by Anita Higman
Charlie imagined her sweet face. “That day we were in the farrowing house, there was this light about her, just behind her head, giving her a halo. It’s the way I will always see her in my mind: glowing.” He loved that. In fact, he adored everything about her. “And then today, Henry, I stood there like a lump and did nothing when she left except give her a hug. Just a hug. I didn’t even kiss her good-bye.” He slammed his coffee mug down, making some of the liquid slosh into the air and splatter onto the table.
Henry whimpered.
“Sorry, boy.” Charlie daubed up the mess with a tea towel.
The dog lowered his head again and stared at Charlie. He was glad Franny had trusted him with her dog, and yet having Henry here would only make him think of her all the more. Just like all the other little things she’d left behind, such as the red sled in the corner. Something she had no use for now, but it would be a reminder of her just the same. He could imagine her filled with laughter and delight, sailing down one of the snow-laden hills by the creek. But his mindwanderings were only making him more miserable. Charlie shook his head. “I shouldn’t have been so generous with her, paying her to teach me farming. The money only made it easier for her to go.”
Henry seemed to give him a disapproving sigh. “Yeah, I know, not good, but at the moment I’m suffering from a serious bout of selfishness.”
Charlie looked around the room, taking in other details he hadn’t noticed before. By all rights, he should be excited. His father’s attorney had taken care of the paperwork, and he was now the proud owner of a farm in Oklahoma. He should be ready to dig in and work, and he would. But right now, he felt lost.
Charlie took a swig of his coffee. The liquid burned his tongue a little, but he didn’t care. “Henry, I should have begged her to stay, but what would I have said? Marry me? Isn’t that too big of a leap after three weeks? She would have thought I was nuts.”
Henry came over to him, wagged his tail, and curled up by his chair.
“You’re a good dog, Henry.” Charlie rewarded him with a scratch behind the ears. “In fact, you’re a better dog than I am a man.”
“But who am I kidding?” He wasn’t going to stop Franny from fulfilling her dream. That was just what his father had done to him, and it still caused him anguish.
Charlie blew on the coffee and took a sip. His dream was to be a musician, but owning a music shop would be just as satisfying. Yet his father thought both careers were a waste of time and money. When would he ever break free of his father’s domination? “Music is not a real business, son. You’re supposed to put childish things away now. We indulged you with music lessons when you were a boy, but now you’re a grown man.” No, when it came to dreams he wasn’t going to hold Franny back. Not now, not ever. He would let her fly.
He just needed to run the farm, do a good job, and then perhaps when his father deemed him worthy enough to run Landau Enterprises, he could make some of his own choices. But Charlie also knew that Landau Enterprises would be his undoing; instead of freeing him, it would be the noose that would bind more tightly with each struggle. With each passing year.
Charlie looked down at Henry, his new friend, and smiled at his calm and faithful temperament. “I know. I need to be the best I can be without Franny. I’d like her to be proud of me in the way I take good care of her parents’ farm…of her farm.”
Henry raised his head suddenly, as if he’d heard something.
“What is it, boy?” Charlie sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?” He jumped from the chair and ran from room to room, checking for the odor that seemed to be getting stronger by the second. “God help me. It’s smoke!”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Franny sped along Route 66 toward Oklahoma City, and to keep from crying, she sang every Christmas carol, love song, and radio tune she’d ever memorized. She sang because she suddenly felt anxious about leaving—about driving away from all she’d ever known. She sang because it was one of the ways she communicated with her Creator, and she sang because she already missed Charlie Landau something fierce. Too bad people didn’t have telephones with them at all times. Sounded fantastic and bizarre—like something from the television show One Step Beyond—but if portable telephones were possible, she’d call him this instant.
After about an hour and a half of driving, the dark clouds had finished their debate on whether to become a storm, and the outcome wasn’t good. Fortunately, she’d stopped long enough to put all her suitcases in the cab, but it made for a tight squeeze while driving. At least they’d be dry if it started to rain. Or snow.
She glanced over at her suitcases bulging with her belongings. It was obvious that she wasn’t going away for the night. It was for always. She’d called everyone before she left—her neighbors, her old high school friends, her pastor and his wife. Some of the church folk had wanted to have a going-away party, but she’d left too quickly for any real good-byes. As far as her few semi-close friends, they seemed sad to see her go and wished her well, but they were far from devastated. Perhaps the endless farmwork had kept her from cultivating close friends. Maybe that was a problem she could rectify in the city.
Lightning flashed, and the crash of thunder rumbled all the way to her bones. She hoped Henry wouldn’t be too frightened, back at the farm. Henry hated storms as much as she did. But Charlie was there; surely he would watch out for him.
Franny’s stomach growled. She’d planned to stop in El Reno for some of their famous six-for-a-dollar hamburgers—the ones smothered in fried onions and love—but she didn’t dare stop now for fear of being engulfed by the storm. She drove on as fast as her old International would take her, hoping she could outrun the weather.
Within minutes the wind picked up, battering the pickup so hard that she had to make adjustments in her steering. Drops of rain fell on the windshield…the big spattering angry kind, the same kind she’d always seen before the hail. There was a pause, and then the clouds unleashed their fury, firing marble-sized stones of hail at her as if they were bullets. Crazy weather for November!
Franny took one of the bobby pins from her hair and chewed on it. Bad habit, she knew, but it wasn’t a habit she could break in the next few minutes.
Even through the crashing noises, she could feel the next wave of trouble. Her pickup sputtered. The engine hesitated two more times. She hadn’t gone through any deep water. Had she gotten some bad gas in Lancaster? Lord, I can’t break down now. This is not a good time, and you know how I am about Oklahoma storms.
Franny slowed her vehicle, leaned toward the windshield, and gripped the steering wheel until her hands felt as if they were on fire. Her breathing sped up, and her mind seemed as though it might spiral out of control. What were these wretched sensations that took over her being, that always plagued her during a bad storm? She’d never been to a doctor with her malady, but she knew the episodes were attached to her parents and their accident. However, no matter how well she understood the emotional assaults, they still tormented her just the same.
Franny thought a scream might help her release some of the tension, but just when she felt like letting one fly, the hail ceased its attack, the winds died down, and the pickup seemed to cough up whatever was stuck in its throat. She relaxed her breathing, gave her old International a pat on the wheel, and thanked God for His tender mercies. Just to the north, the clouds broke their stronghold on the sky, and rays of sunshine forced their way through the gloom, creating a sunburst. Beautiful.
With renewed hope, Franny took the map and directions from her purse and unfolded the paper. Her aunt lived on the edge of Oklahoma City, so she would be there soon enough. Maybe in the meantime she could practice being a deejay. Then again, maybe not. She’d certainly rehearsed often enough on the farm. Of course, the hogs never had any feedback. Maybe the radio stations would have a script. Even if they didn’t tell her what to say, wouldn’t it be easy to spin records and talk about music? A tiny crack formed in her confidence, but she wasn�
�t about to let it slow her down.
Once Franny had made all the right turns and found the correct street where her aunt had always lived, she cruised slowly as she counted the numbers to make sure she had the right home. Within moments she sat in front of what had to be her aunt’s house. But the home looked dilapidated, the sidewalk was cracked, and several of the pine trees had died. Nothing looked right. What could have happened? Franny opened the door to the pickup, and with an anxious spirit in tow, she made her way up the stone path to the porch and then to the front door.
Franny sent up a little prayer as she rang the bell. But she already suspected that her aunt no longer lived there. A woman from next door came out onto her front porch. “Hey, you lookin’ for old Beatrice?” The neighbor talked as if she had a mouthful of pebbles.
“Yes, ma’am, I am. She’s my aunt.”
“She ain’t lived here for over a year.” The woman pulled some silver tinsel from her hair and stuffed it into her pocket.
Franny moved closer to the edge of the porch to hear the woman better. “Do you know where she moved to?”
“No sirree. She never told me where she went off to, and I never asked.”
“She wasn’t ill, was she?”
“Old Bee was so tough, you couldn’t kill her if you ran her over with a bus.” The woman wiped her mouth with her housedress.
Franny stepped back a little. Not the best neighbor for Aunt Bee.
“That’s a relief, to hear she’s doing—”
“Looky here, I’m decoratin’ my tree and got banana-nut bread burning in the oven.” The woman went back inside her house and slammed the door loud enough to sound like a shotgun blast. Then that was it. She never came back out to finish the conversation.
Well, that wasn’t very neighborly. Franny sighed. Guess she should have kept up with her aunt better, but Beatrice was a loner and Franny had been so busy on the farm that keeping in touch wasn’t easy. Franny shook her head at herself and got back into her pickup.
There was nothing to do but keep rolling with her plan—to apply for a job at every radio station in town and then find a motel for the night. Franny removed another piece of paper from her purse and studied it. Using an Oklahoma City map, she’d written out directions to all six stations in the area. If she hurried, and if she skipped lunch, she’d be able to apply at every one of them before closing time.
One by one, Franny drove to each station. Each time before going inside she put on more pink lipstick, tidied her dress, and prayed every kind of prayer she knew how to pray. But each time she went in to apply, the manager of the station said they weren’t hiring. Not even for a receptionist, let alone for a disc jockey. She’d checked out the big ones and little start-up ones as well as the fancy new FM station in town. Nothing. Not a hint of hope. No one even wanted to hire her as a janitor.
There was only one radio station she hadn’t been to—one that was so tiny, it hadn’t even made it onto her dream-job list. The station, K-BOM, probably didn’t broadcast any farther than a block, but she would give it a try since there was nothing left for her to do.
When she pulled up in front of K-BOM Radio, she laughed. The structure was built with gray cinder blocks and had a tower the size of a child’s toy, but she still felt determined. She straightened her little hat, looked up to the heavens beseechingly, and strode inside.
There was no receptionist to greet her, so she followed the dark hallway to a glowing red light. When Franny got to the door, she watched the deejay through the glass window. The young man—who had a modified beatnik look, a short, cropped beard, and hair long enough to look just like a woman—sat as still as stone behind a console and two turntables.
The man smiled when he saw her. Well, at least that was something. After the queued-up record began to play, he took off his headphones and popped his head around the door. He slid his dark glasses down his nose, which revealed blue eyes that looked a bit glazed. “What’s going down, little momma?” The smell of smoke nearly gagged her, and it had a strange odor she’d never smelled before.
Franny tried her best not to cough in his face and instead put on her best smile. “Hi, I’m Franny Martin.”
“Lester Ivy. Gimme some skin.”
“Skin?”
Lester reached out his hand, and she shook it. “Sorry, I didn’t know what you meant.”
“Don’t sweat it.”
Franny twiddled with her pillbox hat and then admonished herself for fidgeting.
In the meantime Lester looked her over. “Nice rags.”
She smiled but was puzzled, since his insult didn’t seem to fit his friendly tone.
Lester leaned against the door frame, looking a little discombobulated. “So, where you from?”
“A farm near Hesterville.”
“Far out.”
Franny nodded. “Yeah, it really is. It’s sort of like living on the moon.”
“I’m getting some good vibes here.” Lester wiggled his eyebrows. “Hey, I’m a jazz musician from Haight-Ashbury. Man, we got this new thing going down…spicy tunes, good energy.”
“Cool,” was all Franny could think to say in his vernacular, but she had no idea where Haight-Ashbury was. She blurted, “I would like to apply for a job.”
“I dig. Everybody needs a gig. But I don’t have anything.” He pulled out the lining of his pockets and then stared at them as if they were infinitely fascinating.
“That’s fine. Thanks…anyway.”
“I know, bummer, right?”
“Yes, bummer.” Franny nodded. Lester didn’t rush back inside, so she stayed put, just to take one last look through the window before saying good-bye to the silliest dream she’d ever cooked up. Actually, it was the only dream she’d ever cooked up. She looked at him. “I just love music, you know? Ever since I can remember. Crazy, right?”
“Yeah…craazzy.”
Franny twisted the straps on her purse. “Well, ever since I heard Daddy playing his harmonica and Momma singing along, I felt smitten with music.”
“Right on.” Lester did some kind of Egyptian gesture with his arms and hands. “I got my love of music from my old man and old lady too.”
Franny shrugged. “I just wanted to be near the music.” She dropped her gaze to the f loor as she felt a full day of “no-thankyous” weighing on her spirit.
“Just hang loose there, little momma. Something’ll come along.”
“Thanks.”
“Got a request?” Lester pointed to the shelves of records.
Franny licked her dry lips. “Maybe something Christmasy.”
“What’s your pleasure?”
“Sinatra’s ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.’ ”
“Mmm. That’s bad.”
“Bad?”
“You know, groovy choice. Love Sinatra’s music. I met him once. Cool cat.”
“Groovy. Thank you.”
Lester looked inside the studio. “Hey, gotta jam.” He slipped his shades back on. “Later.”
“Later, man.” Franny grinned, having only a vague notion of what she’d just said.
The deejay gave the door frame a few fast thumps as if it were a bongo drum and then headed back inside his world—near the music.
Franny stood there for a moment as she tried to recover from her encounter with Lester. Was that the way folks talked in other parts of America? She hadn’t even heard people on TV talking that way. Apparently she was unaware, concerning the ways of the world. But then, her sweet mother would have told her that naïveté wasn’t a sin.
Lester pulled a forty-five out of his wall of music, rested it gingerly on the turntable, and queued it up to play. After a brief advertisement for the Sunnyside Up Diner, Lester cozied up to the silver mic as if he were about to kiss it and said, “This song is for a gal I just met, a real hip chick named Franny, who loves to be near the music. Yes, nothing can swing the mood like a Christmas tune. This is for you, sweet momma.”
Within
seconds, “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” was playing, and right away it took her back to Charlie—when she’d first met him. The song reminded her of everything she’d left behind. What had she done? Was it all gone forever? Now she could no longer imagine herself as a deejay. The fantasy fizzled right before her eyes. She had little hope for a merry Christmas this year. She’d be alone in the city—without a friend.
Franny wondered if the sound of it could be heard—the sound of her heart breaking. She didn’t look back as she fled to her pickup and soundly shut the door behind her. She moved her little Brownie camera to the floor. She had hoped to pose for a photograph on her first day of work, but there was no job, and not even a hint of one.
There was a telephone booth on the corner. How she wished she could call Charlie. He’d give her the understanding and kindness she craved, the comfort she longed for. But it was too soon, and the pain of the day’s rejection was too palpable. Too sharp. She’d hoped to call him someday soon with good news. But obviously, it was not meant to be after all.
God, help me. Any nerve or willpower or uprightness I ever gathered in my years has all been spent in a day. Or perhaps this day proves that I never had any of those qualities at all. I am running on the fumes of a fool now. I am emptied out, and in great need of Your mercy.
Franny stayed in the general neighborhood, driving around aimlessly, feeling like a marble rolling around on the floor. Never had she imagined such utter failure. She’d always believed that once people saw her enthusiasm and energy and determination, they would hire her. At least as a receptionist. They hadn’t even allowed her to fill out an application. What could have gone wrong?
Franny’s stomach grumbled in rebellion, so she stopped at a local diner, one that couldn’t be missed since it had a gargantuan hamburger on its roof. She sat at the counter, hearing and smelling the grease splattering on the grill, and finally ordered a foot-long chili dog. When it arrived, hot and overflowing with chili and all nestled in its little red basket, she suddenly didn’t have much of an appetite. She took a sip of her root beer instead.