“Well, that won’t be hard,” Sandy said. “She plays like an old player piano. The notes are always right, but it’s still real borin’ to listen to. Not like you. You play like a pro.”
Franny nearly blushed at the rare compliment, but then Sandy gave her a grave look.
“But you’d better remember that this isn’t just about Prancy,” she continued. “What if this famous Eunice woman thinks that you’re the best piano player she ever heard? She might even bring you back to Washington, D.C., to play for the president—like that girl we saw in that newsreel, remember? You could get rich and famous for real. Just don’t blow it, ’cause this might be your only shot—like when your dad met that jazz guy, Duke.”
Of course, these had been Franny’s thoughts exactly. Eunice Grimes was being sent to Rusty Nail to turn Franny into the Mozart of her generation. Her fingers automatically began to drum out her mainstay Bach piece on her knees. Her thoughts speeded up, and she wished that she could go home early to practice. Maybe she could even convince Wes and Lorraine to let her stay home from school for a few days to get some extra rehearsal time in.
After all, her very future was at stake.
The people of Rusty Nail prepared for the arrival of Mrs. Eunice Grimes as though she was the Queen of England. They mowed grass and hosed down the barn animals. All of the bicycles and Big Wheels that usually littered the town’s front lawns were stacked up behind closed garage doors. Rickety old Hans Zimmerman, who owned the grocery shop on Main Street, got so excited that he decorated the entire storefront with big Christmas lights and plastic snowmen and Santas.
The women of the Rusty Nail Charter of the Homemakers Association of America prepared a bountiful mountain of baked goods for the occasion: cupcakes, carrot cakes, banana cakes, molasses cakes, cookies of every imaginable variety, an intimidating armada of pies, and an assortment of quivering Jell-O molds with pieces of canned fruit suspended in their gelatinous bellies.
Shoes were shined, and shirts and dresses ironed. Down at the Smitty Beauty Station, Miss Norma Smitty and Melba could hardly keep up with the townspeople’s beautifying needs. From dawn to dusk, they shaved faces, rolled up curlers, and lacquered fingernails.
Mayor Reverend Jerry gave a special sermon in church that Sunday, declaring that God had sent Mrs. Eunice Grimes to the town so that she, and subsequently the rest of the world, would learn what a model community Rusty Nail was.
“If you wanna see real America, you won’t find it in Hollywood,” he thundered to his congregation. “And you won’t find it starin’ up at the fancy skyscrapers in New York City neither—no sir. Real America is right here in Rusty Nail, with its corn and big sky and honest, regular folks who work with their hands. Towns like ours are the heart of the nation and the bulwarks against the Commie Menace! And now’s our chance to show off fer the rest of the country, hallelujah!”
After school every day that week, Franny had gone to Mrs. Staudt’s house to get ready. Her teacher had picked out a Mozart piece at Franny’s insistence, and for the first time in her life, Franny practiced during every moment of her free time. She started to feel that she understood the music somehow. The notes became words and the phrases turned into sentences and the sentences into stories. She imagined the expression on Mozart’s face as he wrote the piece and played it, and she crooked her fingers as she imagined that he would. When she wasn’t actually practicing, she was thinking about practicing. She even dreamt about music each night.
Each afternoon, Mrs. Staudt watched Franny play the piano with admiration, her bloodshot eyes glistening and her cigarette burning. Even her decrepit father seemed to respect the gravity of the situation, because he didn’t make a single cameo appearance.
Finally, the day before the concert, her teacher said to Franny: “Well, you’ve sure made progress, girlie, and you’re all ready for the big day. And furthermore, you’ve learned everything I can teach you. After this concert, your parents are going to have to find you a better teacher.”
“What?” said Franny. “Who’s going to teach me, then? My parents can’t afford that guy who teaches Nancy Orilee.”
Mrs. Staudt shrugged. “I dunno,” she said. “I’m sure something will come up.” And she ushered Franny to the front door.
Franny marched home, clutching her music books. Somewhere in Minnesota, she thought, Mrs. Eunice what’sher-name is getting ready to come down to Rusty Nail, and she has no idea what she’s going to find here: me!
But questions plagued her too: Would she have to leave right away for Washington, and if so, could she bring her parents or Sandy along? When would she come back? For that matter, would she come back at all, or would she be expected to just keep going around the world, giving concerts and impressing other presidents, kings, and queens?
When she turned onto Main Street and glanced up at her apartment, her heart nearly froze, for clouds of black smoke billowed out of the kitchen window on the second floor. In a panic, she rushed to the building and shouted up to her mother again and again. Soon the living-room window opened and Lorraine stuck her head out.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” she called down to her daughter. “I just had a little accident in the kitchen. Come on upstairs—it’s clearing out in here now.”
Franny let out a breath of relief and ran up the stairs. Lorraine stood in the kitchen, waving a baking sheet over a completely charred pie.
“Mom! What were you doing?” Franny wailed. “You know you can’t cook pies.”
“Well,” said Lorraine, embarrassed. “All of the other mothers are bringing desserts to the concert, so I thought that I’d make something too. It’s blueberry.” She peered down at the black pastry. “Do you think I could still serve it? I bet I could scrape the burned part off the top.”
“Please don’t bring it,” Franny begged. “I have enough things to worry about.” She stalked down the hazy hallway and into her bedroom, which also smelled of smoke and burned crust. Franny scowled and wrenched her window up to air it out.
“Sorry about that, honey,” Lorraine said, appearing in the doorway. “I guess the oven must be broken or something. Say, what were you planning on wearing to the concert?”
“Mom, there’s nothing wrong with the oven; you always burn pies,” Franny snapped. “And I guess I’ll just wear my jeans and my favorite yellow shirt.”
Franny’s mother hesitated. Then she said: “Tomorrow is going to be a very important day, Franny. And I think that you should wear something special to mark the occasion.”
“Like what?” Franny asked suspiciously.
Lorraine smiled. “Just a minute,” she said excitedly, and disappeared into the hallway.
A few moments later, she returned with a shopping bag, which she handed to Franny. “Surprise! I bought you a new dress.”
Oh Lord, Franny thought with despair as she pulled the dress out of the bag. Checkered with white and blue squares, it had big ruffles attached to the shoulders and the hem. It reminded Franny of Dorothy’s getup in the movie The Wizard of Oz.
“Do you like it, honey?” Lorraine asked.
Franny almost burst into tears. “Can’t I just wear the jeans?” She hastily tried to think of a reason why she couldn’t wear the dress. “It’s just, um, easier for me to work the piano pedals when I wear pants,” she said.
“Oh, don’t be silly,” said Franny’s mother carelessly as she fluffed up the ruffles. “This is perfect. You’re going to look so special!”
Franny grew desperate. “Mom! Please don’t make me wear it! Everyone will laugh at me,” she blurted out.
Lorraine frowned and put her hands on her hips. “Frances Hansen!” she said. “I drove all forty miles to La Crosse this morning to pick that dress up for you. Everyone in Rusty Nail will be at the concert, and I don’t want you to look like a raggedy tomboy. You’re going to wear the dress tomorrow, and that’s all there is to it!”
Once her mother’s hands went to her hips, Franny knew that the b
attle was over. When Lorraine was determined about something, she could not be budged. Underneath her sweetness was a core of steel.
Franny threw herself down on her bed and rolled over on her side with her back to her mother.
“Fine,” she said fiercely to the wall. “Tomorrow when I get up onto the stage and everyone laughs at me, it’ll be your fault. And I’ll never be able to go back to school again as long as I live, and that will be your fault too. And that Eunice woman is going to leave me behind when she goes to Washington—all because of the dress.”
Lorraine looked confused. “Why would Mrs. Grimes take you along to Washington?” she asked.
“Never mind,” said Franny quickly, muffling her face in the pillow. “All I know is that if you make me wear that dress, my life is going to be over.”
Lorraine suppressed a laugh. “Maybe you should have been an actress instead of a pianist,” she said. “Now, I’m going to rescue that pie and make supper before your father comes home.” She trotted out of the bedroom and closed the door.
Franny rolled over and glared hatefully at the frilly dress hanging on the back of her desk chair.
Tomorrow is either going to be the best day of my life, she thought, or the worst.
The big day arrived at last. Sandy waited for Franny outside the school before the bell rang.
“Oh, brother,” Sandy said when she saw the checkered dress—which, incidentally, still reeked of smoke. “Maybe we should spill something on it so you’d get to go home and change,” she offered helpfully.
Franny considered this for a moment. “I can’t,” she concluded. “My mother would kill me.”
She trudged into the school, her shoulder ruffles fluttering in the breeze, and plunked herself down at her desk. The assembly for Mrs. Eunice Grimes was scheduled for twelve noon. Franny would have to tolerate four whole hours of humiliation and anxiety before the concert.
Runty Knutson stuck his nose in the air and sniffed noisily. “Why does it smell like smoke in here? Hey, maybe the school is burning down!” he shouted hopefully.
All of the other kids sniffed the air and looked around. Franny slunk down lower in her seat. Then Nancy Orilee sailed in. To Franny’s dismay, her rival looked fantastic in a new red dress, shining black Mary Jane shoes, and a velvet beret. She must have slept in curlers the night before, because her hair hung in perfect ringlets around her face.
“Good morning, Sandy Anne,” Nancy said in her nasal voice as she sat down at her desk. She grinned when she looked in Franny’s direction. “And good morning, Dorothy. Where’s Toto? Oh! It’s you, Frances. I didn’t recognize you. Is that a leftover Halloween costume or something?”
Franny gritted her teeth and drummed her fingers on her knees. I’m not going to let that spoiled brat steal the day, she said to herself over and over. She watched the minute hand click slowly around the face of the clock, and the morning stretched out like long, sticky taffy in front of her. She went over the Mozart piece again and again in her head, the notes mixing with the rhythmic sound of the clock until she practically fell into a trance.
Suddenly someone poked her in the ribs. “Franny!” Sandy said excitedly, standing over her. “Get up—it’s time to go.” Franny leaped out of her chair, practically knocking it over.
“Line up in two lines, children,” Miss Hamm squeaked. “Boys on one side and girls on the other.”
“What about that?” yelled Runty, pointing at Gretchen Beasley. “Which line should Gretchen be in, since no one knows if it’s a boy or a girl?” Predictably, Gretchen burst into tears.
“Ohhh,” wailed Miss Hamm, looking desperate. “Please be good, Runty.” She shepherded Gretchen to the girls’ line. Then Sandy shoved Runty into the girls’ line, and mayhem broke out. Miss Hamm finally gave up and herded the class out into the hallway mob-style.
A great crowd milled around outside the doors to the auditorium. To the right of the entrance stood six folding tables, heaving under the weight of the cakes and pies brought by all of the mothers. Franny’s palms sweated when the people walked into the auditorium, which seemed as hot as a boiler room inside. The ceiling fans spun crazily, and everyone fanned themselves with sheets of paper.
Nearly every Polk School student and Rusty Nail resident was there, waiting to make an all-American impression on Mrs. Eunice Grimes. A big, hand-painted banner hung above the stage, declaring:
MRS. EUNICE GRIMES
WELCOME TO RUSTY NAIL
WE COOTN’T BE HAPPIER TO SEE YOU
Below it, Mr. Moody paced nervously back and forth. When he saw Franny and Nancy come in, he waved for them to come to the front of the auditorium. Franny felt like royalty as she sat down in the first row. Suddenly Mr. Moody sniffed the air.
“What smells like smoke?” he said. He glared down at Franny and leaned in toward her. “It’s you!” His eyes narrowed. “You horrid child. You better not have been smoking a cigarette on school premises on the biggest day in recent Rusty Nail history!”
“I didn’t!” Franny squawked defensively. “It’s my dress—I swear! My mother set a pie on fire in our house last night and the dress still smells like smoke.”
Mr. Moody reluctantly accepted this explanation. Even he knew of Lorraine’s famous culinary disasters.
Nancy snickered. When Mr. Moody was looking in the other direction, she leaned in toward Franny and sang under her breath:
It’s Francis the Talking Mule,
Hee haw, hee haw,
Eating dirty straw.
A mule is a fool.
Without thinking, Franny furiously tore out a sheet of her music book, quickly crumpled it into a ball, and threw it right in Nancy’s face. Nancy was just about to raise a fuss when a voice from the back of the auditorium crowed:
“Here she comes!”
The sound of creaking seats filled the room as every-one turned around or stood up or craned their necks to get a look. Suddenly the crowd near the doors parted and Mayor Reverend Jerry swept in majestically.
“Fine folks,” he said, his face and frizzy new curls glistening with perspiration. “It’s been a real long time since we’ve had such an important guest in this town. Let’s give a big Rusty Nail welcome to Mrs. Eunice Grimes of the Minnesota Commission on Literacy!”
Everyone clapped and hooted. Then the crowd parted just a little further and into the room squeezed the fattest woman Franny had ever seen. She wore a terribly crabby expression above her numerous chins. Not even looking at the audience, she trucked down the aisle to the front of the room. Mayor Reverend Jerry scrambled after her, and after him came Mrs. Grimes’ assistant, a man as thin and brittle as a piece of spaghetti.
Finally, the party reached the front of the room. “Where’m I supposed to sit?” Mrs. Grimes grunted to Mr. Moody, without so much as a hello.
“Right here, ma’am.” Mayor Reverend Jerry stepped in, waving graciously to one of the empty front-row seats. “But we were hopin’ you’d say a few words to the towns-people first.”
Mrs. Eunice Grimes peered down at the narrow old seat. “Is this some sorta cruel joke? That’s not gonna do it, boys,” she snapped. “Guess I’m just gonna have to stand up.”
Mr. Moody and Mayor Reverend Jerry made the hasty decision to run next door to the third-grade classroom and haul in a desk, upon which Mrs. Grimes could sit. The visitor glared at it and her hosts as she clumped up to the front of the stage. Everyone leaned forward with great anticipation to hear what she was going to say.
“Glad to be here,” she said grudgingly, and nodded once.
That was all! She plodded over to the desk and sat down on it. Her scrap of an assistant tapped his wristwatch and squeaked to Mr. Moody: “We have to be in Harmonyville in an hour. Do you think we could speed things up?”
“Right!” said Mr. Moody, clapping his hands. “Let’s begin with the entertainment, shall we?”
The fourth grade rushed out onto the stage and performed a theatrical history of Rusty Nail
. This riveting play included only the most important developments of the town’s history: the finding of the old, bent pioneer nails, the first corn harvest, the first annual American coot festival, and the building of the town bar, Elmer’s.
Franny snuck a look at Mrs. Grimes toward the end of the play. Was this really the person who would make her into a famous pianist? This whole event certainly seemed different in spirit from her father’s experience with Duke Ellington years before. Mrs. Grimes’ eyes had glazed over, and she looked like she wished that she was anyplace besides a school in Rusty Nail.
At long last, the finale of the play came with a great crashing of cymbals. The audience stood up and cheered as the actors took many bows. Mrs. Eunice Grimes heaved herself off the teetering desk.
“Well, that’s that,” she said, gesturing to her assistant to leave. “Let’s go, Wilmer. Thanks, boys,” she said to Mayor Reverend Jerry and Mr. Moody, who looked panicked.
“Oh no,” cried the mayor quickly, cutting in front of her. “We still got quite a treat in store for you. You might’ve thought that Rusty Nail was famous only for its coots and fine grains and corn. But we also manufacture something else that’s pretty darn special: child musical geniuses. This here is Nancy Orilee and Franny Hansen. They’re both gonna play the pian-er for you.”
Mrs. Grimes’ assistant tapped his watch again. “We only have ten minutes,” he sniveled. Mrs. Grimes sighed again and sat back down on the desk.
Mr. Moody hustled Nancy up onto the stage. “Hurry up,” he whispered loudly to her.
Nancy set up her sheet music on the school’s old, defeated-looking upright piano and gingerly sat down on the bench. She smiled at the audience.
“I will be playing a piece by a composer named Schumann, who is one of my favorites,” she announced.
True to her reputation, Nancy didn’t hit a single wrong note. Franny listened impatiently to her rival, whose playing somehow reminded her of fussy paper doilies and tea parties. Not a tea party like the wild, wonderful one in Alice in Wonderland, but rather a mean great-aunt’s tea party that no one in her right mind would want to attend. There’s no feeling in Prancy’s playing, Franny thought, her throat tightening with anticipation. No feeling at all, no oomph. I can do so much better than that.
The Rising Star of Rusty Nail Page 4