Certainly, there was no question she was gaining a significant audience in the streets. Shop owners rushed out of their stores and gaped helplessly as the trio raced by. The few cars on the road swerved to miss them, and some pulled over to watch. One tried to block the road in an effort to stop Dixie, but that human-brained equine easily maneuvered around the car by cutting over to the sidewalk.
She had no plans to stop anytime soon. None. In fact, the farther she ran, the more people lined up to watch her, and it seemed to Frankie that their wild ride would never end, or end badly, she wasn’t sure which. At this rate, they would be in Virginia by suppertime. Dixie rounded the next street corner with such speed that the cart tilted up on one wheel, and Frankie thought for sure the cart would upset and she and Joan would spill out on somebody’s doorstep. The worst part being that there would be no keeping something like that from Mother.
So, when Dixie hit a straightaway on East Avenue, Frankie wriggled out of Joan’s grip and made a grab for the reins. She missed and nearly slipped off her seat, and she would have—would’ve fallen on her head and been run over by the cart—if Joan hadn’t grabbed her by the dress sleeve in time. “Close one,” said Frankie. “Now hold on and don’t let go.” She stretched her arm and reached for the reins once more while Joan anchored her to the cart. Frankie hooked the reins with her fingertips, even as Dixie flicked her tail in Frankie’s face, and she managed to grab enough of them to slow Dixie a little. Once Frankie had a better grip, she yelled for Joan to pull her back to the seat. Joan did, but she pulled on Frankie at the same time that Dixie, having felt the pull on her bridle, came to the conclusion that her fun was over. And as Dixie abruptly halted, right in front of Barnard’s Pharmacy, Frankie flew out of the cart and landed on her backside in the street, scraping the skin clear off her elbow.
The scab that formed a week or two later was in the shape of a Hercules beetle, and it was the pride of Frankie’s collection.
Anyway, back under the dining room table, Frankie had just gotten her fingernail under the edge of her newest scab, which was quite small by comparison, when Mother called for her. “Where has that child gone now?”
Frankie remained hidden and still. If you didn’t know Mother, you’d have thought she had a special talent for knowing when any of the girls were up to something they shouldn’t be. But the truth was, she always thought they were up to something, because often enough she was up to many somethings when she was their age. The worry switch in her brain, or her heart, wherever it was housed, was permanently set to the on position.
“Katie,” said Mother, “have you seen Frances?”
“No, ma’am,” said Katie from the kitchen. “But I just come in from the side porch. You the first person I seen.” She took out a handkerchief from the pocketbook slung over her forearm and wiped the sweat from her neck. “Hot as all get-out today.” Katie Resden was employed by Mother as a housekeeper, and had been for a few years’ time. She came every Thursday to help with the laundry and the ironing and the other household chores, while Mother helped Daddy with his business affairs and tended to her social obligations in town.
“Don’t I know it,” said Mother, pulling at the waist of her cotton dress to give her skin a chance to breathe.
“Headed to your Eagles meetin’, Mrs. Baum?” asked Katie. “Ain’t you supposed to be gone already?”
“Not today, Katie,” said Mother. Then she said under her breath, “And thank the good Lord for that.”
Mildred Baum was a member of the Women’s Club of Hagerstown and the Ladies’ Auxiliary, as well as the Lioness Club and Eagle Club. She didn’t particularly enjoy the obligatory monthly meetings and social events sponsored by these women’s organizations, although she believed in their causes for the most part. Mildred only joined them at the request of Hermann. “When you’re a part of a community, it’s important to act as part of the community,” he had told her.
Although Mildred liked many of the women in these clubs, some—like Ann Margaret Price, wife of Sullen Waterford Price, Esquire, and mother to those Price boys—she could do without. But still, she would do anything for Hermann. Even if it meant luncheons with well-to-do women with a penchant for gossip.
“Miss Elizabeth done gone to her riding lessons?” said Katie.
“Hermann dropped her off on the way to the restaurant,” said Mother. “Hal is going to give us a ride in his taxi as soon as I find Frances.”
“I’ll check the basement,” offered Katie. “That wee pet. Sometime I catch her down there doing I don’t know what.”
Frankie watched Katie’s thick dark legs pass by the table toward the front door of their apartment. She had a generous figure with a slow, swinging gait that was as much side-to-side as it was forward motion. When the door closed behind her, Mother jetted past the table and down the hall toward the bedrooms. “Frances Marie!” she hollered. “Your uncle will be here in five minutes to take us to the restaurant, so you’d better produce yourself right now or I’ll get out the cake turner!”
Mother was known on occasion to chase the girls—well, Joan and Frankie, never Elizabeth—around the apartment with a metal cake turner, something that resembled a spatula. Although she promised to use it on their behinds for doing something they shouldn’t have, Mother never made good on those promises, much to the relief of Joan and Frankie—not to mention their behinds.
Frankie eased her scab collection back into the bag and cinched the drawstring. She didn’t want to go to the restaurant to help. She wanted to swim with Ava and Martha, or do nothing at all, except for maybe lie in front of the fan in the living room and listen to her radio programs or hang upside down on the jungle gym out back and stare up at the gray sky. It was much too hot to do anything else, especially when she didn’t have a choice in the matter. She tucked the bag into her dress pocket and started picking again at her knee. She straightened her leg so she could loosen one side, and as she did, her foot knocked into the chair leg closest to her, sending the chair back a few inches.
Mother’s footsteps stopped. “Rats!” Frankie said under her breath. She grabbed hold of the chair legs, quickly returning the chair to its original spot. A few moments later, Mother stood at the table just a couple of feet from Frankie. Katie returned then, too, out of breath. “She ain’t downstairs,” she said. “Maybe she run off somewhere.”
“I don’t think so,” said Mother.
Frankie held her breath. But it made no difference, because the next thing she knew, Mother yanked at the top of the chair. Frankie grabbed for the chair legs and held on tight. Although petite, Mother was deceptively strong—all those years washing dishes—and she lifted the chair off the floor, dragging Frankie out partway from under the table. “I don’t have time for these games, Frances,” said Mother.
“I want to stay here,” said Frankie, getting to her feet and knocking her head on the table on the way up.
“Not by yourself, you’re not.”
Frankie rubbed the top of her head. “But I won’t be by myself. Katie’s here.” She sidled up next to Katie and looked at her with pleading eyes.
“No indeed,” said Katie, shaking her head and reaching into her dress pocket for a lemon drop. She unwrapped the candy and popped it into her mouth. “There’s a lot of work to be done round here. Last time I was supposed to watch you and Miss Joan, you snuck out on that horse. Got yourself in a bad way. No, ma’am. Now I got to do my work.” She crinkled the candy wrapper between her fingers and then ambled down the hall, leaving Frankie to face Mother alone.
Mother bent over and looked at the empty space under the table. “What were you doing under there?”
“Nothing.”
“Frances Marie, what have I told you about picking at yourself?”
Frankie glanced at her leg and sighed.
“That leg of yours is going to turn green and they will have to cut it off
. Then you’ll know something.”
“Will not,” said Frankie. But the truth was, she wasn’t so sure.
“Oh no? Just last week Mrs. Vanner told me that her cousin’s little boy had a hangnail on his finger that he wouldn’t let alone, and his finger swelled up the size of a banana. Marshall, his name was, I think.” Mother raised her eyebrows. “Do you know him?”
Frankie shook her head. And then for a second she swore she almost saw the corner of Mother’s mouth turn up into a smile. “Oh, well then, it was an awful thing. Worse than a snakebite, Mrs. Vanner said, you know, the pain. That boy’s screams were heard all the way on Mulberry. Which is a long way from Cannon Avenue.”
“Cannon Avenue?”
Mother nodded. “That’s where the poor boy lives. The agony he must’ve been in. Just think on it. His mother told him over and over to quit picking at the thing, but that boy just couldn’t let it be. You know how boys are. He was a nose-picker, too, no doubt about it.” Mother took a step closer to Frankie and leaned down so she could look at her straight on, the space between the tips of their noses only wide enough to pass a dime. This was Mother’s technique, to get as close to you as possible so that the words coming out of her mouth, along with every single ounce of their meaning, wouldn’t have far to travel and couldn’t hop on a breeze and take a detour. She did not trust regular talking distance when it came to matters as serious as amputation. “An infection came next,” said Mother. “They had to bus a doctor in from Pennsylvania to work on it. A specialist.”
“For hangnails?” asked Frankie.
“That’s right,” said Mother, with conviction. “A hangnail specialist. Doctors here never saw anything like it.”
Frankie swallowed.
Mother straightened her back and took off her glasses. She polished the lenses with the hem of her skirt, then held them up to the light and, once satisfied, slid them back on. “A couple of days later,” she continued, “his whole finger turned a lovely shade of green. They tried to save it, but . . .”
“But what?” said Frankie.
“WHACK!” Mother brought the side of her hand down on the table.
Frankie flinched and tucked her fingers into tight fists.
“Poor boy had to learn the hard way,” said Mother. “Now, doesn’t that make you think twice about it?”
Frankie nodded. It certainly did make her think twice—about hiding under the dining room table again, where she could be discovered so easily.
“Now, then.” Mother smoothed her hair in the mirror as if they had just finished talking about the weather and not about some poor boy’s chopped-off finger. “Your father’s waiting for us.”
“What about Elizabeth?” asked Frankie again.
“Don’t you worry so much about your sister. That’s my job.” She picked up her pocketbook from the table and made it to the door in five efficient strides, her square heels clicking on the hardwood floor. “Come on, now.”
“Forever a Number Three,” Frankie said under her breath.
Mother turned her head. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” said Frankie. “I’m coming.”
12
THIS WAS ONLY THE second time Frankie had been inside the restaurant, and she didn’t think it possible for the place to look any worse for wear than the first time she’d laid eyes on it. But man oh day, was she entirely wrong. For one thing, the walls by the bar and dining room were very much gone. Knotted wooden beams stood there instead, like the bare bones of the old place that hadn’t seen the light of day for a hundred years and were wondering why all of a sudden they were indecent. Mercy! Buckets of plaster sat in the middle of the floor, where the tables and chairs were just a few days earlier, and men in blue overalls milled about, looking intent on fixing something but not sure where to start.
At the sight of it all, Mother grasped Frankie’s shoulder and squeezed. The edge of her gold wedding band dug into Frankie’s skin, and thankfully, just as Frankie managed to slip out of her grip, Daddy appeared.
“Come in, come in,” he said, taking Mother by the hand. “And watch your step.” Then Daddy turned to Frankie and said, “Just in time. I think you’re just what we need in the kitchen.”
“The kitchen?” said Frankie. She felt that making sure the organ was in proper tune—not working in the kitchen—was the sort of job best suited for her talents. “To do what?” She guessed that she could see herself wearing one of those tall white hats and nibbling on loaves of warm, crusty bread right from the oven. “Like be a chef or a baker?”
“I was thinking along the lines of a more junior position,” said Daddy.
“Junior?” Frankie didn’t like where this was going at all.
“Just to start out, Frankie. The kitchen is the heart and soul of a restaurant, the lifeblood. And you’ll be in the center of it. You know, peeling potatoes, snapping beans, washing dishes—”
“Washing dishes!” Frankie yelled, sickened by the notion.
“Frances Marie,” warned Mother. “Mind your tone.”
“You’re just not old enough yet for some of the other responsibilities around here,” Daddy explained. “It’s not as bad as you think. You’ll see.”
Frankie could not see anything past dirty dishes.
“Go on,” said Daddy, nodding toward the kitchen. “Mr. Stannum, the kitchen manager, is in there, and he’ll show you what to do.” Then he and Mother headed to the offices upstairs.
Frankie sat down on a bucket of plaster and stared at the kitchen door. She hadn’t been sitting very long when there was some commotion coming from the kitchen. She could hear voices, loud ones. Right then she thought about sneaking back home, grabbing her bathing suit, and making her way to the municipal pool. She would be punished, for certain, but she honestly could not imagine a punishment worse than what waited for her in that kitchen.
So, up she stood and quickly got herself to the front door. She would have made it there, too—would have made it outside to the street, even—if not for the colored woman who ran out of the kitchen then. “I done told you,” the woman said, “I never did work a cookstove like that one before.” She was short and round, with cheeks as plump and friendly as warm apple dumplings. She pulled off a white apron from around her neck, folded it carefully into a neat pile, and laid it on a stepladder.
Then she walked toward Frankie, who stood there dumbfounded, blocking the front door. “Which way you headed?” she asked.
“Me?” said Frankie.
“You the only one here, ain’t you?”
Frankie nodded.
“So, you staying or going?”
Frankie wasn’t sure. She had momentarily forgotten her plan.
“Amy!” A man’s voice shouted from the kitchen.
“If you please,” she said to Frankie, taking a step forward. The woman, who looked to be much younger close up, gave a nervous smile and looked as eager to disappear as Frankie did. And so Frankie nodded, for there was little she understood better than the desire to skedaddle, and she stepped out of the way.
The woman reached for the doorknob and started to turn it, but the kitchen doors swung open and the man attached to the voice was there calling her name once more—this time with less severity, after laying eyes on Frankie. He was tall and skinny as a rail, with a full silver mustache that hung low over his lip. He shifted his gaze from Amy to Frankie, and then, for Frankie’s benefit, put on a smile. When he did, the mustache covered his entire top row of teeth, and Frankie wondered how he could live with such a nuisance of a thing, which would surely get in the way of eating an ice cream cone. “Ah,” he said, “you must be Frances. Mr. Baum said you’d be helping out today.”
“Frankie,” she said.
“All right, Frankie,” he said, nodding. “The name’s Mr. Stannum. So, I understand you’re going to be working in the kitchen?”
Frankie looked at Amy, who was for some reason still standing beside her, and then said, “Well, I guess so, but I’m not sure I know how to work the cookstove, either.”
Mr. Stannum blew air out of his mouth that came out sounding like ppffffffftttt, and the fringe on his lip parted like a curtain. “There’s plenty to do, plenty to do.” He put his hand on Frankie’s shoulder and gave her a shove toward the kitchen. “You can start by unpacking the boxes of pots and pans. Amy here will show you where they are.” He turned then to Amy and waved his fingers at her to follow. His fingernails were long and caked with grease. “Come on. If you think you can handle pots and pans.” There was more exasperation than malice in his voice this time, and perhaps Amy heard that, too, as she did come along, but only after mumbling something that Frankie couldn’t quite make out.
Frankie was surprised to find the kitchen in better shape than the rest of the place. Rats no more! The lights worked, for one thing, and the walls, which she was relieved to see were not missing, were freshly painted white. The cupboards, though still gray, were clean, and most of them now had doors on them. This was particularly pleasing to Frankie, for hiding places with doors were much preferred to those without. A round fan mounted to the wall above the stove was spinning at full speed, but only moved hot air around the room and provided no real relief. Stacks of boxes covered the butcher-block countertop and blocked the back entrance.
Speaking of the back entrance— When did that door get there? Frankie wondered. Because she hadn’t noticed it before. She made a plan to start with the boxes there, rather than on the counter, so she could clear the way to the door and slip out when nobody was looking.
Besides Mr. Stannum and Amy, there were three others working in the kitchen. Mr. Stannum introduced Frankie to the group as Mr. Baum’s youngest daughter, the third one—he did indeed—who would be helping for the time being while staying out of the way. He also warned them to watch their language around her and to step up the work, because the restaurant would open in a few weeks’ time and there was about two months’ worth of work yet to be done. He’s seen circus elephants work faster, he told them.
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