High School where she became a most beloved librarian. She was jealous of all the books and reluctant to check any out, which was just as well, given how few students at Blue Springs read.
Fran’s fashion star continued to rise until it didn’t. She was no more surprised by her dramatic decline than she was by her meteoric rise, except now she knew and understood the business. While no longer in demand in front of the camera, she knew how to tease and please an audience. Fran had plans to partner with Monique, her guerilla fashion show collaborator from years ago. The people at the Ford agency were on board with her new venture. Work permits were duly applied for and received, funding was in place and boutique locations were acquired.
Fran spent six weeks in Blue Springs after her father died of a heart attack on the golf course. Her mother was inconsolable. Fran insisted she sell the house and come to Paris with her to help out in the new business. She packed up all her father’s old Turnbull and Asser shirts, made a distribution deal with a local saddle maker for belts, boots and other leatherwear, and after another pleasurable night with Galt in the pool house, was off to her new home and business in Paris.
Fran’s Boutique Couture would feature her individualized signature androgynous look, which had lost none of its appeal. Women would bring in objects or ideas they admired, often from a favorite uncle or father, and Fran and Monique would personalize the look, hence revitalizing haute couture.
Fran continued to live and thrive in Paris. She enjoyed several romances, one quite serious with a Belgian department store owner. She would eventually marry the son of a Greek shipping magnate and have two children. Her stores kept her busy and independently wealthy. She never returned to Blue Springs, but her mother did.
William Dunlap