A Tiny Piece of Sky

by Shawn K. Stout

  Leaving the two pieces of harness by Dixie’s feet, Frankie yanked the cart from the corner of their yard and attached the harness traces to the tree of the cart. She tugged at the breeching and then untied the reins. “Now wait until I get into my seat,” she told Dixie. “Just wait.”

  Dixie did wait. But only barely. Frankie got both feet on the footboard of the cart but had not yet turned around to face forward or to even sit down when Dixie, who could not possibly wait one second more, started into a trot. Frankie held tight to the reins and was knocked back into her seat as Dixie took off out of the yard and down the alley. Not wanting a repeat of the Hercules Beetle Scab Incident, Frankie pulled hard on the reins when they got to the front of the apartment building and slowed Dixie to a walk. The pony fought against the bit, wanting not to be held back, but to go, go, and keep on going. You can take a pony out of a rodeo but, as they say, you can’t take the rodeo out of the pony. Yahoo!

  By some miracle, Frankie managed to get by the apartment without Elizabeth noticing or coming to check on her. This was what Ava would call a clean getaway.

  By the time the two turned onto Locust Street, there was the steady sound of clop-clop beneath them, enough to satisfy Dixie’s itch. She settled down sufficiently that Frankie loosened her grip on the reins, but only a little. They continued through town as the afternoon wandered into evening, and before Frankie knew it, she was heading toward the restaurant. A good plan, she figured, because once Mother and Daddy caught a glimpse of her with Dixie, they’d see her differently. They’d see she was able to do a lot on her own, as much as Elizabeth, even, and perhaps they’d finally see that this Number Three didn’t belong in the kitchen. No, sir.

  As Frankie steered the pony closer to the restaurant, she could see Daddy’s Studebaker pulling away from the curb, heading in the other direction. “No, wait!” she yelled. But alas, there was no point. The tires squealed as he rounded the corner, and a few seconds later he was out of sight.

  She pulled Dixie to a stop and thought about whether to turn back home or keep on going. Rodeo pony or not, Dixie was nothing against the six-cylinder, ninety-horsepower motor of the Studebaker Dictator. Frankie would never make it home before Mother and Daddy. That was just a fact, plain and simple. And once she did get home and they discovered that she was gone, she would be in a hefty dose of trouble anyway. (Another fact.) Oh brother, there was no way around it. And so, she reasoned, that being the case, there was no point in hurrying back. She snapped the reins, and off they rode.

  Frankie steered Dixie to the side of the restaurant and came to a stop. “This is the place,” she said to Dixie. “Baum’s Restaurant.”

  Dixie shook her head.

  “I know,” said Frankie. “You should see the inside. It’s even worse.”

  Dixie shook her head again.

  “Don’t worry, we’re not going in.” She sat for a few minutes and stared at the place. Some of the lights were still on inside, which she figured meant that the men were still working on the dining room. They’d need to be if there was any hope of opening on schedule, what with the missing walls and such. Frankie didn’t know a lot about restaurants, but people liked to have walls around them while they were eating, she was sure of that much.

  Frankie watched the sun sink behind the Hoffman Meat Market building across the street. Then, when she figured Mother and Daddy would just about now be starting to worry, she yanked at the reins and clucked her tongue at Dixie to start moving. But that pony did not budge. Frankie snapped the reins against Dixie’s hindquarters and yelled out, “Come on, girl. Giddyup!”

  But giddyup that pony did not. There appeared to be no up in her giddy and certainly no giddy in her up.

  Frankie had never seen Dixie do this before. She was always ready to get-along-little-dogie. “Dixie!” Frankie pleaded.

  That pony had such a belly full of oats, she just preferred at that moment to have herself an old-fashioned rest. Frankie climbed down from the cart and checked Dixie over. She pulled at her bridle with both hands, but the beast might as well have been a statue cemented to the street. Frankie picked up each hoof and examined each leg for any sign of injury, or, well . . . cement. As far as she could tell, though, nothing but a stubborn head seemed to be the matter. “I swear,” said Frankie, “you better get going!”

  Then, the thought occurred to Frankie that maybe the animal was thirsty. All of those oats would make for a dry mouth, she thought. “Do you need a drink, girl? Is that what you’re after?”

  Dixie stomped at the ground.

  “Well, why didn’t you say so?” Frankie told Dixie she’d go inside the restaurant and fetch some drinking water. On her way to the door, she looked back and warned Dixie, “Now, don’t you go anywhere.”

  But by the looks of Dixie, this was not going to be a problem.

  Frankie jiggled the handle to the front door but found it inconveniently locked. She cupped her hands around her eyes and peered into the window, but saw only the bulbs in the chandeliers throwing shadows over the empty dining room. There were no men working tonight, at least not in the dining room, not even a trace of them. She went back to Dixie and checked on her once more, but Dixie flared her nostrils and whinnied, irritated that Frankie had come back empty-handed.

  Then, Frankie remembered the door from the kitchen. She hurried around the back of the restaurant and squeezed through the narrow alley. She tried the door to the colored entrance. It swung open with hardly a pull, and Frankie made her way inside. Only one dim light in the kitchen was on, but it was bright enough for Frankie to get to the shelves of pots and pans without running into anything. She grabbed an aluminum saucepan and headed for the spigot at the sink, but as she did, she heard a voice coming from another room. Frankie dove into one of the cupboards closest to her and closed the door. Although once she was there, in the dark, with her knees pulled up to her chest, she wondered why she was hiding in the first place. This was her family’s restaurant, for goodness’ sakes. There was no reason for her to be inside a cupboard.

  She started scooting out, nudging the door open with her knee, but then stopped when she heard another voice, one that she recognized.

  “And this is the kitchen,” said Mr. Stannum. He turned on the overhead lights.

  Mr. Stannum. Great snakes! Frankie pulled the cupboard door closed. On second thought, hiding wasn’t such a bad idea.

  “This is some kind of operation,” said a man, whose husky voice Frankie recognized as belonging to Mr. Price. There was also the musty scent of cigar smoke, which made her sure of it. “What is the total number under the employ of Mr. Baum?”

  “Well, uh,” said Mr. Stannum. “I’m not sure . . .”

  “What I’m asking is,” said Mr. Price, “just how many people are working for Mr. Baum here, at this restaurant? It’s no secret, is it? I’d imagine a person in a position such as kitchen manager, like yourself, would be entrusted to know these kinds of things. And other things as well.” His voice trailed off.

  “Well, I’m not sure of the exact count, and there are more to be hired. Let’s see, there’s five of us in the kitchen, but we could use a few more good hands, and the bar staff, waitstaff. I’d say at least fifteen, maybe more.”

  “I see,” said Mr. Price, writing that down in his notebook. “Like I said, this is no small operation you’ve got here. With the Depression on, a lot of folks have fallen on hard times. You’d have to wonder where a man gets money to start up such an enterprise.” And then he laughed the way people do when they want you to think they are making a joke but are really as serious as a stiff wool suit.

  Frankie didn’t like his candor. How did he have the right to question where Daddy got his money to start the restaurant? Slowly and with ever so much caution, she nudged open the cupboard door just enough to have a look.

  “Well, thank you for the tour, Mr. Stannum,” said Mr. Price. �
�Mr. Baum told me to stop by the restaurant anytime so we could finish the interview, and yet once again I find that he’s not here. I do hope he’s not avoiding me. It would be a pity if that was the case.”

  “I’m sure he’s not,” said Mr. Stannum. “What I mean is, why would he be?”

  “There’s been some talk about town,” said Mr. Price. “About Mr. Baum’s loyalty.”

  “Loyalty?” said Mr. Stannum.

  “That’s right,” said Mr. Price. “Some say he wasn’t born here. His parents were German, you know.”

  “I didn’t . . .”

  “Well, ties to your country run deep,” said Mr. Price. “The question is, in times such as these, which does he consider to be his country?”

  Frankie covered her mouth with both hands so she wouldn’t let out a yell.

  “Now, I’m not saying he’s done anything wrong,” continued Mr. Price, “but I guess I’m not saying he hasn’t, either. There are a few others in town of German ancestry, of course, but they’ve all been very cooperative and forthcoming, unlike Mr. Baum. Tell me, Mr. Stannum, have you by chance seen anything unusual around here?”

  Mr. Stannum shook his head.

  “Strange people coming and going? Witness any strange conversations between Mr. Baum and others?”

  “Strange conversations?” asked Mr. Stannum.

  “You know,” said Mr. Price, “any talk in German, or any mention of Hitler. I’ve heard from some contacts, people inside the government, that Hitler is sending spies to America.”

  “Are you saying that Mr. Baum is a . . .”

  “Like I said, Mr. Stannum, I’m not saying he is, and I’m not saying he isn’t. I’m just asking that you keep your eyes and ears open. You know, now more than ever we’ve got to stay vigilant and protect this great country of ours. We won’t be able to ignore what’s happening in Europe for long, mark my words. We’ll be in the thick of it soon enough, and when we are, we will need to know who we can trust and who we can’t. And those we can’t, well, we’ve got to bring the turncoats to their knees.” He handed Mr. Price a calling card. “If you do notice anything suspicious, it is your duty to give me a call.”

  Mr. Stannum held the card gently in his palm.

  “You’ve been very helpful, though, in filling in some of the blanks,” said Mr. Price, smiling. “I better be on my way. Please tell Mr. Baum I stopped by and that I have a few more questions to pose to him.”

  Mr. Stannum nodded. “Will do, sir.”

  “Oh, I nearly forgot.” Mr. Price unfolded an election poster from inside his jacket and retrieved a roll of tape from a pocket in his trousers. “I’ll just fix this to the front window on my way out. And be sure to thank him for his support in the election.”

  Mr. Stannum said, “I’ll be sure to tell him you came by.”

  “Incidentally, has my esteemed opponent paid a visit?”

  “No,” said Mr. Stannum. “Not that I’ve seen.”

  “You might’ve noticed there’s not one single Robertson sign on the block,” said Mr. Price. “George Robertson, let me tell you, is not equipped for the job. I say that not as his opponent, but as a man. He doesn’t have the wherewithal to protect our town, our citizens, from outsiders. He’s a do-nothing. A musician, a jazz lover no doubt, who, if elected, God forbid, will do nothing for us. Do you know that he is divorced?”

  “Uh, no,” said Mr. Stannum. “I didn’t.”

  “Shameful,” said Mr. Price. “Well, I better be on my way.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Price,” said Mr. Stannum. “I’ll see you out. I was just getting ready to lock up and head home.”

  Frankie slowly pushed open the cupboard door. But that Mr. Price would not stop talking.

  “You a family man, Stannum?”

  Frankie closed the door again.

  Mr. Stannum hesitated. “I’m not married, no.”

  “Brothers or sisters in town?” asked Mr. Price.

  “None to speak of,” said Mr. Stannum.

  “How strange.”

  “Well, I did have an older brother,” said Mr. Stannum.

  “Did?”

  “He was killed in the Great War.”

  “Hmmm, that’s too bad,” said Mr. Price. “Then you know what it means to make sacrifices for your country.”

  “My brother, Tommy, he was the hero,” said Mr. Stannum. “Not me.”

  “Yes, well, there are many ways to serve your country. An opportunity may arise in the future, and you may get your chance,” said Mr. Price. “Good evening.”

  Frankie waited until the light in the crack of the cupboard door disappeared before she crawled out. Mr. Price had a lot of nerve saying those things about Daddy. And suggesting that he was a spy for Hitler! A spy! She was so fuming mad, she stormed out of the kitchen door into the alley. Before long she was beside Dixie, who was right where she’d left her, no surprise. What was a surprise, though, to both of them, was that Frankie had returned without any water.

  “Oh, darn it all. I left the saucepan on the counter,” Frankie explained.

  Dixie shook her head.

  “No, I’m not going back in there. It’s almost dark and we need to go home. Mother will have her cake turner out, for certain. And this time she just might use it.” Frankie climbed into the cart and snapped the reins. Alas, Dixie stood firm.

  “Dixie!” Frankie yelled. “Move, you stubborn beast!”

  Then, from somewhere nearby, they both heard music.

  And wouldn’t you know, that pony began to trot.

  Don’t tell me I’m scared, I done seen what you did

  I said don’t say I’m scared, I done seen what you did

  You want me to look away, think I’m only a kid

  You hopped a train, took yourself on a trip

  I said you hopped a train, took yourself on a trip

  Papa, you leave us alone, ain’t coming back here with that whip

  I’m a-countin’ the days you been gone

  I’m a-countin’ the days you been gone

  Someday, Papa, goin’ to build me a railroad of my own

  17

  AS SHE AND DIXIE went on, the music surrounded them like a fog. The closer they got, the warm air became so thick with sound that Frankie nearly had to brush away the notes from her face. They followed the sounds for one block on and then Frankie tried to steer Dixie down Washington Street, but Dixie would not turn. They were about to go down Jonathan Street, about to go into the part of town where she was not allowed to be. Frankie pulled hard on the reins. Dixie reared her head, but she did not stop. “No, Dixie. No, no, no. Not this way.”

  Frankie pulled again. But as she did, one of the snaps on a line to Dixie’s bit came apart and Frankie lost control. She held tight to the reins, but that did her no good. Frankie clung to her seat in the cart and yelled, “Whoa! Whoa!”

  But music, even for a pony, has a way of taking you places.

  They were heading into a forbidden part of town, and almost certain to wreck. Although Frankie wished she had something to throw at Dixie to get her attention—Where’s a stick of dynamite when you need it?—and remind her who was in charge, the only thing in her dress pocket was her scab collection, and things weren’t quite that dire yet. So, there was nothing to be done but hang on and hope that the lines to the cart held and that Dixie’s legs would eventually grow weary.

  Let me tell you, putting all your hopes into the Pony With a Human Brain may not have been the wisest decision, especially given Dixie’s history, but what else was Frankie to do?

  As Dixie trotted on, following the music, Frankie’s own brain was thinking about the two pieces of harness she’d left lying on the ground in the backyard. She remembered there were buckles on them, not snaps. And what was it Joan told her about attaching lines with buckles? Something. She had told h
er something.

  Dixie kept on until they found the source of the music on a sidewalk in front of a tattered apartment building. Three colored boys sitting on turned-over washbasins were carving out a stomping and grinding beat alongside a tune that was so full of gloom and agony, Frankie felt as though she were a stranger interrupting a funeral party. The Pony With the Human Brain apparently didn’t feel the same way, because she stopped right in front of them and had herself a good listen. Although Frankie was relieved Dixie had finally come to a stop, she wished the pony had chosen a spot about a block or so away. For one thing, she wasn’t sure these musicians wanted an audience. And for another, it wasn’t polite to attend a funeral party without knowing the dead.

  Frankie hopped off the cart and quickly grabbed the broken line. She kept an eye on the musicians as she tried to refasten the line at the bit, but the snap was busted and there was no way to put it back together. The musicians, well, they were deep into the place where music often takes people, and barely seemed to notice her. Moments later, though, the song ended abruptly, or so it sounded to Frankie, and then one of the boys, who had his head hung low over his cigar-box guitar, started singing something else.

  Oh little girl, she got a boy’s name

  She workin’ in the kitchen

  Now ain’t that a cryin’ shame

  She got the low-down workin’ blues

  And ole man Stannum he’s to blame

  Oh man, she got the low-down workin’ blues

  Frankie dropped the line and went over to the musicians to get a good look at the abercrombie who thought he knew so much.

  “What you doing, Seaweed?” said the boy playing washtub bass. “We wasn’t finished and that song is all wet.”

  The boy on the blues harp blasted out a sharp chord and said, “Shoot, hold it right there. I write the songs, dig?”

  “I’m just messin’, Shorty,” said Seaweed. Then he grinned at Frankie. “What you doing out here by youself? Your daddy be knowin’ you in this here part of town?”