The reverend finally said “Amen,” and that was Elizabeth and Frankie’s cue to take their places at the altar. Miss Fisk looked over the organ at them with raised eyebrows, and Elizabeth nodded at her. She started playing, and Frankie glanced nervously at all the people she knew. There was Mother and Daddy right there, smiling. Well, Daddy was smiling. Mother was watching with intense scrutiny. There was Mr. Wexler, a few pews back, nodding off. Behind him, Inky and Fritz, Daddy’s best friends, all done up in vests and bow ties. Also Aunt Edith, Uncle Hal, Ava, and Martha. Ava was crossing her eyes and sticking fingers up both nostrils like a lunatic, trying to make Frankie laugh. And all the way to the right in the second row was Robbie McIntyre, staring absolutely bug-eyed at Elizabeth.
When Miss Fisk came to the end of the introduction, she looked up at Frankie and Elizabeth and started to mouth the first word, which happened to be “Oh,” so they knew when to come in. They knew when to come in. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that when they did come in, they came in on notes that together produced a sound that was, well, unnatural. And the thing about singing is that when you started off in that sort of place, it was really hard to go anyplace else.
Still, it was nearly impossible to tell what people in church were really feeling, because you were not allowed to clap or holler. That was a rule that wasn’t written down anywhere, but it was a rule that everybody knew and was expected to mind. You were also not allowed to wish you were someplace else or think about how much you’d like to kick Leroy Price in the shins for pulling your chair out from under you in the lunchroom. You had to be quiet and still and proper and for a whole hour think about God and about all the bad things you’d done, and sometimes even longer if there was communion.
Mother had her own set of rules about acting proper in church. She didn’t even like her girls to sneeze or cough. Crying was permitted. As long as it was the quiet sort without sobs or mucus. Mother said that the Baum girls should always act like ladies—something Frankie didn’t give a fig about.
Which is why it was particularly bad when, near the end of “How Great Thou Art,” Frankie started to get an especially itchy feeling in her backside from the bunching of her petticoat. She shifted her feet and wiggled a little to shake it loose. When that made no difference, Frankie inched backward until she could feel the corner of the mahogany altar behind her. On a few trips through the countryside, you see, Frankie had watched cows use fence posts for scratching, which she thought looked to be quite effective. And so she positioned herself to give that a try. But as she did, Elizabeth turned around and shot Apache arrows from her eyes until she returned to her side.
Frankie made it three-quarters of the way through the next stanza before the itching was about to send her into madness. There was only one thing left to be done. Frankie looked at Mother as she sang “And take me home, what joy shall fill my heart,” trying to tell her with her eyes how sorry she was for what she was about to do. Also, she said sorry to God just in case what she was about to do was a sin. Most things seemed to be.
Then with quiet desperation she promptly reached both hands up the back of her dress and grabbed at the miserable petticoat that was plaguing her rear end. She began to scratch at it furiously until she felt the most wonderful relief. So wonderful, in fact, that Frankie finished the last lines of the hymn—still scratching, mind you—with renewed vigor.
By the last chord, Miss Fisk was staring at Frankie with an open mouth and still holding down the organ keys with enough firmness that her fingertips had lost their color. Finally she released the organ keys, and when the very last note faded away into the high, arched ceiling, Ava, all red-faced from laughing, hollered, “Great snakes, Frankie!”
Then Mother fainted.
And Frankie thought, Too bad Joan is in Pennsylvania, because she would have loved to see this.
June 11, 1939
Dearly departed Joanie Baloney,
You’ve only been gone for four whole days and look what happens. Mother fainted at church. It was right at the end of How Great Thou Art,” which Elizabeth and me sang without dearly-departed-you. Daddy’s reflexes are getting better because this time he caught her before she hit the floor. Reverend Martin splashed some holy water in her face. And that seemed to rouse her fine. Honest to goodness, I’ve never seen Elizabeth so red-faced!
Lo and behold, it wasn’t because I scratched my behind while singing at God’s altar. Mother said she didn’t even see that! She said she fainted because she was full of worries on account of a big announcement that Daddy had to make. So right away I thought maybe we were going to have a new baby brother or sister because of how Eddie Milnick’s mother fainted that time at the cinema, do you remember that? And sure enough a couple of weeks later Mrs. Milnick’s stomach swelled up like a watermelon. Anyway, this is what I was thinking was wrong with Mother, and then how I wouldn’t be stuck in the last spot anymore.
But then Mother told me to go round up Grandma Engel and Aunt Edith and everybody, and when we were all there in the kitchen waiting for Daddy to say we have to make room for little Shirley or Groucho, Daddy said, “We’re going into the restaurant business.” That’s the big announcement. Daddy bought a restaurant across town and we’re all going to have to work there, they said, until it’s up and running. Except not you, because you’re not here! It’s no surprise that Elizabeth thinks it’s a wonderful idea. She would never disagree with Mother or Daddy about anything, even if it means working at a restaurant all summer long and not having any amusement.
Do you see what happens when you go away? Bad things. Bad things happen, I’m telling you.
How are you getting along at Aunt Dottie’s? Don’t say a word if you’re having a lot of fun because I don’t want to know about that.
Your sister (who you’ve dearly departed) in Hagerstown who has to work in a restaurant and who misses you more-than-tongue-can-tell,
Frankie
4
“EVERYBODY PILE IN,” said Daddy, holding open the door of the Studebaker.
Mother adjusted Grandma Engel’s shift dress over her knees as she eased her fragile bones into the front seat. Mother, Elizabeth, and Frankie climbed into the back.
“We’ve got to be back by three,” said Grandma Engel, smoothing her long white braid. “I’ve got a date with the Senators on the radio.”
“We’ll be back in time for the game, don’t worry,” Daddy assured her. “I just want you all to see the place.” He barely turned the key before they were off down Antietam Street. As they made a sharp turn onto Locust Street, Mother and Frankie slid into Elizabeth and caused her to drop Black Beauty.
“Frankie, you made me lose my place,” Elizabeth said.
“You’ve only read it a thousand times,” Frankie told her, holding on to the top of the seat in front. She didn’t understand how Elizabeth could read the same book over and over. The only book that Frankie ever read more than once was The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. It was a favorite of hers, not only because she shared the name of its author, but because Dorothy, a girl not so different from her, got to travel to a magical place and live there for a time. Only, Frankie never understood why Dorothy wanted to go back to gray old Kansas when Oz was so much more exciting. Every single solitary time, Frankie would have stayed with the Winkies.
“Hermann!” squealed Mother. “Slow down!”
“Let her rip!” shouted Grandma Engel, who was always looking for a thrill.
Daddy laughed and hit a bump in the road. Mother, Elizabeth, and Frankie bounced in their seats so high that Mother’s head swept the roof of the car. “Hermann!”
“Thattaboy!” said Grandma Engel.
Daddy turned left down Jonathan Street and came to a stop in front of a building covered in dark brown shingles and wooden beams that made a crisscross pattern. “Here we are,” he said, turning off the car.
Elizabeth, fumbl
ing around with her book, was taking forever to open the door on her side, so Frankie climbed over her and did it herself. “Honestly, Frankie!” Elizabeth yelled, but Frankie was out the door and on the sidewalk before she could say anything else.
Frankie had seen this place before—she and Joan had been by it on their pony, Dixie, more than a few times on the way to the municipal pool—but it was the sort of place you noticed once, for its strange, dark exterior and its paper-covered windows, then forgot about thereafter. The building had been empty as long as Frankie could remember, but she knew that at some point in its lifetime it had been a restaurant, for black metal letters spelling, simply, restaurant stretched from one end of the slate roof to the other.
“What do you think?” asked Daddy, pulling Grandma Engel to her feet onto the curb.
“Well,” said Grandma, “at least it don’t say ‘Shoe Repair.’ That would confuse people.”
“It’s brown,” Frankie said. “Really brown.”
“It’s called alpine-style,” Daddy said. “Just like in Bavaria.”
“Don’t you know anything, Frankie?” said Elizabeth, turning her back on Frankie and following Daddy to the front door.
Frankie extended her foot to give Elizabeth a push on her behind, but Mother promptly interfered, with a particularly strong grip of Frankie’s arm that stopped her cold.
“It’s been empty for a couple of years, so don’t expect too much,” said Daddy as he pulled a silver key from his vest pocket to unlock the door. He paused before turning the key and leaned his shoulder against the door.
“Are you all right?” asked Mother.
Daddy cleared his throat. “Of course. Just eager for you to see the place.”
Frankie did wonder why the place had been empty for so long, but it was on the edge of the colored part of town, the last cross street before you got to the place where all the colored people had to live, and whether that had something to do with it, she didn’t know. All she knew was that she and Joan and Elizabeth weren’t permitted to go down Jonathan Street. And they never did.
As soon as Daddy turned the doorknob, Frankie pushed in front of Elizabeth so she could get inside first. While Daddy held open the door, Frankie squeezed by and caught a glimpse of the wide room, which she presumed was the dining room, before he let the door swing closed, leaving them all in the dark. She had seen a few wooden tables and overturned chairs scattered about, and a long wooden bar with a brass railing, and round metal stools with green cushions on the far left of the room. There was a musty smell, too. And dust, which was as thick as cotton and collected in her nose, making her sneeze.
“Gesundheit,” said Daddy, clearing his throat. “Just a little polishing is needed here and there.”
“More than a little, I’d wager,” said Grandma Engel, coughing.
“Now,” said Daddy, “nobody move until I get the lights.”
Frankie took a step forward in the dark but ran directly into something solid. She rubbed her bare knee to soothe the ache and smiled when she felt a wet spot. She would soon have a new scab for her collection.
“Frances Marie,” said Mother, sighing. “Be careful.”
“Didn’t you hear Daddy say not to move?” scolded Elizabeth.
Frankie stuck out her tongue, knowing full well that no one could see.
Moments later, two of the three chandeliers hanging from the white tin ceiling illuminated the room. “There we are,” said Daddy. “A little light on the subject makes all the difference.”
Indeed, it did. Mother gasped at the sight, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. Elizabeth put her arm around Mother’s shoulders to steady her in case she went down again.
Grandma Engel said flatly, “What an enormous dump.”
But Daddy’s enthusiasm could not be dampened. “This will be the main dining area, but there’s another, smaller dining area,” he said, pointing to the back of the room, “through those doors. I was thinking we could rent out that room for private parties and such.”
The room fell quiet, aside from the sizzling sort of hum that came from one of the miswired chandeliers, as everyone took in the room and its dilapidated state. All Frankie could think about was that this place—what did Grandma Engel call it?—this enormous dump was going to rob her of the whole summer. Lucky Joan, to have escaped just in time.
Mother still had Elizabeth holding tight to her arm when she finally found her voice. “Hermann,” she said, “don’t you think it’s a bit too . . . you know . . . much?”
Daddy shook his head. “This room can seat seventy-five, but don’t worry, we’re not going to fill up the whole place with tables.” He strode over to the corner at the end of the bar. “We’ve got to have room for the orchestra.”
“An orchestra?” said Mother. “In a restaurant?”
“It would be just on weekends,” said Daddy. Then he pointed to the balcony upstairs that overlooked the room. “And we’ll have an organ up there so that during the week, customers can listen to music while they dine.”
“An organ!” said Mother.
“I know ‘Chopsticks,’” offered Frankie, who had already started thinking about which jobs in the restaurant were the best to have, and wanted to beat Elizabeth to them. Number Threes had to think a lot faster than Number Ones or they’d never get to do anything good. “Oh,” she said, “and also ‘When the Saints Go Marching In.’”
“We don’t want to drive away the customers, Frankie,” said Elizabeth, smirking.
“Sorry, Frankie,” said Daddy with a wink, “I’ve already got somebody in mind for that job.” He rapped the bar with his knuckles. “Anybody thirsty?”
“I’ll have a Schmidt’s,” said Grandma Engel.
“Soon,” Daddy said, “we’ll have the biggest selection of beer in town.”
Grandma Engel hoisted herself upon a bar stool and leaned her back against the bar. She swung her legs like a schoolgirl and pretended to open an invisible long-necked bottle. “Ahh!” she said after she took an imaginary swig. Then she wiped her mouth with the back of her thick, wrinkled arm.
Grandma Engel was Mother’s mother, but the two couldn’t have been more different. Grandma Engel was tall and stocky. She wore men’s shoes, drank beer from the bottle, swore when it suited, and played penny poker on Sundays. Mother, simply, did not. Do not misunderstand, Mother had her share of fun. She played pinochle, went to the horse races, and listened to soap operas on the radio, but Mother didn’t have Grandma Engel’s flair for adventure. Adventure made Mother nervous. One could get injured in an adventure.
Frankie raced behind the bar and said, in her most grown-up voice, “Can I interest you in something else? Perhaps some eggs or corned beef hash?”
Grandma Engel replied, “Two eggs, over easy, if you please.”
“Coming right up, ma’am,” said Frankie, nodding. She grabbed a dusty tray from a shelf behind the bar and, gripping it with both hands, walked around the dining room delivering invisible plates to imaginary customers.
“That’s not how you do it, Frankie,” said Elizabeth. Only Elizabeth could find fault in pretending. She snatched the tray from Frankie’s hands and positioned it higher up, using her shoulder as a pedestal. “Like this.”
While the two sisters debated the proper way to waitress, the color in Mother’s face was fading. “Hermann,” she said, shaking her head.
Daddy was examining the unlit chandelier from directly below it and was preoccupied with the puzzle of its malfunction. He did not notice Mother calling for him, or her paleness.
“Hermann,” she said again, louder and slightly more frantic.
Daddy stopped examining the chandelier and went to Mother’s side. “I know it’s not much to look at now,” he said, pulling her close. “But just give me a couple of weeks and you won’t recognize the place.” She nodded, after a mome
nt, and smiled. Daddy’s arms could melt troubles away like nothing else. “Come, now,” he said, giving her a squeeze. “Wait until you see the kitchen.”
Frankie, Grandma Engel, Mother, and Elizabeth followed Daddy through a swinging door that squeaked like a lame mouse. And speaking of rodents, they would’ve felt quite at home there. Daddy switched on the lights. The kitchen, to be frank, was in worse shape than the dining room. Paint was hanging from the plaster walls in long peels, and the windows were missing glass. The gray tiled floor was dull and had a dark stain that covered a great deal of it and stuck to the soles of Frankie’s leather sandals.
Butcher-block countertops filled most of the kitchen, and cushioned in the middle was a wide silver stove with a griddle longer than Frankie was tall. On the far wall were two white Frigidaires side by side, and next to them a row of gray cupboards, which—if they had doors on them—would be a perfect hiding spot.
“Well?” said Daddy. “Aside from a couple of small rooms upstairs for offices, and the lavatories, this is it.” He looked from Mother to Elizabeth to Grandma Engel to gauge a reaction. Then he wrung his hands and looked at Elizabeth and Frankie. “What do you say, Princess?”
Elizabeth hesitated. “Well, I mean . . .” She had always been characteristically agreeable to Mother and Daddy’s intentions, but at that moment, amid the filth and threadbare conditions, she was caught between the two of them and wasn’t sure what should be said.
Frankie, on the other hand, was beginning to feel sorry for her father, not to mention uncomfortable in the silence. Was that the tiny paw steps of a rat she just heard? So she gave her biggest grin and lied. “It’s really keen.”
Daddy’s smile was full of relief. “It is, isn’t it?” He pulled Frankie close and gave her a squeeze.
Elizabeth quickly recovered and inserted herself. “What are you going to name it?”
“Well,” said Daddy, taking in a deep breath, “I was thinking of Baum’s Restaurant.”
A Tiny Piece of Sky Page 3