w luv Juliet

w luv Juliet

Little Frankie’s father was killed when his private plane crashed in an afternoon Florida rainstorm. Frankie’s heartbroken mother hid in her bedroom suite of their Winter Park mansion. The gate to the long driveway was locked so nobody would interrupt their sadness. Frankie watched from his third story window as the newspaper reporters took pictures of his house and spoke to the neighbors. Maria, his nanny, said there was a big fire and his father died instantly.

Frankie seldom saw his father. Francis Knutt was either in his study writing his famous books or traveling to another city on a book tour. He mostly knew his father from the big painting he looked at when he ate his meals alone in the long dining room. The painting that hung above the cold brick fireplace was a life-sized portrait of Francis Knutt. He was standing with his arms crossed in a shiny blue suit with a starched white shirt. His right foot was propped on a stack of books. They were probably his books.

Once a week, Jen Knutt ate with her son in the long dining room. Frankie noticed that she didn’t look at the painting of her dead husband. Even before his father’s plane crashed, his mother spent most of her days in her room.

When Maria unlocked the study, Frankie discovered his father’s famous books about Blake Bannon, a British spy who was really smart and tough and good looking. They were short novels filled with guns, fast cars and women in bikinis. Frankie liked how the spy wore tailored suits made in Hong Kong and had his shoes custom fitted with genuine leather. His car had secret gadgets that ejected bad guys from the passenger seat. Every woman he met, fell in love with him. Even the ones who were supposed to kill him.

Frankie overhead a teacher at his private school say his father’s books were stupid and shallow and it was amazing how he became rich by writing trashy novels. Frankie didn’t care, however. He felt like his father was with him when he read the stories about Blake Bannon. It was a way that he could still be alive even though he was killed in a fiery private plane crash in an afternoon summer rainstorm.

Frankie wondered if the shiny blue suit that his father wore in the painting was tailor made in Hong Kong. He wondered if his shoes were custom fitted with genuine leather.

When Maria told Frankie he would grow up to be just like his father, he thought it would be fun to write famous books and make millions of dollars. However, he didn’t like the idea of flying in a private plane.

In his empty classroom, with his feet propped up on his desk, Frank admired his new shoes as he bit into the Reuben sandwich he bought on the way to school. He thought about stopping at the mall on the way home. Saks was having a Spring sale and he wanted to see if they had any decent cufflinks.

Mary Jensen, the principal’s secretary popped her head into the open door.

“Bill wants to see you,” she said.

“Right now?” Bill said as he dropped his feet to the floor.

“Yes. He said it would only take a minute.”

Frank tossed the rest of his sandwich into the trash can and grabbed his leather briefcase. He looked at his messy desk and decided to leave it as it was. He checked to see if he had his keys. He knew why Bill wanted to see him.

Two minutes later he walked into Bill’s office.

“Close the door, Frank, he said without looking up.

Frank stood in front of the perfectly organized desk as Bill wrote something on a little index card. This won’t be a long, Frank thought. There’s not much to talk about.

As He looked at Bill’s bad haircut and undersized polo shirt with PGHS embroidered on the pocket, he scanned the framed certificates anally organized on the wall behind the overstuffed chair. He searched for the block of wood placed among the collection of pictures of the wife and children. Frank noticed the sign during his last visit. It was small square sign with burnished engraving: “I am with you always- Matthew 28:20.”

“Frank, I’ve gotten more complaints,” he started.

“From whom?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said as he opened his laptop.

Frank wondered if this meeting was posted on the computer screen. “We’ve been through this before.”

Frank waited. He knew he was done.

“I work hard every day. You know that, Bill.”

Dr. William Constantinos,” didn’t hear him. Dr. C was busy and now impatient with this matter. Frank Knutt was his 12:07 meeting. The 12:15 was waiting outside.

“But you weren’t working at what you should have been doing, Frank.”

Frank noticed he used the past tense.

“You weren’t following our course outline, our curriculum guide,” Bill said.

“My students love my class.”

“Sure they do. All kids like to hear stories, Frank, he said before he shook his head and looked at his laptop again. “Last month, you told me you understood your role and you would change your lessons.” He looked at the older man who stood with his hands in his pockets. “But you kept teaching your stories.”

Frank Knutt stepped forward and leaned on the desk with both hands. He could feel the waxy finish on the dark wood. He pictured a maintenance man polishing it every night after everyone had gone home.

“Not just stories, Bill. Great literature we stopped teaching so we could give worthless standardized tests.”

His principal pursed his lips before he punched at his keyboard. Frank could tell he didn’t want to be bothered anymore.

“It’s not the right material.”

“It’s great stories. Great writing. Great lessons for them.”

“It’s a bunch of love stories Frank.”

“Romeo and Juliet? It’s the best love story.”

“It doesn’t get them ready for the state test.”

“They come to school every day excited about my class”.

“Their scores will fall and our school grade will go down.”

“So what, Bill. Is that what’s really important? Is that why we teach?”

“It’s what we do. It’s how we’re measured now.”

“That sucks, Bill. And you know it.”

“What sucks is that you refuse to change. I’ve had you in here three times this year. You were warned. First it was the crazy ancient myth, the married man having affairs with witch women. Darn it, Frank. I spent hours on the phone with angry parents.”

“That’s not what The Odyssey is about, Bill.”

“Then, you had them read about some poor kid getting paid by some ex con. What was his name? Pimp of something?”

“It’s Pip. Written by Dickens. Maybe that’s offensive too.”

“Heck, Frank. Two of our board members wanted your head for that one last December. And now, a week before the Florida Student Success test, what are you doing in class? Studying Romeo and Juliet. Talking about teenagers falling in love, secretly marrying and then for goodness sake, Frank, they kill themselves. How is that going to get our school a good FSS score?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. “The test starts next week and you’re reciting lines standing on the top of your desk, like you’re on a balcony or something.”

“How did you know that?” Frank blurted.

He hesitated, embarrassed. He lowered his voice. “A student told me.”

“A student? Did he just come in and tell you?”

“No,” Bill said. “He was told to report to me.”

“Why?” Frank said too loud.

“So I could document it,” he returned and then looked at his office door wondering if his next appointment heard the outburst.

“Why?”

“Because it’s what I needed to justify your dismissal.”

“You got a student to spy on me so you could fire me?”

“No, Frank. He wasn’t spying on you. I asked him to describe your lessons. I had to do it. It was the final box to check,” he said.

Frank didn’t respond. He felt his keys in his front pocket.

“I’m sorry, Frank. I warned you.

“Yes, you did, Bill. Yes, you did.”

“So why didn’t you listen?”

“Because I’m a teacher, not a robot test giver.”

“You know how important our tests are, Frank.”

Frank looked at him.

“We’re dismissing you.”

Frank sighed. “When?”

“Today. Right now, Frank. I’m sorry.”.

Frank looked at the wooden sign and shook his head.

“You need to get your stuff from your classroom.”

“I don’t need to get my stuff from my classroom. There’s nothing there I want,” he said as turned toward the closed door.

Before he left the room, Bill said, “Officer Davis is waiting, He’ll escort you off campus.”

When Martha saw his car in the driveway, she knew.

Shit, she thought. And I haven’t sold a house in a month.

“Why are you home so early?” she yelled before she closed the front door.

She couldn’t see him but knew he was home. The wool blazer he bought last week was crumpled on the chair. His leather shoes were in the middle of the hallway. The kitchen counter was decorated with bread crumbs and a soggy tea bag

Him and his afternoon tea, she thought. Thinks he’s a character in a British novel.

She went to the spare bedroom. He called it his study. Like he lives in a big mansion and not a two- bedroom house in a bad neighborhood.

She found her husband on the floor face down with his eyes closed. Before she saw his earphones connected to his iPhone, she paused and considered the possibilities.

“Hey!” she said sharply as she poked his hip with her foot. “Hey!”

He opened his eyes and sat up. He timidly looked at her like a puppy who just peed on the carpet.

“What happened, Frank?” she mouthed slowly, making sure he could hear over his earphones.

Frank scanned her face. She was so close, he had to look at her. Why did you let so much gray takeover your beautiful black hair? he thought. It was long and beautiful. You look so sloppy now. No longer slim and pretty, like a gymnast. Now you’re round and mean.

“Bill called me in. Told me I wasn’t teaching right,” he said.

“So, he fired you,” she snapped, looking down at him sitting with his arms wrapped around his crossed legs.

“God, Frank. How do you keep letting this happen?”

“I don’t know.”

“I warned you. Months ago. Remember?”

Frank didn’t want to acknowledge this memory. He rubbed his eyes.

“When you described that story you were teaching,” she said, “about the girl who cut all her hair for a gift. You read it to me. What a stupid story.”

“The Gift of the Magi. Beautiful story. They loved it,” he said as he scanned his overcrowded antique bookshelf he bought from a London website. It leaned a little as if to say the literature was too much for his defeated life.

“Can you take out those goddamn headphones, Frank?” she barked.

“I can hear you,” he said as he pulled them out. “Stop yelling,”

She put her bulging briefcase on the floor and then plopped down on the worn leather couch. She thought of the four disappointing meetings she worked this morning. She had three more showings this afternoon. She hadn’t had lunch. She was tired and she hated this sofa with the cracked leather.

“There isn’t much to say,” he said.

She looked at his tailored dress shirt that was wrinkled now. There was no longer a crease in his dry-cleaned pinstripe slacks.

He can’t keep a job, but he dresses like he’s a millionaire stockbroker, she thought.

“What is it? Five, six jobs now?” she said.

“Something like that. I try not to keep count.”

“Well maybe you should keep count, Frank. It might motivate you to do better,” she said as she looked at her scuffed pumps she bought two years ago at Sears. ’I’m tired of carrying you,” she said as she pushed away from the sofa. “When are you going to wake up from your dream world? When are you going to act like a mature adult? To financially contribute to this marriage. I work six, sometimes seven days a week selling real estate so we can barely survive in this crappy house. And what do you do? You buy expensive clothes and live like a rich brat with money to blow.”

He remained on the floor, biting his lower lip.

“I’ll get another job,” he said

She stepped toward him again. “Yeah, sure. It took you a year last time. Remember? Spent most of the time sitting home, writing stupid stories, watching old movies.”

“I was trying to get my novel published. I was hoping to make money from that. I had a great story to tell about...”

“Frank,” she interrupted. “Your novel stinks. It’s terrible. You are not a writer. You’re not your father. He made millions from his writing. Remember? And then you and your mom spent it all. Your few skills involve teaching. And based on your resume, you’re not very good at that. Stop living in your fantasy world, Frank. The bills are due.”

That evening, Frank ordered take out Chinese for an “I’m sorry” dinner. He didn’t think it would quell her anger, but it was worth a try. He knew Martha would be tired when she came home late.

After ten o’clock, he ate the cold dinner alone and then retreated to the leather couch. When his wife came home, he heard her go straight to bed without eating the dinner he left in the refrigerator.

In the dark room, covered in the wool blanket he bought when he vacationed in London, he injected the DVD copy of Romeo and Juliet into his laptop. Like a heroin addict waiting for a smooth warm ride after emptying the syringe, Frank put on his earphones and pressed the little “play” triangle on the computer screen.

The introduction music sent him to the first time he saw this movie when he was in high school. He went to the theater every day for two weeks. After the first week, The Bright Globe Theater manager felt sorry for him and only charged him half price for admission.

Frank fell in love with Juliet when she appeared in the beginning of the movie. In her first scene, from the curved stone window of the Capulet villa, Juliet looked at him. Her red dress matched her full lips that smiled under her dark eyes. Her jet hair was parted in the middle.

The rest of the movie was secondary to her performance. He only wanted Juliet to be on the screen. He didn’t care about Tybalt, the Nurse and the scheming of the Friar. He hated Romeo. Don’t touch her, he thought. She deserves better than you.

At the end, Frank wanted to yell out. “Don’t do it, there’s been a mistake. Wait for me.” But he watched her take her life. And he cried.

When he was twenty-five, he married his Juliet, a realtor he hoped would be a happy and kind wife. Much like the movie Juliet, Martha was petite and glowing. She smiled with red lips and her black hair was parted in the middle.

But after a dozen anniversaries, their happy marriage died like it was written in a tragic story. A month after Martha learned she couldn’t have children, Frank lost his teaching job. The pathos continued when real estate sales plummeted and Martha didn’t sell any houses. When Frank’s mom died, Martha left after Frank told her his mom left no inheritance.

After Frank begged her, she came home and tolerated their broken marriage. For all those years, she never told him. She didn’t come back to him because of love. She returned because she had nowhere else to go.

Tonight, he fell asleep with the laptop sitting on his chest and the movie credits frozen on the screen. He dreamed of his Juliet and how he saved her before she drank the poison. He carried her from the smelly Capulet tomb and took her to his childhood house in Winter Park where they had children who swam in his pool while Maria watched them. His father came to see them in his Blake Bannon car wearing his shiny blue suit custom tailored in Hong Kong.

The next morning, after he heard Martha leave for work, Frank organized his clothes and then showered. He only packed one bag.

He locked the front door and put the key in the mailbox. He figured that his disabled cell phone left on the kitchen counter would be better than a note. She’d figure it out. Probably be relieved.

He drove downtown to Harris Used Cars and sold his old BMW for half the price it was worth. After he cashed the dealership check at his bank, he withdrew his fair share of their savings from the ATM. It wasn’t much.

Frank walked the mile to the bus station and bought a ticket with the rest of the cash that was in the bank envelope.

He mostly slept during the three-day cross- country trip. At the layovers, he washed his face, brushed his teeth, and ate stale overpriced sandwiches. When he arrived, he found an acceptable hotel just outside of the city.

He saw her in the restaurant. She sat across from him at a table surrounded by venerating friends who were animated and loud. He watched her eat her dinner. Ignoring her surroundings, she managed her plate of food as she considered whether the ostentatious conversation was more interesting than her side order of sautéed mushrooms. Her smile was absent; her lips were less full and colorless.

She might have looked at him. A curious peek. Twice. He thought she smiled.

He remembered what she looked like fifty years ago in her iconic part with her dark eyes at the window of the Capulet villa. She was no longer glowing and innocent. Her teenage movie face was now taunt, suspicious and maybe regretful. She was the movie Juliet’s grandmother.

But she was still beautiful.

“Can I have your autograph?” he asked with a smile as he carefully approached.

Her entourage paused in an experienced suspicion of his intentions.

She flashed a smile and nodded. Perhaps she enjoyed the interruption to her boredom. Maybe she liked the handsome well-dressed man flirting with her.

Someone handed her a pen and a small card.

“Thank you. I have always been a fan. This is important to me.”

“It is my pleasure,” she said. “Where are you from?”

He hesitated. Looked at the rest of the table. “A long time ago,” he said.

The restaurant manager stood beside him, put his hand on his shoulder.

“It’s OK,” she said to the man.

Frank looked at her. He pleaded with his eyes.

“Could you please go back to your table sir?” the manager said.

“I’m sorry for the intrusion,” Frank said to her. “You are so beautiful and I have always wanted to meet you.”

“Thank you, you’re sweet,” she said so everyone could hear.

The manager stood closer to him.

Frank didn’t want to leave but his Juliet was looking down, writing again on the small card. Defeated, he turned and began to walk across the room through the restaurant toward the front door. He would have ended his journey forever if he hadn’t heard her call above the noise of the evening conversations. The familiar words from the voice of his Juliet.

“Hist! Romeo, hist! O, for a falconer’s voice” she said. “To lure this tassel-gentle back again of my Romeo’s name.”

Frank turned to face her. He saw her smiling at him like she smiled in her first scene in the movie. He knew what to do. He had practiced this part for his whole life.

“It is my soul that calls upon my name” he said as he walked back to her and around her table. He stood over her. “How silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night, like softest music to attending ears!”

His Juliet stood. “Romeo!”

“My dear?” he said as he knelt and reached for her hand.

“At what o’clock to-morrow shall I send to thee?” She said as she smiled and looked into his eyes.

“At the hour of nine” Frank said, with a sad look. A hopeful look.

“Sweet, so would I; yet I should kill thee with much cherishing. Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.” Her voice trailed off. She looked away. She knew it was not the same.

He also knew what would happen. “Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast!” he said. “Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest!”

Everyone at the table clapped. For her more than for him. They hoped it was finished. That he would go away. Back to his life.

He looked back at the restaurant before the taxi carried him into the city. Too soon, the driver stopped at the bus station and waited. From the back seat, Frank pulled the envelope of cash out of his pocket.

The little card flipped onto the vinyl back seat. He looked at it, frozen. He didn’t realize he had taken it.

Written over the restaurant’s address and phone number, she had scribbled: “w luv, Juliet.” At first, he didn’t want to touch it. He didn’t want it to be moved. He looked at the little paths of her handwriting, the sharp edges and shortened language. It was something he should have seen before. It was a story he now understood.

With a quick movement, he gently picked it up. And like a butterfly you don’t want to hurt, he pushed the little card through the open window.

It was the most important thing he ever did.

He paid the driver and climbed out into the noisy sidewalk. The taxi rumbled away and the dirt swirled around him as he stood at the curb. A quick movement caught his eye. Next his expensive leather shoes, the card waited with another message.

On the back side, it was the same black ink written as she sat at the table.

A different message in bold print. A different story for him to know.

” 9AM.”

Frank laughed out loud before he put the card in the front pocket of the wool blazer he couldn’t afford. When he looked at the front door of the bus station, he thought about his hardworking wife and his life teaching a love story over and over. He thought about a beautiful movie star fifty years ago.

He pulled out his envelope again.

He counted to see how much money he had.