Archive of Our Own

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— Mid-November 1957 —

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Annie didn't let herself use rude language in front of Hogarth, but since she was alone in the truck she let herself mutter, "April is the cruelest month my ass," as she drove through the gates of McCoppin Scrap. November easily outdid April in terms of miserable weather, alternating wet, heavy snow with gusts of razor wind that pried at every window sash and door-sill, but none of that came anywhere near the October she'd just had, with the terrors of almost losing Hogarth and almost being ground zero for nuclear annihilation. 

She pulled up in front of the Quonset hut that functioned as Dean's office and living space, shoved the gear shifter into park, pulled her scarf tighter over her hair, then opened the door.

The snowflakes swirled in search of their next victim, settling on the paper bag on the passenger's seat.

Annie grabbed the bag and marched to the door of the hut.

She knocked. No answer. Was he out? No, the tow truck was there, and the absence of tire tracks, combined with the tall white caps of snow worn by the roof and bumpers and winch, suggested it hadn't moved in hours.

She brushed the snow off the bag — mostly on principle, since the grilled cheese sandwich inside was likely already stone cold — and opened the office door just enough to call, "Hello? Anybody home?"

No answer.

She stamped her feet to knock off the snow, then carefully stepped inside. 

He wasn't in the kitchen, but the weird little coffee pot on the stove was still warm. He was probably working on art.

She called "Hello?" once more, then walked through the door at the end of the kitchen into the factory he used as studio and warehouse.

The huge, high-ceilinged space was dark, but in the center of it a figure in a welding helmet and gray overalls was being lit intermittently by cascades of white sparks. He looked like Gort repairing a spaceship.

Annie picked her way carefully around the perimeter of the open space, past the thorny metal jungle of his older sculptures. As she got closer she saw that piece he was working on was different to his usual assemblages: this new piece was a broken sphere, a cluster of dried leaves curling in on themselves, protecting a dark, empty center.  

She kept circling until she came into his field of view.

After a moment he shut off the torch and pushed up the visor. "What are you doing here?" he asked. The echo made his words harsh barks. "What  happened?"

She lifted the bag. "Nothing. I just thought I'd bring you some lunch. You haven't been at the diner."

"Yeah, well, I've been working."

"You don't eat when you're working?"

"I've got food." 

"Coffee is not food," Annie said.

"Espresso," he mumbled, "and I don't eat when I'm not hungry," but just then, right on cue, his stomach growled.

Annie folded her arms and gave him A Look. "So this is why you haven't been coming to the diner?" she asked, regarding the sculpture. "Because you've been working on this?"

"Yeah," Dean said, but too quickly. 

"Oh moosecakes, as my Auntie Nola used to say. You like people to think you're a hep cat, but really you're more of a… a scaredy cat."

Dean's mouth fell open in astonishment. "Wait, what? What did you just call me?"

Annie kept going. "See, this right here," she said firmly, nodding at the new sculpture, "anyone can see that it's saying that you're hiding out up here because you don't like people calling you a hero."

Dean looked at the sculpture as if he had no idea what it was or where it had come from. "That's what it's saying, is it? Is that all, or is it saying anything else?"

"Yeah," Annie said softly. "It also says that you're worried that you won't live up to people's expectations, and that you don't deserve praise. That if you stay out of sight people won't notice that you're a fake." For a moment she looked surprised at her own words, then said firmly, "but you're not a fake. Not to me. Not to Hogarth."

"I…" Dean scratched at his ear. "That…"  He closed his mouth, then opened it twice without saying anything. Finally he asked, "How's he holding up?"

Annie shrugged. "Not good. He acts as if it never happened, but I know he cries at night. And he threw out all his comic books. "

"All of them?"

She nodded. "Buried at the bottom of the trash so that I wouldn't see."

"Oh, man." Dean set his torch down. "Poor kid."

"Yeah."

There was an awkward pause. Dean's stomach growled again.

Annie held out the bag, which by now was dangerously soggy. "Eat."

They went to the kitchen. There were four mismatched chairs around the table, but all but a quarter of the table top was covered with dirty dishes, stacks of invoices and receipts, battered library books, assorted twists of wire, pliers, a paring knife, and incongruously, a small sewing kit whose red and white thread appeared never to have been used. 

Dean shoved enough of the mess to one side so that Annie had room to sit down. After making espresso for himself and tea for Annie, he used tongs to hold the congealed sandwich over the gas flame to warm it up. "You not working today?" he asked as he finally sat down.

Annie, who had been mildly entertained by his domestic activity, said, "In the evening." 

He offered her half of the sandwich, which was slightly charred and smoking. She shook her head.

"Want me to come by and keep Hogarth company?" he asked between bites.

"That would be — that would be great," Annie said, though she was skeptical. "Could you come by around four?"

"Sure. Anything special I need to do?"

"Do I need to bug him about his homework?" Dean asked as he finished off the second half of the sandwich.

"No, he's good about doing it as soon as he gets home." She was warming to this idea. "Normally bedtime is 8:00 on a school night, but lately I've been letting him stay up a little later. You can make popcorn. He'll probably want to watch Cheyenne."  

"Okay." Dean had finished the sandwich and was contemplating the chilly dill spear. "Cheyenne, huh? That's a Western, right?" 

Annie grinned. "Not your usual type of show?"

Dean took a tentative bite of the pickle. "I've been thinking of branching out."

"Have you tried the snow channel?"

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Snow channel?"

"I don't know what else to call it," Annie said. "The screen is all white, with," she waved her hand, "wisps moving across from left to right. First time I saw it I thought the TV was broken, but the next day everything worked fine."

"Off-air channel maybe," Dean suggested, "or technical difficulties?"

"No, it's not that sparkly black and white confetti that's on in the middle of the night," she said. "This is a like a landscape. Snow or sand dunes, or maybe ice. Sometimes dark water."

Dean set down the half-eaten pickle. "Weird. I think I've seen the dark water one."

"What do you think it is?"

He shrugged. "Who knows? Some experimental station, I guess.  Or a low-budget movie."

"Very low budget, " Annie said, "if they don't even have enough to hire actors." They both laughed at this, but when that was over they were out of things to say.

Before the silence could stretch on Annie stood up, her chair scraping on the wooden floor. "I'd better get going. See you at four?"

"Yep."

She re-buttoned her her coat and retied her scarf. "The Mayor's throwing a Thanksgiving dinner next week," she said.

"Is he now?" Dean was back to contemplating the pickle.

"We all have a lot to be thankful for," she said. "You should — it would mean a lot to Hogarth and me if you'd come."

"Hm," Dean said, still staring at the pickle. "We'll see."

He didn't look up until after the door had closed behind her.

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— Thanksgiving Week, 1957 —

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"What is wrong with you?" Annie demanded as she tromped through the slush on the sidewalk. They'd had to park on a side street several blocks from City Hall.

"Handwritten list okay, or should I type it up?" Dean shot back, and then glanced down guiltily at Hogarth, who was watching him with wide-eyed puzzlement. "I just wish Hizzoner'd asked me before putting me on the hook."

"Yeah I can see how the Mayor acknowledging your talent in front of the whole town would be upsetting!"

"You don't want to do it?" Hogarth asked forlornly. He'd stopped walking; his eyes were brimming with disappointment.

Dean stopped and went down on one knee, slush be damned. "Aw, no, it's not that," he said. "It's just — making something that big, it takes a long time, and I don't want to throw it together any which way. I want to do it right. Which means planning it out, making scale drawings and models, building a scaffold, and then finding a steel mill willing to melt down scrap and roll the steel into sheets I can handle on my own. And on top of that I'm gonna need to buy a couple hundred rivets and lots of extra fuel for the torch. You know that E equals MC thing?"

Hogarth nodded. "Physics says matter and energy are interchangeable."

"Well, time and money are like that too sometimes," Dean said. "Interchangeable. Time I spend away from my regular business means I have less money to pay for my electricity and food and fabrication supplies."

"But once the statue's done you'll be famous," Hogarth said.

"Maybe, but fame won't mean anything if I starve to death or freeze first."

"General Rogard said he'd get money from the government to pay for repairs to that damaged building," Annie said thoughtfully. "Maybe he could convince them to underwrite the cost of the memorial as well?"

"They won't go that far in admitting they were wrong," Dean said.

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— late December 1957 —

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His concession to the holiday was to drag the smallest of the sculptures the giant had worked inside and drape a few strands of Italian twinkle lights on it.

He had managed to scrape together enough to buy Hogarth a chemistry set, which he planned to deliver in great secrecy in case mom swooped in and nixed it for being too dangerous. He had considered making an all-metal spice rack to replace the broken wooden one in Annie's house, but "spice rack" just hadn't felt like an appropriate gift. It was too utilitarian. Then too, he'd started reading H.D. and Rich, and they were opening his eyes. Tools of patriarchal oppression were everywhere, and he had a hunch a spice rack would say, "Stay on the kitchen and cook, woman!" Well, he wasn't about to add to that noise. Inspiration had finally struck when he noticed how moth-eaten and drab Annie's current winter scarf was: a new one seemed a reasonable, non-oppressive compromise between the personal and the practical.

Anyhow, a few days ago he'd driven to Bangor to talk to a steel mill that advertised its willingness to handle small job. After the meeting was done he'd decided to gird his loins and venture into a glossy multistory Temple of Materialism in search of a scarf for Annie. Something colorful and warm. 

Pretending not to notice the two store security guards who shadowed him the instant he stepped inside, he'd gone up to a glass-topped counter, behind which a green cashmere shawl was on display. It was the perfect color to set off Annie's hair and eyes, so he'd asked the prim-mouthed saleslady if he could look at it up close and touch it. She was clearly reluctant, but after he'd shown her his clean hands — what did she think he was, a caveman? — she'd placed it on the counter.

It was perfect, soft as a cloud. "How much?" he'd asked.

The price tag was stupefying. He had a momentary urge to snatch the scarf and make a run for the exits, but as he knew damn well it cost money to bail people out of jail, too. Speechless, he'd given the shawl back to the saleslady, who flounced away with a look that clearly said Why did I even bother treating you like a valued potential customer, of course someone like you could never afford such a thing!

After that he'd slunk out of the store like the thief he wasn't, and now here he was. Nothing in the house but a quarter can of ground espresso and a box of macaroni mix, and no present for Annie. Ho ho ho.

Well, at least he still had Mingus. He pulled out Pithecanthropus Erectus, carefully slipping the black vinyl from its sleeve, Usually he went for "A Foggy Day" because wasn't that just a thing, weaving in those created street sounds with those sweet horns and bass, but instead he cued up the second track on the B side, "Love Chant," as a better fit for his mood. He wanted jangle.

He sank back into his chair and listened for a while, but then, still restless, he got up and flipped on the television, clicking through the channels. Boring, boring, inane boring — wait a minute!

He clicked back, and there it was again: a screen filled with dark ripples. It reminded him a little of hanging over the edge of Gran Mel's boat.

"But why would anyone broadcast that?" he asked his hi-fi.

Before it could answer, there was the sound of a car horn. It didn't sound like Annie's truck, so he threw on his coat over his kimono and opened the door.

It was the Mayor.

The old man, who was flanked by two flunkies, eyed Dean up and down in frank astonishment, but quickly caught himself. "I understand you sell scrap metal," he said. "Would you take twenty dollars for that?" He pointed to a twisted length of rusty bumper held by one of his flunkies.

"Twenty dollars?" Dean repeated. "You want me to take twenty dollars?  For that?" He scratched his head. "I wouldn't take more than —"

"You drive a hard bargain," the Mayor said quickly. "My final offer is thirty."

Dean leaned forward and sniffed. Had the old coot been hitting up the spiked eggnog?

"Thirty. I insist," the Mayor said. He gestured to his second flunky, who stepped forward and peeled three Hamiltons off a fat roll.

Dean clucked his tongue. "Well, if you insist."

"I do," the Mayor said. "By the way, how's the memorial coming? We on schedule for the unveiling?"

"First of May," Dean nodded. "Just found a place to custom mill the steel."

"Good, good," the Mayor said, and then he held out his hand. When Dean finally took it, he gave three hearty pumps and said, "It's a real pleasure doing business with you, son."

"Well, thanks." Dean said when he Mayor released his hand. "Uh, Merry … Christmas to all of you and your families." Frowning, he watched them leave, and didn't go inside until the tail lights had been smothered by the lightly-falling snow.

A half-hour later Marv Loach and a dozen guys from the power company arrived, as hot to buy up old bits of wire as if it was a known fact that copper was going to be turning into gold. Floyd Turbeaux came and bought a box of cracked headlights; Earl Stutz was apparently collecting rear-view mirrors. The lighthouse crew came in shifts and bought enough padded back seats to furnish a drive-in. 

By that time Dean had changed out of his pajamas and slippers and into his work overall. This turned out to have been a good idea, as he doubted Mrs Tensedge would have come inside for a cup of cocoa otherwise. 

"Spark plugs," Dean said, topping off her mug of cocoa with more hot milk. "You need spark plugs."

"Yes," she said.

"For — ?"

"My car," she replied.

"Your car. Uh-huh. How many?"

"One?" she said, somewhat doubtfully, "or however many I can get for a dollar and a half."

It took three cups of cocoa, but finally he got the whole story. It seemed that Annie had taken it on herself to suggest to the good citizens of Rockwell that they could contribute to the cost of the memorial by buying Dean's junk. "It's not charity," Mrs Tensedge told him crisply. "It's a business transaction."

And transact they did, all that week. To save them some effort, Dean hammered together a wooden bin just inside the gate and painted "Bits and pieces" on the front. People came by, fished something out of the bin, made their "transaction," and more often than not threw their purchase back into the bin on the way out. (Although a few, like Mrs Tensedge, requested a receipt.) 

By New Year's Eve Dean had filled two espresso cans with rolls of bills and coins: by mid-January, he had to hang a sign on his gates saying Temporarily Closed. Open Again May 2. By then he had more than enough to fabricate the statute of the Giant, and just needed uninterrupted time to do so.

He didn't notice until much later that Annie and Hogarth had added the words Making Art to the sign.

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—  Early April 1958 —
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"Hey mom," Hogarth asked on the first Saturday of April, "how do you feel about Mingus?"

Annie, who had been attacking a leak under the kitchen sink, sat back on her heels. "Charles Mingus? The jazz musician?"

"Yeah, that guy," Hogarth nodded. "Do you think his music is romantic?"

Annie considered her son. He'd turned ten in March. Wasn't that too early to start being interested in girls? She had a feeling it was; or maybe her loveable, goofy son was growing up faster than she was prepared for? "I guess it is, for some people. What this all about, Hogarth?"

He grinned and shrugged. "Just curious. So you don't like Mingus?"  

Annie shrugged. "He's okay, I guess. A little too avant garde for me." Dean had played the album for her once — the cover was orange and brown and white, with cave art illustrations — and while she didn't dislike it, she wasn't as starry-eyed over the music as Dean was.  Actually, that was the thing she associated with Mingus: how uninhibited Dean had been, how playful and joyful and passionate. He'd quoted the lengthy liner notes in full while explaining how the title track was a tone poem representing the evolution and decline of mankind. (He had demonstrated this by jumping around the room and pounding his chest.)

"What music do you like instead?" Hogarth asked. He was oddly intent.

Annie suddenly wondered if Hogarth was asking these questions on Dean's behalf. The idea made her a little giddy, but then she decided not to get ahead of herself. Music was just music. "Well, let's see. Johnny Mathis, Sam Cooke, The Platters, the Everly Brothers."

"Thanks mom!" Hogarth dashed out of the kitchen, whispering "Mathis, Cooke, Platters, Everly," much too loudly as he galloped up the stairs to his room.

Annie almost laughed, imagining the hapless Rockwell Records employee who was going to have to help Dean navigate the Everly Brothers.

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— Last day of April, 1958 —

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"Mom? Is that what you're going to wear?"

Annie, who had changed out of her waitress uniform into comfortable black slacks and a short-sleeved ecru sweater, looked over at her son. Tomorrow was the dedication ceremony for the memorial. Dean had invited the two of them over for an advance viewing of the final sculpture before it was trucked out to the park, but Hogarth's behavior suggested that something was afoot. "I was thinking of changing into a yeti costume," she said sweetly, giving her hair a few more strokes in front of the upstairs bathroom mirror before squeezing past the Hogarth barrier in the doorway and going down the hall to her bedroom. "It's really stinky. Should keep the mosquitoes away."

"Moooooom! Be serious!" Hogarth had followed her and now leaned against the doorway of her room as if he were melting into the woodwork.

"I am serious," she said, opening the lid of her jewelry box. There were a pair of earrings in there she'd bought years and years ago which she'd never had a reason to wear, pale pink dangly jangly ceramic cones and triangles painted with gold squiggles. Secretly, she'd always thought of them as her "jazz earrings," because they looked like music.

Hogarth perked up. "Oh, you should wear those!" 

"Sweetie," Annie said as she clipped on the earrings, then turned to give Hogarth her full attention. "Is there anything you want to tell me about tonight?"

Her son's face went almost comically deadpan. "No, no, nothing, mom."

"Okay then, get your jacket. We don't want to be late."

As soon as Hogarth went downstairs Annie picked up the lone perfume bottle atop her dresser, decades old and almost empty. She sighed, then set it back down, dusting the top with her fingertip. Best not to push her luck; she was already wearing the earrings.

"Can we stop by the diner on the way?" Hogarth asked as they turned onto Main. "I'm kinda hungry."

Annie sighed. "We've talked about this, honey. We have food at home."

"But I like Big Georgi's hamburgers," he said. "Besides, you get an employee discount. Doesn't that make it cheaper than the store, since you don't have to cook or wash the dishes? Gas and dish soap cost money, don't they?"

"That's true," she said, squeezing the steering wheel while she waited for the red light to change, "but I don't like to take advantage of people."

"Just this once," he wheedled. "Puhl-ease?  I promise I won't ask again until my birthday. Next year."

She smirked: they both knew this promise was tissue thin. Still, she pulled up to the Chat'n'Chew. "Be fast, and get it to go. We don't want to be late."

"You bet!" He raced inside.

She saw him run up to the counter, nod, and point to the truck. She glanced away, looking up at the few stars starting to wink between the ragged cloud cover.

Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight…

A moment later she looked back, startled to see Eileen walking toward the car, wiping her hands on her apron. 

Annie hurriedly rolled down the window. "What is it?" she asked.

"Oh now, don't worry," Eileen said. "You go on ahead. Big Georgi and I will take Hogarth home."

"Home? Has something happened? Is he okay — " Annie fumbled for the door handle.

"Oh no, no, honey, nothing's wrong!" Eileen said. "But word is you have a date tonight, and your son would rather not tag along."

Annie nodded. "Oh, right. Thanks, Eileen. I owe you one."

"No ya don't," Eileen said, waving. "Just have fun!" She pointed. "Aren't those the cutest earrings!"

Annie rolled up the window, then started the truck and shifted into reverse. "A date, is it? Stinkers, both of them," she said, but she was smiling, and there was a little flutter in her chest.

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The junkyard was a spooky place at night, a perfect setting for the sort of movies that Hogarth scared himself silly with when she wasn't home, so she gulped a little when she pulled into the yard and saw that the windows of the Quonset hut were dark. Normally Dean'd have heard the truck coming, and would be standing silhouetted in the open doorway under the OFFICE sign, but tonight the windows stayed dark, and no doors opened.

A little wisp of anger began to uncurl. If this was some sort of practical joke she'd take them both by the ear and drag them all the way into town and to Mrs Tensedge for punishment!

She was just about to leave when, off to her right, Dean came through the small door set into the side of the factory and walked over into the beam of her headlights. He wore a new a dark turtleneck and what looked like a new pair of jeans, but his hair was as uncombed as ever. He was holding a small box; from the bottom of the box several wires trailed toward the factory door and inside. On the top of the box were several large red switches. He lifted the box, then started mouthing something she couldn't hear. 

She rolled down her window.

"Ready?" he was asking.

"For what?"

He moved his thumb and flipped one of the switches.

A light inside the factory came on, spilling a dim light from the open doorway.

"I see," Annie said, shutting off the truck.

Dean came around to the driver's side of the truck and opened her door, then held out one hand as if he were a footman waiting to escort Cinderella from her pumpkin.

She laughed and took his hand. It was nice; it was warm and strong, with just enough roughness that you could tell it wasn't the hand of someone with a desk job. (Kent Mansley had had desk job hands. Smooth, almost waxy. Shaking his hand had been like clasping Tupperware.)

As Dean led her through the open door and into the factory building she had expected to see either the completed memorial to the Giant, or else the usual shadowy tangled metal jungle of Dean's current assemblages-in progress.

She saw neither. Suspended from the catwalk that crossed the factory floor high above, a single headlamp spotlit a long, low shape that looked like a convertible.

Dean held the box out to her. "Do the honors? Two middle switches, one at a time?"

The first switch outlined the car's exterior in twinkle lights; the second turned on lights in the interior. Now she could see that the car's steering wheel, dashboard, and windshield had been removed, and the front seat turned around to face the back seat. Between them was a small kidney-shaped steel table.

"What is this?" Annie asked with a laugh. 

Dean stooped to put the box on the floor. "May I show you to your booth, madame?"

"Please."

He hurried ahead to open the car door for her; once she was settled he opened the car's trunk and brought out a picnic basket, which he put on the seat next to her. "Help yourself to refreshments," he said, with a very bad fake English accent, "whilst I see to the steaks. How dost milady prefer her cow meat?" 

"Medium," she said as she took out a bottle of wine and two glasses. "Where are you going to cook it? On the radiator or the engine block?"

"Don't be silly," Dean said as he lifted the hood, taking out a cast iron skillet, a platter of raw steak, a large asbestos glove, and his welding torch.  "I'm going to use a pan."

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"That was surprisingly delicious," Annie said a while later, refilling their wine glasses as Dean stashed the dirty dishes in the trunk. "I had no idea that you were such an expert cook."

"If it can be seared or broiled, I'm your man."

"Good thing I didn't order salad." She watched him over the edge of the wineglass as he climbed back into the car and sprawled on the opposite seat. Their eyes locked for a long moment; Dean was the first to look away.

"So that box thing with the switches," Annie said. "You built that?"

"Hogarth did most of it," Dean said. "That electronic beep-boop stuff is over my head, but give that kid a big enough stack of Popular Mechanics, and he could build anything."

"What else does it do?" she asked.

"I'll show you." As Dean stood and jumped nimbly over the car door to retrieve the box, a small white card fell out of his back blue jeans pocket.

Curious, Annie picked it up. On it was written #1.FMF  #2.Lucinda #3.PBS .  "What is this?"  she asked as Dean came back to the car.

"Oh, that." Dean set the switch box on the seat next to him, and held his hand out for the card. "Just, a thing. Not important."

Annie raised an eyebrow.

Dean worked his jaw, exhaled noisily, then dropped his hand and said, "Poems. It's a list of poems I memorized."

"Why?"

"I thought I should recite something to you," Dean said, "but none were quite right."

She would have liked to tell him that she thought it was a charming idea, and that the sudden color in his cheeks made him look very cute, but she knew that men could be skittish about such things. "I'd like to hear them anyway," she said.

Dean looked surprised. "You're kidding?"

"To see if you truly memorized them." 

"Ahh, you don't believe me!" Dean perked up. "Alright. Prepare to be amazed." He rubbed his hands together.

She looked down at the card. "Start with FMF."

He snatched up his wine glass and took a big swallow, then nodded. "Okay. FMF is "Fie my Fum" by Alan Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac. Two of the soulfathers of Beat." He frowned slightly. "It's a little strange."

"Quit stalling," Annie said sweetly.

Dean closed his eyes, tipped his head back, and began to snap his fingers like a metronome.

When he was done he snapped his fingers four more times before opening his eyes and looking at her. "Well? What did you think?"

"Where did you find that?"

"Friends in San Francisco send me things." He paused. "You didn't like it."

"Well, it was," Annie bit her lip. "It had some catchy rhymes, and some funny images, but —"

"But?"

"But it seemed kind of, well, dirty."  Now it was her turn to blush. "Mostly those last few lines."

Dean considered this for a moment, stroking his thumb along his jaw. "Yeah, yeah. I can see that."

"Seriously, 'Pit my plum' ?"  she said. 

"Well, and 'pull my daisy' too," he added. "Of course, it could all be drug references instead of sex. You can see why I rejected it," he added.

Annie didn't point out that he had nevertheless memorized it. "What about #2. Lucinda?  Is that about drugs as well?"

Dean sat up, his enthusiasm sparking. "Oh no," he said. "Definitely not. "A Love Song for Lucinda" is definitely not about drugs."

"Is it by the same guys? Alan and Jack?"

"No, it's by Langston Hughes," Dean said reverently. "One of the greatest writers of the Harlem Renaissance. A jazz poet."

"Okay then." Annie folded her hands. "Let's hear it."

This time, Dean didn't snap his fingers, or close his eyes, but he did look up into the darkness.

Annie thought it was beautiful, though she did wonder what it was with modern poets and plums. "It sounds like he's cautioning against love. Warning people away."

Dean shook his head. "I don't think so. I think it more like, love is intense, so if intensity scares you, don't bother."

Annie wondered how much she should make of Dean's choice of poems.

"I thought a love poem written by a woman would be best," he said unexpectedly, "but as I was doing that I realized how wrong it was to use someone else's words instead of finding my own."

"Not everyone can find words," she said. "The third poem — is PBS Percy Bysshe Shelley?" 

"Yeah." 

"He had some good poems."

Dean made a noncommittal gesture, then reached over and flipped the fourth switch.

With a metallic shriek, a panel in the roof began to retract, and the lights in the factory dimmed.

Dean pointed at the sky. "That's you."

"Unimaginably distant?" Annie asked, smiling.

"Sparkly and miraculous and amazing."

Annie held out her hand out across the table. After a moment Dean took it, and came around to sit next to her.

When she leaned against him, he put his arm around her, and she asked,  "What was the third poem?" 

"It's called 'Love's Philosophy. ' "

With a simmer of excitement, Annie said, "Oh, I know that one." 

She turned to him. "I agree with Shelley. It would be a shame if all that sweet work went to waste."

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Later, snuggling together in the narrow bed, Dean asked, "Will Hogarth be okay with this?"

Annie chuckled. "Didn't he help you plan it?"

"Oh yeah," Dean said, as if this was a revelation. "Still, planning a date isn't the same as — "

"The things dating can eventually lead to," Annie finished. "I think he'll be okay with it. He likes you a lot more than the last man who tried to — "

"Date you?" Dean said. "Let me guess." He was weaving a strand of her hair around his fingers. "Kent Mansley."

Annie, startled, propped herself up on one elbow to look at him. "How did you know?"

Dean chuckled softly. "I've got eyes." As Annie laid back down he muttered, "And so did he."

"Did you buy any of the music I told Hogarth I liked?" Annie asked drowsily.

"Yep. All of it." Dean sighed. "My reputation as a hep cat in this town is now ruined."

"All of it? Really?" She made a small disbelieving noise.

Dean gasped. "Was that a scoff? Did you just scoff at me, woman? Fine. Just for that, I'm gonna get up outta this bed and prove it to you." He threw back the covers and sat up. "But since I'm doing that, you've gotta get up and dance with me."

"Naked? But there are windows!" Annie pulled the sheet up to her chin in mock terror.

Dean swung his feet over the side of the bed. "Too bad. If I'm gonna freeze my ass off, so are you. Besides, it's three in the morning. Who's gonna see us?"

Annie pulled him back down. "I changed my mind. I'll take your word for it."

"Good." He hurried back under the blankets. "Besides, do you know how many of those songs are out there simply to reinforce the propaganda of the patriarchal oppressors and their restrictive social norms?"

She laughed. "No, how many are trying to do that?"

"All of 'em," he said, brushing his lips across hers and sliding his hand down her hip. "All of 'em."

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Dawn always made the cluttered Quonset look like a Rembrandt painting. Dean savored the moment for a moment before he realized that aromas of bacon and coffee had been added to the picture.

He sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, then hopped out of bed and looked for his yin-yang robe, which was not hanging in its usual place. "Whatcha doin'?" he called out, shivering as he pulled on his icy-cold jeans.

"Making breakfast," Annie called back. "I can't help it. I'm a puppet of the patriarchal oppressors."

He shuffled to the kitchen.

Annie was at the stove, wearing his robe. Dean decided that he was okay with it becoming her robe from now on.

He started clearing off the table. "We'll fight the oppressors together," he said, then, worried that he'd said a little too much, went ahead and made it worse by adding, "if you want."

Annie was silent as she piled the bacon on his one clean plate. 

Dean winced and made coffee. He really needed to learn to keep his big yap shut.

"I already called Hogarth and told him I'll be home later," she said after they'd sat for a while silently eating bacon and sipping coffee. 

Alarmed, Dean asked, "He was alone in the house all night?"

"No, Eileen and Big Geordi stayed over in my guest room."

They exchanged a look: they both knew that the busybodies would spread the news by lunchtime.

"Hogarth and his father never really got to know each other," Annie said suddenly. 

It was a hell of a conversational segue. "How'd you two meet?" Dean asked carefully. 

"We had a class together freshman year."

"High school?"

"College." She folded her arms, resting her elbows on the table. "We got married that summer, squeezed in a horrible two day honeymoon at Niagara, and then he went off to be a fighter pilot." She hugged herself slightly. "Hogarth was only two when we got the news."

Without thinking, Dean said, "That must have been rough," and nearly groaned when he heard himself. 

Annie shrugged. "There were a lot of us in the same situation. At first it was a comfort to be around other military wives, but after a while I couldn't stand it. It was like a bell tolling in an echo chamber; the peals never died down. My folks were still alive then, so I moved back here."

"You grew up in Rockwell?"

"Yeah," she said, "In the same house I'm in now. I guess I'm not that adventurous, since I ran back to the comfort of the familiar as soon as something bad happened."

"Nothing wrong with that."

They both reached for a piece of bacon.

"What now?" Annie asked.

"I guess at some point we'll find your clothes and — "

"You know what I mean."

Dean decided to take a leap. "Are you proposing to me?"

"Pretty much," she said calmly, relinquishing her claim on the bacon to take a sip of coffee.

"June okay?" he asked, trying to sound like a totally laid back hep cat.

"I've done June," she said. "How about July?"

"Copacetic." He split the last piece of bacon with her. "You know, the longer we wait, the more people are going to talk." 

"I'm sure they're already talking," she said. "After all, you're four years younger than I am. I'm robbing the cradle."

Dean made an affronted noise. "They should be accusing me of using my charm to take advantage of an older woman!"

"Norma Shearer was 46 when she married a 26-year old," Annie said. "Can you imagine what the gossips said about them?"

"I don't want to," Dean mumbled. "I'd rather use my charms on you again."

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— July 1959 —

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Headlines from the Rockwell Daily for July 20, 1959:

— ¤ § ¤ — 

Renegade Nature Broadcasts Continue, Spread to Penobscot County.
Rockwell residents who for years have reported coming across strange nature programs in the middle of the night now have something to talk about with their friends in Bangor. It seems that the strange programs, which in recent years have focused on treetops, have begun to appear on Bangor stations late at night. No one has ever stepped forward to claim responsibility for the broadcasts, and stations have been unable to develop any methods for protecting their airwaves from these hijackings.

— ¤ § ¤ — 

Mystery Good Samaritan strikes again.
The person or persons responsible for dozens of good deeds in and around Rockwell and the neighboring counties struck again last night, moving a twelve ton slab of granite that was blocking an access tunnel in the Samsonville Quarry.  The Rockwell Police Department, while not considering such activities criminal, is still encouraging anyone with information about the events to call the department's Crime Tip Line.

— ¤ § ¤ — 

It's a Girl!
A 7 pound 2 ounce daughter, Jeannie Marie McCoppin, was born to longtime Rockwell residents Dean J. McCoppin and Annie McCoppin early Saturday morning at St. Theresa's Hospital in Portland. Mother and baby are doing well, and are expected to return to Rockwell with the proud poppa on Friday.

— ¤ § ¤ — 

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— September 1963 —

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FADE IN:

INT. ANNIE'S HOUSE - SEVEN YEARS LATER

We PAN across the comfortable clutter of the front room. The old black and white television has been replaced by a new, larger model. The KEROUAC poster from the scrapyard office hangs on one wall. An overstuffed BOOKCASE has been wedged in at the foot of the stairs. The jazz sound of the Charles Mingus album OH YEAH drifts from the hi-fi.

In front of the silent television, JEANNIE MCCOPPIN, a SERIOUS, DARK-HAIRED FOUR-YEAR OLD, intently stacks MULTICOLORED BLOCKS. 

Though the doorway to the kitchen we see ANNIE and DEAN standing side by side at the sink. Annie washes, Dean dries.

The FRONT DOOR SLAMS (O.S).

HOGARTH

Mom? Dad? I'm home!

HOGARTH tosses his book bag on the floor next to the couch, then scoops up his sister and twirls her in the air until she GIGGLES.

HOGARTH
(breathless, excited)

I got something to show you, Jeannie bug! There's a girl in this new comic book with the same name as you!

The hi-fi emits a few seconds of STATIC before starting the next track.

CHARLES MINGUS
(singing in a bluesy wail)

Oh Lord… don't let them drop that atomic bomb on me…

Hogarth opens the comic book and shows his sister something on the page.

HOGARTH

See? Her name is Jean, just like you!

Jeannie studies the page SOLEMNLY, then looks up at Hogarth.

Dean, drying a plate with a dishtowel, AMBLES over to the couch and tips up the comic book so that he can see the cover.

DEAN

Uncanny X-Men? I don't remember seeing that one before. New title?

HOGARTH

Yup, first issue.

DEAN

What's so uncanny about 'em?

HOGARTH
(slightly exasperated)

I don't know yet! I only read the first four pages before I came home to show Jeannie! Geez!!

DEAN
(Teenagers! Sheesh!)

Alright, alright!

Dean goes back into the kitchen.

Hogarth turns the pages, while Jeannie claps with GLEE.

HOGARTH
(very serious)

See, you can be a doctor, or a scientist, or even a hero if you want to be.
Don't ever forget that, and don't ever let anyone tell you differently.

Hogarth looks up at Dean and Annie, who are watching with AFFECTION from the doorway.

HOGARTH

You are who you choose to be.

THE END

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first posted 21 December 2019; revised 10 September 2020