The Rising Star of Rusty Nail

by Lesley M. M. Blume

  Mrs. Charity Engebraten snatched up the magazine. Her face got bright red as she read the article about Olga. “Well, I’ll be,” she said. “Lorraine’s right. Don’t I feel the fool.” She tittered nervously and handed the magazine around.

  “I’m staying in the anti-Commie club,” scowled Mrs. Orilee, ignoring the magazine even as all of the other women avidly read it.

  “Fine with me,” said Lorraine tartly. “Bribers, cheaters, and hypocrites need not apply to my club. Anyone who supports swindling and lies can just stay in the W.O.R.N.A.T.C.T. Now, all those who’re joining the new club, raise your hands.”

  “Wow,” whispered Sandy to Franny. “Don’tcha see what your mother’s doin’? She’s makin’ it so all the women can’t stay in the anti-Commie club without lookin’ like they’re sidin’ with Mrs. Orilee! Boy, that’s real smart.”

  She and Franny gaped as women started raising their hands. First, Thelma Britches raised hers, followed by Miss Hamm, who was so far in the back of the room that she was practically glued to the rear wall. Sandy’s mother waved her arm. Soon all of the other matrons followed suit. Even Melba raised hers.

  “Melba!” said Norma indignantly. “What’re you doin’?”

  “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em,” Melba said lazily. “Who wants t’ be left out of a club? And you don’t wanna lose business down at the Beauty Station, do ya?”

  Norma looked horribly crabby. “No-o,” she said. “I guess I don’t. But even if I do quit our club and join Lorraine’s, that still don’t mean that I’m gonna cut and curl that woman’s hair. Even if she ain’t a real bone-a-fied Commie after all, she’s still too uppity for my likin’.”

  “Do as you please,” said Lorraine. “Are you in or out?”

  “In, I guess,” grumbled Norma. “Can’t see that I got a real choice.”

  Mrs. Orilee slapped the tops down on the cardboard cupcake boxes.

  “Fine,” she said angrily. “Suit yourselves. But don’t come crying to me when your children all go missing, or worse. Have fun with Mrs. High-and-Mighty Hansen over there.” With that, she snatched up the boxes and flounced toward the exit. “Come on,” she snapped at Nancy, who looked like she was going to cry at any moment.

  “Guess there’s a new sheriff in town,” Sandy whispered to Franny, looking at Lorraine with admiration.

  Once the Orilees left, Lorraine let out a deep breath.

  “All right,” she said, more to herself than anyone else. “That’s over and done with.” She walked over to Franny and wrapped her arms around her.

  “See, sweetheart?” she whispered to her daughter. “Some things turn out like they’re supposed to. Not always, but sometimes. Let’s have some crumble cake and go home.”

  Franny hugged her mother back. This time, she didn’t bother to hold her tears back in front of the audience.

  Owen was waiting at the door for Lorraine and Franny when they got home from church. He had a funny look on his face.

  “What’s the matter, sweetheart?” Lorraine asked. “The Russian lady called here,” he said. “She wants Franny to come over this afternoon.”

  “Why?” Franny asked in alarm. The first thought that flashed in her mind was that Olga was going to drop her because she lost the contest.

  “She didn’t say,” Owen said. “It was real weird to hear her voice. It had an accent and everything, just like in the movies.”

  “I’m sure it’s fine, Franny,” Lorraine said, looking weary after the drama at the Colosseum. “She probably just wants to reassure you about the contest. Run along and see her.”

  Despite her mother’s encouragement, Franny still felt nervous when she rang Olga’s doorbell. The Russian had never summoned her so abruptly before; in fact, she’d never called Franny’s house even once during the whole seven months of lessons.

  “Ah, there you are,” Olga said, opening the front door. “How was church this morning?”

  “You were right,” Franny told her. “They all took our side against Nancy and her mom and dad. My mom even started a new club and got Norma Smitty to drop the old one.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” said Olga simply. “And now I have even more news for you. Please sit in the living room. I will be right back.” She swept down the hallway toward the kitchen.

  Franny walked into the living room, sat stiffly on the edge of one of the settees, and wondered what was about to happen. She had the distinct feeling that Olga was about to disappear from her life for one reason or another, and her heart pounded with anxiety.

  Olga marched into the room a minute later with Svetlana in tow.

  Franny grew indignant when she realized that the maid would apparently be sitting in, again, on her and Olga’s personal business.

  “Now,” Olga said officially as she and Svetlana sat down across from Franny. “How many years have you been studying the piano, Dyevushka?”

  “Three or four, I guess,” Franny replied. “Maybe more.”

  “Well,” said Olga. “I am sure that you know that I was dead set against teaching you when I first moved here. I was not pleased with the idea of being a teacher to a scrawny small-town girl. I did not think that the arrangement suited a famous concert pianist like myself.”

  This pronouncement irked Franny, whose ego was already quite bruised from the outcome of the contest.

  “So why did you say yes, then, if the idea of teaching someone like me was so horrible?” she asked impudently.

  “Because when I heard you play, I realized that you were a special case,” Olga answered. “Frankly, your playing sounded like mine when I was your age. It was astonishing.”

  And then, to Franny’s surprise, Svetlana chimed in: “It is a big compliment to say you sound like Olga Malenkov.”

  This was the last straw for Franny.

  “Why is this even your business?” she yelled rudely. “And why are you always sitting in on my lessons? Who are you?”

  The ladies looked at each other. Finally, Svetlana cleared her throat and said: “I am Madame Svetlana Oblonsky. I was the teacher of Olga at the Juilliard School.”

  Franny could hardly believe it. Lumpy, coughing, scratching, humming, annoying Svetlana was the great master who had taught Olga? Franny wanted to crawl under the sofa from shame.

  “Ha—you didn’t even suspect, did you, Dyevushka?” Olga gloated. “When Svetlana came out to see me here in Rusty Nail, I told her that she must hear my exceptional new protégée. You should know that most pianists would give anything for that opportunity, for the great Svetlana Oblonsky can make or break a career almost overnight.

  “Now then,” she continued. “I suppose you are wondering why I waited to tell you this about Svetlana, and why we are even having this discussion.”

  Svetlana looked gravely at Franny and said: “We have decided to offer you a part-time position at the Juilliard School. As part of the pre-college division. I have listened to your playing, and you are very promising. There is no time to be wasted.”

  Franny’s mind suddenly felt as though it was crammed with junk, making it very difficult for her to understand what was happening. “I don’t get it,” she said.

  Olga sighed. “Dyevushka—Madame Oblonsky is offering to teach you at Juilliard, in the way that I was taught. So, this would be the appropriate moment to fall on your knees and thank her over and over again.”

  “You mean, you’re saying that I can come study with you all the way out in New York City?” Franny asked, still dumbfounded. “But I live here, in Rusty Nail! I’m only ten! What about school? And my parents?” And then she added in a panic: “But I can’t cook! How would I eat?”

  To her chagrin, the women burst out laughing. Seeing how overwrought Franny was, Olga said with uncharacteristic gentleness: “Calm down, Dyevushka. There are answers to all of these questions, and they are good answers. You would go to New York this summer, and the next, and the next, and study with Svetlana. It would be like going to camp. And you wou
ld go out several times a year, in between summers. Then, when you are old enough, perhaps fourteen or fifteen, you can join the school full-time and start touring.

  “But what we are telling you is that the contest on Saturday was nothing. You did not know it at the time—but you were not performing for the judges; you were performing for the two of us, so we could decide whether your talent was real. And it is real. We should know. Going to Juilliard is the way to become a truly excellent pianist. You are being given the opportunity to become a star.”

  Franny’s heart pounded, and she stared at both of them in disbelief. “You’re not joking, are you?” she asked. She knew the question sounded horrid, but she knew that she couldn’t handle another heartbreak that weekend.

  “Of course not,” said Olga. “We might be cynical at times—but we are not cruel. You’re a natural musician, but now you will have to work very hard—harder than ever before. No more fooling around on pig farms and spying in bushes.”

  “Wait,” Franny said. “You’re not going to let Nancy go to Juilliard too, are you?”

  Svetlana responded with a pshaw sound and waved her hand in dismissal. Olga leaned back in her chair and looked at Franny.

  “Nancy is heading for a Miss America contest, not a concert stage,” she said. “And why would we reward her for what happened in Minneapolis? Her father’s money might have bought her that contest, but it cannot buy her the kind of talent it takes to make it at Juilliard and beyond.”

  “I still don’t understand why you agreed to teach her, then, in the first place, if she’s so average,” Franny said huffily.

  “I thought that having your most hated rival competing against you would only make you work harder,” said Olga. “And I was right. You accomplished more in several months, striving against her, than you would have in years otherwise.”

  “How did you know that she was my most hated enemy, though?” Franny asked. “You acted like you didn’t even know that we were classmates.”

  “Charlie told me about the Eunice Grimes concert and how you tried to outplay each other,” Olga said. “So, it was perfect. You must, simply must, learn how to handle that sort of competition at this age. Believe me, it gets a thousand times more intense later.”

  Franny thought about leaving her parents and Sandy and Runty, and her stomach sank. “But, Madame Malenkov,” she said. “My mother will never let me go. She says it’s wrong to give up your childhood to play the piano.”

  “Oh, you wait and see,” said Olga. “I am willing to bet that she will.”

  Franny suddenly got wildly excited. “I can’t believe it!” she shouted over and over again as she leaped off the sofa. Before she realized what she was doing, she threw her arms around Olga. Then she leaned over and hugged Svetlana as well.

  “Finally, she shows a little gratitude,” Olga said to Svetlana with a sideways little smile. “After all we have done for her. Go home now, Dyevushka. I will call your parents and ask them to come here this evening to talk it over.”

  Franny snatched up her music books, only to drop them all over the floor. On her way out, she almost ran smack into Charlie Koenig, who was just coming home from his trip.

  “Whoa there, hotshot,” Charlie said, dropping his bags on the floor of the foyer. “Watch where you’re going, or you won’t like where you end up.”

  “I know where I’m going,” shouted Franny joyously. “All the way to New York City!” And she ran down the street toward her house.

  All the way home, she saw nothing around her—not the houses on Oak Street, nor the swinging wooden sign above the door of Elmer’s Bar, nor the peeling shingles on the front of Hans Zimmerman’s store. She didn’t see Stella Brunsvold gumming a piece of stale popcorn in front of her stand or a grimy old W.O.R.N.A.T.C.T. flyer lying on the ground near the entrance to the church; nor did she see Melba removing another set of curlers from Mayor Reverend Jerry’s hair in the Smitty Beauty Station.

  In her mind, Franny was already surrounded by buses and taxis and thousands of people pushing past her on the sidewalks. The quiet streets of Rusty Nail receded as the thundering promise of New York City rushed and crowded into her mind.

  That very evening, Franny’s shell-shocked parents went to Olga’s house and didn’t come back until late. Franny had been lying awake for an hour already when they finally walked in. Her brothers snored loudly in their room next door, and she had to strain to listen to her parents’ conversation in the kitchen.

  “But, Wes,” Lorraine said, “Franny’s a child. She just had her first trip to Minneapolis, for heaven’s sake. The idea of sending her to New York every summer on her own is ridiculous. She’ll be completely overwhelmed, and besides, it might be dangerous.”

  “It’s not like we’d be sending her on her own, Lorraine,” Wes said. “They’ve been running that program for years, and they really watch the kids closely. And that Oblonsky woman promised to completely take Franny under her wing.”

  Lorraine clattered a teakettle heavily on the stove and raised her voice. “Wes—Franny is not going!” she yelled. “I’m not sending our baby away, and that’s that.”

  Franny shot up out of bed and scuttled out into the hallway to hear better.

  “Lorraine, she’s not a baby anymore,” she heard her father say. “Listen to me. Do you want to be the one to tell her someday that you said no to letting her study with one of the most influential teachers in the world? We didn’t ask to have a kid with this kind of talent, but now that we’ve got her, we have to do right by her.”

  After a tense silence, Lorraine spoke up. “But how would we afford it?” she asked, her voice wavering. “All of that flying back and forth to New York, and the tuition?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Wes. “We’ll find a way. With something this important, we’ll just have to.”

  They dropped their voices and talked for a long time. Unable to hear them anymore, Franny eventually padded back into her bedroom. She crawled into her bed and watched the reflection of the traffic light on the side of the piano.

  Yellow, red, green. Yellow, red, green.

  She wondered if there would be a traffic light outside her bedroom in New York City.

  Two Months Later

  Early one Sunday morning, Mayor Reverend Jerry strolled into Hans Zimmerman’s store on his way to church. As usual, the old storekeeper sat idly by the cash register, staring into space. Once in a while, he broke his reverie and swatted at a fly with his rolled-up newspaper.

  “Dang, Hans,” said the mayor. “Don’tcha ever even go home at night? Or do you just set there like a lump on a log twenty-four hours a day?”

  “Nah,” replied Hans. “I went home last night. Came back real early this mornin’.”

  The mayor helped himself to some jerky from a jar on the counter. “Is that still the same ole fly?” he asked.

  “Who knows,” said Hans good-naturedly. “Each one’s as good as the last one, and good as the next. What can I get for you, Mayor Reverend?”

  “Well,” said the mayor grandly. “It’s sort of a special day today, and I wanted to bring in some goodies to church for the congregation to celebrate.”

  “All righty,” said Hans. “What’s the occasion, and what’d you have in mind?”

  “Franny Hansen is leaving for New York City tomorrow,” said the mayor. “To study at that fancy music school. I figure that she’s as much a celebrity as this town’s ever had. So I figured that we should give her a big Rusty Nail bone-voy-age hullabaloo.”

  “So, you want a cake or somethin’?” asked Hans helpfully.

  “Yeah,” said Mayor Reverend Jerry. “Show me what you got.”

  Hans lurched off his chair and shuffled his brittle old frame to the back of the store. He picked up a box of Betty Crocker cake mix and mildly wiped a thin layer of dust off the top.

  “Mmm-mm,” he said, smacking his lips. “It’s lemon flavored.”

  The mayor frowned. “Now, what am I supposed t�
� do with a box of mix? I need a whole cake, pronto.”

  “Wel-l-l,” said Hans. “I got a hot plate in the back. You can cook it on that if you want.” He looked at the label on the box. “Says here that all we need is a couple-a eggs, some water, and butter. We got all that here. I even got some grease for the pan.” He began to walk toward the eggs.

  “Now hold it right there,” said the mayor. “We ain’t even got a pan! And I sure don’t have the time to talk good sense into you. Don’t you have any cakes that’re already cooked?”

  The men hunted around the store for a few minutes. The best they could come up with was a couple of boxes of Twinkies, which Hans found behind a stack of hot dog buns.

  “That’ll have to do,” said Mayor Reverend Jerry, looking disappointed. “How much do I owe you?”

  Hans creaked back to the cash register and punched a few random buttons. “Thirty-nine cents,” he concluded. “So, it’s a special occasion, you say? Maybe I should get out the old Christmas lights again.”

  “That’d be real nice of you,” said Mayor Reverend Jerry appreciatively. “It’ll get the town in an extra-festive mood again. Remind everyone that Rusty Nail is some-thin’ special for producin’ a young star like Franny Hansen. It’s time to leave the American coots behind for good and look to the future.”

  For the next few minutes, he stood there quietly and thought sentimentally about what he’d just said.

  When the mayor left the store, Hans got on all fours under the front counter and dragged out a worn cardboard box filled with a wild jumble of colored lights.

  I sure got my money’s worth outta these, he thought. He’d provided the town’s electrical goodwill three times in the last twelve months: first with the historical visit of Mrs. Eunice Grimes, then for the months before and after Christmas, and now yet again for the historical departure of Miss Franny Hansen.

  “Yessir,” he mumbled out loud as he yanked and tugged. “This has been a year to remember.”

  That same morning, Franny woke up and got ready for church as usual. A typical breakfast scene followed. Lorraine was busy burning the toast when Wes stumbled into the kitchen.