2023 Short Story & Essay Contest: Third Place, High School Short Story Contest
She wanted to be like her mama. Her mama, with her tight, short dresses, who would go out to do fun things at night. Mama would stop to look at Frances as she strolled out the door in her high shoes that Mama said were only for dancing and that no, no, Frances mustn’t touch them. She merely said goodnight to Frances, kissed her on the cheek, told her to “Fetch a blanket for yourself, these windows ain’t keepin’ the desert cold out,” and left to the car Frances could see waiting for her out the window. As she watched Mama disappear, Frances could see her light a stick of cigarette and stick it in her mouth before blowing out a long breath of smoke.
It was how Frances found herself on the dirt road with Penny Levard from down the street, chewing on something that looked an awful lot like what Mama had been smoking. When she had asked the shopkeeper across the street, Mr. Winson, for some, he had said, “Those are cigs, kid. I don’t approve of parents givin’ their kids none.”
“Mr. Winson,” she whined, for she never did get used to not getting what she wanted. “TV says cigs are good for the lungs. Why shouldn’t I have some? If it’s good for my health an’ all.”
Mr. Winson shook his head sadly, scratching his gray beard behind the front counter of the shop. “You kids want to grow up too fast. But I’ll tell you what,” he reached under his desk and pulled out a pack of something, placing it on the counter. The packaging was a colorful yellow, although Frances couldn’t read what it said. “These are candy cigs, kid. Just don’t end up like your mother, ya hear me?”
Frances nodded, although she could hardly understand what one thing had to do with another. Mama was beautiful. Why shouldn’t she want to be like Mama?
So, she was standing in the street with little Penny Levard, who laughed as she played hopscotch. The sandy ground burned Frances’ bare legs as the wind whipped it to the side and then back again, and the tumbleweeds skittered along the desert pathways.
“Frannie, play with me,” Penny’s shrill voice called out.
“It’s Frances,” Frances huffed. Frannie sounded like a child, and Frances, at her great age of 8 and a half, was not a child. She took a bite of her cigarette. It tasted like nighttime, like Mama going away, like being grown up.
“Frances Shaw, shouldn’t you be in school?” Penny Levard’s mother shook out a shawl on her porch and hung it on the line going across the posts to dry. She wiped down her hands on her apron and then placed them on her hips. “Where’s your mama?”
“Mama ain’t home.”
“Now, why would that be?”
Frances shrugged. “Mama ain’t home,” she repeated louder this time, just in case Mrs. Levard didn’t hear the first time.
“Is that a cigarette, young lady? And where are your clothes?”
Frances was getting real tired of Mrs. Levard’s tone. Who’s to say she shouldn’t have a cigarette? She was perfectly grown and could take care of herself.
“ ’S hot out,” Frances muttered. “Clothes’ hot.”
“It is improper to go out in undergarments. Your mama should be home to tell you that.”
“I told ya, Mama ain’t here,” she yelled and dropped her candy cigarette on the ground, stomping it under her foot like she’d seen Mama do around the house. Then she ran away, Penny’s mama yelling after her.
Frances stood in the doorway to Mama’s room in the empty apartment. Her hands were raw, and her nails caked with dirt. She chewed on a candy cigarette, tapping her foot as she had seen Mama do when she was waiting for Frances to leave the house each morning. When Frances returned in the afternoon, the house always smelled of vanilla and cigarettes, and the door was always open but Mama was never there. She used to climb into Mama’s bed and roll around in the sheets, trying to smell Mama in them, but she could never smell Mama, only the faint scent of someone unfamiliar. She gazed at the postcard on her nightstand. Greetings from Corpus Christi, it read. Wonder City of the South. 1949. The ocean gleamed on the card, and the buildings stood taller than the buildings in Albuquerque. But it was Albuquerque she could see now as Frances Shaw sat on the steps of her building, watching people go by.
The sun still beat down from the sky. The dirt still burned her ankles as she sat on the steps, and people still came and went—rushing out of downtown at night and returning each morning, yet it had been days, and there was still no sign of her mama.
She took out the notebook and the pen Mr. Winson had given her awhile back and scribbled a drawing. She was sitting on the steps, still drawing, when the cowboy walked over.
He was tall and his hat shadowed his face. His blond hair came down to his shoulders. The cowboy stopped in front of the steps and took off his hat. He had blue eyes, just like hers.
“Are you Frances?” asked the cowboy. “Frances Shaw?”
“Yes,” she said.
“I’m Kenny Shaw.”
“Kenny…Shaw?” She furrowed her brow. That name sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place it. She looked him over. “You’re a cowboy.”
Kenny Shaw chuckled. “I’m your brother. I came here to take care of you while Mama’s gone.”
“I thought cowboys had horses,” Frances observed.
“I do have one.”
“Where?”
“Where I came from.”
“Where’d you come from?”
“Corpus Christi.” The image of the beautiful city on the postcard came to her mind.
“Corpus Christi?” she gasped. “Have you ever seen the ocean?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ve even swam in it.”
“Really?” Frances’ heart jumped in her chest. “A real ocean?” Then her eyes narrowed. “I don’t have one.”
“Don’t have what?”
“I don’t have a brother.” Frances scribbled in her notebook.
“You do. That’s me,” he said, pointing at himself with his thumb, and winked at her. Frances let her notebook rest in her lap for a second and opened the yellow candy cigarette box, offering one to him as she had always seen Mama do with her guests.
“Want one?”
Kenny held up his hands. “Thanks, but I don’t smoke.”
“You’re just like Mr. Winson. He hates cigarettes. But don’t worry.” She tapped the end of the candy. “It’s just candy. Mr. Winson never gives the real ones. He says he don’t want me ending up like Mama.”
“Can I sit with you?” asked Kenny.
“Yeah.”
“Frances, why are you out here all alone?”
“Because Mama’s not home,” she said plainly.
“Frances–”
“You got any food?” she interrupted. It had been days since she had eaten much more than the candy cigarettes.
“Nah, but I bet he do.” Kenny pointed across the street to the store, where through the window she could faintly see a man moving about.
“Can you tell me a story when I get back?”
Kenny smiled. “Yeah, I’ll tell you a story.”
***
She wandered into Mr. Winson’s store, the bell chiming twice before fading. Frances walked over to the linoleum counter, cluttered with a cash register and boxes with packs of gum he sometimes let her steal from. She poked the cowboy bobblehead on the counter next to the gum, and it nodded its head at her. It had blond hair just like Kenny.
“Mr. Winson, where is Corpus Christi?” she asked.
“Heh? What kind of a question is that?” He looked over at her and his eyes narrowed as he took in her appearance. “Child, have you been eating?” She stopped poking the cowboy and wiped sweat off her forehead. She looked at him finally.
“Mr. Winson,” she whispered. “Mama ain’t home.”
***
Mr. Winson’s footsteps beat heavily on the floor of the empty apartment as he paced. Frances chewed on the stick of jerky he had shoved into her hand before dragging her across the street. He made his way into the kitchen, shooing away the rat that scuttled across the floor at his appearance. Frances waited in the entryway as he gathered up the bottles of liquor in his arms, cursing “Damn drunks,” and scrounging Mama’s bedroom for something, although Frances couldn’t imagine what he was looking for. “Stay here. I’m going to get you some food and then I’ll find her, Frances,” he promised, leaving her in the apartment before disappearing into the evening.
Frances went back to the steps to find Kenny. He owed her a story. She learned that Kenny Shaw was the type of man to stop his car on the dirt road to make sure a sheep could get from one side of the highway to another. The type of man to buy someone a drink just to hear good conversation. The type of man to break up a fight just before it got bloody. He was the man everyone whispered about behind their glasses of whiskey in the saloon. He was a man everyone knew everything about. He was a man everyone knew nothing about. An open book. A mystery.
Frances listened as she drew and he stayed beside her as the night grew dark, only leaving when Mr. Winson returned with the promised food, and then suddenly appearing again not long after Mr. Winson left to find Mama.
Frances’ notebook filled up fast, and she drew little cowboy hats in it to match Kenny’s. He glanced over her shoulder at her notebook and chuckled.
“Cowboys?” he asked, seeing the hats. “Have you ever seen a cowboy, Frances?”
“You’re a cowboy,” she stated. “And Mr. Winson has one on his desk.”
“On his desk?” he replied incredulously, raising an eyebrow. “Now, how can you have a cowboy on your desk?”
“Well, it’s not a full cowboy. It’s small.” She looked away from him. “When he gets back with Mama, you can meet him.”
“Frances, do you really think your mama’s gonna come back?”
“Huh?”
“You could come with me to Corpus Christi,” he said. “There’s beaches—we could swim—and festivals too.” He smiled at her. “I know you want to see the ocean.”
“No.” Mama won’t come back? Frances drew another tiny cowboy hat. “I want to.”
“Then let’s see the ocean. Mr. Winson hasn’t returned in a long time. Maybe Mama is gone for good this time.”
“Gone for good? No,” Frances insisted. “Mama always comes back.”
“After this long?” Kenny replied. “Mama’s never left for this long before.”
“How would you know?” Frances stood up. “You don’t know.”
“I know,” Kenny said, nodding his head up and down just like the cowboy at Mr. Winson’s store.
“I want to go,” she said finally. “I want to—but what if Mama comes back?”
“There’s a better life out there, Frances.” Kenny pointed out to the horizon, the endless grasslands, dirt roads, stone houses. “There’s a whole ocean out there. Corpus Christi.”
“Kenny?”
“Huh?”
“Why’d you leave?”
“Well, cause I wasn’t happy. Are you happy, Frances?”
Well, that seemed like a good enough reason for Frances.
She gathered up things she thought she would need for Corpus Christi—her better dress and her blanket and she shoved the postcard into the bag along with her notebook. She looked around for Kenny but he seemed to be nowhere in sight.
She walked alone, looking for the hat and the tall form of a man. She walked until the streets turned to dirt roads and the sounds of the city faded.
“Kenny, I don’t think this is the way to Corpus Christi,” she whispered.
“You can find the way, Frances,” he said. “If we just keep going, we’re sure to reach Corpus Christi.”
“Kenny?” She could barely force the words out. “Do you know the way to Corpus Christi?”
“No, can’t say I do.”
Frances swayed.
“Frances?” The gruff voice of Mr. Winson pierced her mind. “Wake up, girl.” She opened her eyes, lifting her head up to rub her cheek, pocked by the concrete of the steps of the general store.
“Mr. Winson?” she asked blearily. He stood over her, gazing down with a worried look in his eyes.
“I found her, Frances,” he said. He held out a hand. “C’mon, let’s get you home.”
***
Mr. Winson stood next to the doorway when her mother came into her room where Frances lay on the bed. She looked different from when Frances had seen her last. Her hair was shorter, her clothes dirtier. Mr. Winson didn’t offer an explanation, only stayed silent as her mother wept.
“Frances, I’m so sorry for leaving you. Will you forgive me, baby?” Mama clung to her, pulling Frances against her chest, smothering her.
“It’s all right, Mama,” Frances whispered. She turned back to look for Kenny, but all she saw was the postcard and next to it, her notebook, on the nightstand in his place, as if he had never been.
***
She couldn’t remember the last time she had cried.
Frances sat on the steps of her building, the wind whipping her hair across her face. A tumbleweed skittered across the road, and somewhere far away, the sound of kids playing echoed between the buildings.
They called her a beauty if beauty could be found in a place like this.
She took in a long breath of the cigarette and blew out the smoke. It made her throat hurt, but it was a good kind of hurt.
“Frances?” the weak voice of her mother carried out the open window.
“Yes, Ma?”
“Get me a bottle.”
“We don’t got any, Ma.” Heaven knows she had tried to stop the drinking, but even back then, it was hopeless. Now it was worse. So she gave in and got up from the steps to walk across the street to the general store.
***
Frances stopped outside the old store, the once proud red sign now faded out by the years of sitting in the hot sun, the last “e” in “General Store’’ hanging on by a thread. The paint chipped on the outer concrete walls, a half-washed away Sale! sign strung on one of the windows. The lights were dark, the shades drawn, and the bell on the door long since broken. “Mr. Winson?”
She gazed around the place, the cracked tile and all. Still the same dusty smell as before yet free of the smokiness, so unlike home—
“I thought I told you to keep that thing outside, Yvonne.” Yvonne was her mother’s name.
“No, Mr. Winson. It’s me; it’s Frances.” The old man sat at his desk like always. He was hunched over, fiddling with something or other. “It’s Frances.”
“Heh? Home from work already?”
Frances walked behind the desk and grabbed a pack of Marlboros and a six-pack of beer off the lower shelf.
“No. I haven’t gone yet.”
The man grumbled, sitting up. “At this hour?”
“I came to get things for Ma, and then I’ll go.”
“Of course, you came for these.” The old man got up to place a yellow pack in her hand, the sun on its cover smiling at her.
“No, Mr. Winson, I—”
“Alright, Frances, have the candy cigs. Just don’t end up like your mother.”
“OK,” she mustered. “Thank you.” The man seemed a little more confused than usual these days. She gave the little cowboy bobblehead on the counter a push before stepping out onto the concrete. She sank down onto the steps, putting her head in her hands. Her shoulders shook as she gripped the candy cigarette box, and she shivered, even though it was much too hot to be shivering.
“Why’re you crying?” He stood there, same as he looked all those years ago. Hat shading his face and hair down to his shoulders. Still the same cowboy she had known.
“Mama wished for a boy when she found out about me,” she said plainly, gazing up at him, through him, at the pink sky, the sun disappearing in the west. “She used to tell me what she would’ve named me—she always looked so disappointed….” She looked away from him and sniffed, wiping her eyes. “Well, I guess you already know that one.” He smiled sadly, but it wasn’t him, not really.
“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
She took out her old notebook from a pocket of her jeans. The spine was long since cracked and pages were folded and yellowed from use. “But y’know,” he continued. “It wasn’t really me who tried to save you in the end. It was him.” He tilted his head toward the store. Toward the man who had been her guardian when she’d had none.
“I know,” she murmured. “I’ve always known.”
“Frances,” he said. “Your life isn’t over. Leave Albuquerque.”
“Who’re you to say that?” she asked. “You’re no one. You’re just me.”
“Exactly.”
She pushed herself off the steps, brushing the dust off her clothes before picking up the cigs and the six-pack.
“I don’t know, Kenny. Maybe someday,” she said. And she walked back toward home, dropping the old notebook behind her in the dirt, leaving him stranded on the other side of the street.
“Frances.”
She turned back to where he stood, smiling sadly at her. “Corpus Christi for real this time, you promise?”
“Goodbye, Kenny.” She didn’t look back again as she stuck a candy cigarette in her mouth and walked inside.
