FRANCO: CHOICES

by Tessaray


A strange feeling has been taking root in Franco that he's come to recognize as peace.

Elizabeth planted the seeds many months ago and they've been growing ever since, twining around him inside and out, slowly transforming him. He thinks of his old place in Brooklyn, the way the sturdy tree roots reshape the sidewalks over time, cracking them, pushing jagged concrete skyward. If you didn't pay attention while you were wandering, if you were lost in planning your next painting, you could trip and fall flat on your face.

He's afraid of falling flat on his face now. This nascent peace often feels like a reward for behaving himself. And like the concrete sidewalk, it's his nature to resist breaking. But he knows he has to allow it, that the flourishing of good in his life requires it... just as it requires vigilance, that he watch his step...

So he makes choices.

#

He chooses to keep his hair short, sideburns trimmed, face clean-shaven. He used to change his look on a whim, but he'll stick with this, will grow comfortable with it eventually. A fine, upstanding citizen. A therapist, a husband, a stepfather… maybe even a biological father someday, though he often balks at the idea when it sneaks up on him. Other times it fills him with a bizarre, teary-eyed hope.

Once in awhile he goes a few days without shaving, just to see who looks back at him from the mirror… a sort of summoning, a whisper into the darkness. And sure enough, he appears, superimposing himself on Franco's reflection — the familiar mocking smirk, the cold cruelty in the eyes. And as the intoxicating memory of power begins to rise and beckon, Franco reaches for his razor.

#

He chooses to no longer confront people who cross him, but to defuse prickly situations… even to play the fool. And the more harmless and agreeable he appears, the more harmless and agreeable he's becoming… though he can still feel the violence banked low in his gut like an old friend — potent, smoldering, ready to flare if necessary. He knows the damage he could still do, how quickly he could fall. It's a choice not to. Every day.

#

He chooses to honor without question Elizabeth's role as a mother, her commitment to her sons, to accept that sometimes he comes last. Yet he misses truly being with her, the sense of merging and timelessness, exploration, discovery. At home, they aren't free — the very fact of the boys is stifling. So occasionally, with an erotically illustrated note or a suggestive anonymous text, he'll invite her to his studio — to make art, to inspire, delight and challenge one another, to make love the way they used to. A passionate, creative reconnecting.

He'll wait for her there, and sometimes she'll come… but more often lately she texts back her regrets:

Love to, but Jake has practice. Pls bring milk & TP on way home. Thx. Kissy face, heart emoji...

A bristling wave of hurt might wash over him at that, and memories of the life he once led — a wealthy, celebrated artist, freely roaming the major cities of the world…

A madman. A murderer.

He chooses to paint then, alone in his studio, struggling to find a visual language for this constant tension he feels. Whether to surrender to the tender embrace of peace, allow it reshape him as it will… or resist, remain recognizably himself, until the pressure becomes too great and he breaks, just like the sidewalk...

Which choice will create less resentment in the long run, result in fewer jagged edges, fewer chances to trip and fall...?

He doesn't know. For now, he can only watch his step… and hope the choices he's making are the right ones.

-End-