The Loud Silence of Francine Green

by Karen Cushman

  I'd heard of Stalin, the evil communist dictator, but labor camps and murder squads sounded awful. Communists must be worse than I thought, and here Jacob Mandelbaum was defending them. I'd never heard anyone have a good word for communists except Sophie, and I figured that was just Sophie being Sophie. Now there was Mr. Mandelbaum. I chewed on my lip and studied him. He didn't seem deluded or evil or stupid.

  We were all quiet for a minute. Finally Sophie cleared her throat and said, "Francine knows all about actors and movies and movie stars, don't you, Francine?" She nudged me.

  "Not everything," I said softly.

  Mr. Mandelbaum stared at me solemnly, smoke circling his head. "You maybe want to act, Francine?" he asked.

  "No, she's too chicken," said Sophie. "She wouldn't like everybody looking at her."

  What did Sophie know? I looked down at my lap, embarrassed.

  "Acting, you know, is like baseball," Mr. Mandelbaum said, puffing on his cigar. "Listen and I'll tell you."

  Mr. Bowman laughed and said, "This sounds like a two-beer story, Jacob. Wait a minute and I'll get us another one."

  Mr. Mandelbaum took a long drink of the new beer and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "So," he said, "once Lefty Gomez—I think it was Lefty Gomez. Or Dizzy Dean. No, Lefty Gomez. So anyway, in this one game he was pitching, the right fielder—was it Butch Moran? No. Never mind—the right fielder was a bum. Couldn't catch the ball to save his soul. Every time a hitter hit to right field, this fielder would miss the ball, it would hit the fence and bounce off, and by the time he chased it down and threw to second base, a single had become a double, a double had become a triple. It happened one, twice, three times.

  "The other team catches on. They start hitting every ball to right field and scoring runs off the fielder's mistakes, and still he can't catch the ball. Finally, Lefty, he gives the right fielder such a frown, like he's daring the guy to miss again." Mr. Mandelbaum leaped up. He twisted his face into the grouchiest of frowns and started twirling his arm like a windmill. "Lefty winds up and pitches. The batter swings. The ball flies into right field, goes right through the fielder's hands, and bounces off the fence. By the time he grabs it and throws it to third, another run scores.

  "The ball comes back to Lefty. He's so angry, steam is coming out of his ears. He turns and stares at the right fielder. But the right fielder, his back is to Lefty. He's looking at the fence, examining it, like there's something wrong with the fence and that's the problem. Lefty, he's so mad, he winds up and throws the ball, not to the batter, but right at the Joe Knucklehead in right field. The throw is high, it hits the fence, just in front of the guy. The fielder, still staring at the fence, thinks it's a hit. This time he grabs it, spins, and sends a perfect throw to second base!" Mr. Mandelbaum grabbed at the air, spun, and mimicked a perfect throw. "Of course, there's no runner there. No runner anywhere. Everyone's laughing at the schmo in right field, and Lefty looks like he'll explode." He laughed until his cheeks were wet with tears. "No runner. What a schmo! True story."

  We applauded noisily. Mr. Mandelbaum bowed to us, sat down, and puffed again on the awful black cigar.

  "That's pretty funny, Mr. M," Sophie said, "but what does it have to do with acting?"

  "It's like this," Mr. Mandelbaum said. "As long as you're nervous out there, worried about making the play, about people watching you, about making a mistake, you won't do it right, whether you're in right field or on a movie set. You have to relax and let the ball come to you. Forget you are bashful and people are looking. Just relax and let the magic come. That's baseball. And acting. Probably life, too."

  I stared at Mr. Mandelbaum. He seemed twice as big as the rest of us, with his loud voice and wild ideas. Defending the communists? Comparing acting to baseball? I never heard such things before. I could see why Sophie and her father liked Mr. Mandelbaum despite the smelly cigar.

  "'Just relax and let the magic come,'" said Sophie as she walked me home. "What does that mean?"

  "I think I get it," I said. "It's like dancing."

  14

  Hammering the Nail Back into Place

  Sometimes when she's really excited, Sister Basil spits when she talks, and the girls in the front row try to hide behind their books. I know that Saint Comgall worked miracles with his magic spit, but all Sister Basil does is speckle the books, so it was a relief to watch a film in class, even if it was pretty boring and had no movie stars. It was a lot better than ducking spit and listening to Sister Basil talk about teen martyrs.

  Afterward we took class time to write a report on the film. I chewed on my pencil for a few minutes and then wrote:

  The theme of this film was making friends. There was one boy the film said no one should have as a friend. He wore glasses and read books and had suspicious loner tendencies. We are supposed to watch out for people who are different like that. We should want to be like everyone else and then everyone will like us and want to be friends. One girl in the film pulled up her socks and tucked her blouse in. Other kids liked her then.

  My conclusion from this film is that it is important to have good grooming and to be punctual if you want to have a lot of friends. Also to have blond hair and good penmanship. Good penmanship helps you fit in.

  I didn't even have to be ironic. That is exactly what the film said.

  We read our reports aloud. After I finished mine, Sister said, "Yes, Francine, a good explanation of the dangers of nonconformity." She wasn't being ironic, either.

  The Perfect and Admirable Mary Agnes Malone raised her hand, stood up, and said, "My father says the nail that sticks up must be hammered back into place."

  Sister nodded.

  Sophie read hers in a loud voice. She said the film was an attack on liberals and communists and other people the government didn't like. She had to stand in the wastebasket during recess.

  Later, at lunch, we played Red Rover. Mary Virginia called, "Red rover, red rover, let Sophie come over," and Sophie came over.

  Then Florence called, "Red rover, red rover, let Sophie come over." Sophie ran back.

  And Margie shouted, "Red rover, red rover, let Sophie come over." Sophie went but much more slowly than before.

  Gert yelled, "Red rover, red rover, let Sophie commie over," and then all the girls screamed, "Red rover, red rover, let Sophie commie over!" Sophie walked away.

  I stood there watching her go. Mary Virginia tapped me on the shoulder. "Come on, let's play Foursquare."

  "But Sophie—"

  "You already spend too much time with that weirdie," Mary Virginia said. "Remember what the film said about fitting in and making friends. Come on."

  I followed Mary Virginia to where the other girls were gathered. They were already annoyed with me. I'd told them I couldn't have the slumber party because relatives were coming to stay all through the vacation, but I think they suspected it was because of Sophie. If I chose Sophie over them again, they would pick on me the way they picked on her.

  Acrophobia means being afraid of heights. And people who are afraid of closed spaces have claustrophobia. Me, I have trouble-phobia, and it sometimes gets in the way of my doing what I want. Like now. I did want to speak up for Sophie. I did want to stand up for her, to take her side, to walk away with her. I really did.

  But I didn't.

  I always lost at Foursquare. But that day I played worse than usual because I was thinking about Sophie. The girls shouldn't have called her names, and I shouldn't have let her walk away alone. Abbott would never have let Costello go alone. Or Laurel desert Hardy. And there were always Three Stooges, not two. But I let Sophie walk away. Why, if I had been one of the Forty Martyrs of Sebaste who faced the Soldiers of the Thundering Legion, there'd be only Thirty-Nine Martyrs. I would have gone and played Foursquare.

  Sophie and I left school together as usual. "I hate this dumb school and dumb Sister Basil the Rotten and those dumb girls," she said on the way home. "Why can't they leave me alone?"

  I was relie
ved that Sophie was blaming them and not mad at me for abandoning her. "They would leave you alone if you behaved better," I said.

  "Maybe. Still, I get sick of being punished for being me."

  "But you ask for it. You know you do."

  "I'm just telling the truth and standing up for my rights and fighting injustice and—"

  "Causing trouble for the fun of it."

  She didn't say anything right away. Then she smiled. "I do liven things up, don't I?"

  I cleared my throat. "I'm sorry," I said, "that I didn't stick up for you during Red Rover."

  "Never mind. It was just a dumb game."

  "I know, but I should have spoken up or walked away with you or something. I just couldn't. I'm not very brave."

  "No, you're not. But you're braver than you used to be." I raised my eyebrows in inquiry. "You're my friend, aren't you, when no one else will be? That takes bravery."

  "That's because being your friend hasn't caused me trouble yet. When it does, I don't know what I'll do. Isn't that an awful thing to admit?"

  She socked me lightly on the arm as the bus bounced along. "'Feh, not to worry' as Jacob Mandelbaum would say, 'until the sky hits you in the head.'"

  Christmas vacation came, and Sophie and I had fun even without the slumber party. We found my old roller skates and, each wearing one skate, skated up and down Palm View Drive. We addressed Christmas cards for my mother, strung popcorn to hang on the tree, and wrote pretend letters to Santa Claus—I asked for a mink coat and Montgomery Clift. And I wrote a letter for Artie:

  Dear Santa Claus,

  I am writing this letter for my brother, Artie, who is five and a half and can't write yet. Artie can be a pain in the neck sometimes, like how he answers the phone "Duffy's Tavern" or spills Rice Krispies or sticks his lower lip out when he gets stubborn, but on the whole he is not a bad brother, so when he asked me to write to you, I said I would do it, even though 1 know there is no Santa Claus and my mother always buys the presents for him and wraps them herself, which anyone could tell as the paper is cut all crooked and the ribbons droop.

  Artie says, "Please bring me a Hopalong Cassidy cowboy outfit and a Captain Midnight Decoder Ring, and I would rather get a new cap pistol than more underwear."

  From Francine Green

  private secretary to Mr. Arthur Green

  On Christmas Eve we sang Christmas carols at the neighbors' doors even though it was hot enough to wear shorts, and the neighbors smiled at us over their martinis.

  15. January 1950

  Miss Velma Says I Could

  I was lying on the rug in the living room, reading Betty Cavanna's Going on Sixteen, on loan from Susan Murphy, when someone walked in and stopped next to me. Wedge heels and ankle socks, hem of a flowered cotton housedress, scent of talcum powder. My mother.

  "Are your thank-you notes finished?" she asked.

  "I'm about to do them right now," I told her, and got up to get paper and pen.

  "Hey, Francine," Artie called from his room, "want the tangerine from my Christmas stocking?"

  "Why don't you want it?"

  "Joey Manila said if you swallow tangerine seeds, they start to grow into a tree in your stomach and the branches grow into your throat and choke you to death."

  "Oh, Artie, that's not true."

  "Joey Manila said."

  "Well," I said, "I myself think tangerine seeds in your stomach might grow into tangerines, but it's too dark in there for leaves and branches, so no tree will grow and choke you. You'll simply be full of juicy fruit all the time. Just be careful not to eat too many, or you won't have room for cake."

  "But Joey Manila said."

  "Joey Manila is a creep."

  Artie sounded relieved. "Okay. I'll eat one seed from each tangerine."

  "That ought to be just about right," I said.

  I sat down at the kitchen table. I used to hate to write thank-you notes, especially for presents I wasn't truly thankful for, but since I discovered irony, I was finding the task much more pleasant. I spread my flowered notepaper on the table, filled my favorite pen with Schaefer's peacock blue ink, swung my hand back and forth over the paper a few times, and began to write:

  Dear Aunt Martha and Uncle George,

  Imagine my pleasure when I opened my presents Christmas morning, when it was 82 degrees here in Los Angeles, to find the plaid mittens-and-scarf set you sent me. What would 1 have done without it?

  Yours truly,

  Your niece,

  Francine Green

  P.S. Mother says she would call you on the phone if long distance weren't so expensive and I am to tell you hello for her. Hello.

  I put it in a matching envelope, licked the flap, addressed it, and put it aside to await a stamp. One down.

  My aunt Ellen had sent me The Early Women Martyrs Coloring Book and bunny pajamas. Ye gods. 1 picked up another sheet of paper.

  "Francine," called my mother from the service porch, "I need you to go to the store and get milk, Crisco, and soap flakes. And apples if they're less than ten cents a pound."

  "I'm doing my thank-you notes. Couldn't someone else go?"

  She came to my side so abruptly that her starched apron crackled. "Do you see someone else? Is there someone else in this house I could send?"

  My father was at work, Dolores out with Wally, and Artie too little. "No," I said.

  "Should I go? Between changing the beds and doing the laundry and making dinner, do you want me to walk to the store for milk, Crisco, and soap flakes?"

  "Okay, okay." I stacked the notepaper and capped the pen.

  "Take a dollar from my dresser," my mother said, "and be sure to bring me the change. No Cokes or Popsicles."

  I went into my parents' bedroom. It smelled like my mother—Cashmere Bouquet talcum powder and freshly ironed clothes. I sniffed all around but couldn't detect my father's martini-cigarette-shaving-cream smell. I sniffed through the hall and back into the living room, and pressed my nose into the back of his big chair. There it was.

  Most men I knew smelled like martinis, cigarettes, and shaving cream. Sometimes I wondered—if Jesus were alive today, would He smell like that, too? He'd have to get a haircut, that was for sure.

  "Francine!" my mother shouted.

  "I'm going, I'm going." And I did.

  Why was it always me who had to watch Artie, write thank-you notes, go to the store? Always me. I felt like Mildred Pierce from the movie of that name, doing everything for someone who didn't appreciate it. Of course, Mildred was actually the mother and she did everything for her daughter, Veda, who not only didn't appreciate it but turned out to be a criminal and a murderer.

  The January day was sunny and clear. The Ballantyne boys were working on their car as I passed. Skinny Mickey Sheen was washing the windows of his mother's house. And I could tell from the sweet odor of cut grass that Sally Rose around the corner was mowing her lawn again. I turned onto Pico and passed the laundromat, The Olde Smoke Shop, Kirby's Shoes, and Meeker's Radio Repair.

  Miss Velma's Tap and Song Academy, Thorough Preparation for the Stage, had a poster in the window. I crossed the street to read it:

  Be an actor! You can. Yes, you. Overcome shyness, stage fright, and speech impediments with Miss Velma's proven techniques. Miss Velma's students have gone on to be stars of stage, screen, and radio. You can too.

  Me? Be an actress? I felt a flutter in my stomach. I could be a movie star and go to premieres with Montgomery Clift. Thousands of cheering fans would admire and envy and imitate me. Me, the glamorous Francine Green, who always knew what to say. Miss Velma said I could.

  I sang "The Surrey with the Fringe on Top" all the way to Petrov's Groceries. The junior class at No Sinners high school was going to perform Oklahoma! in the spring. Sister Saint Elmo had rewritten the play to leave out the Ado Annie character, because the nuns thought she was wild and a bad influence. Sophie would probably call it censorship and organize a rally.

  The windows at
Petrov's were covered with plywood, making the inside even darker than usual. "Gangsters break the windows and we have not the money to have them fixed again and again," Mrs. Petrov told me as she handed me the bag of milk, Crisco, and soap flakes. The apples were too expensive and had wrinkly skin. "And why they break them? Because we come from Russia and must be communists." She shook her head. "We leave Russia to escape the communists. Is funny, no?"

  Walking home from the store was a lot harder than walking there. January or not, the hot California sun sat on my head like a blanket. I thought about what had happened to the Petrovs. It wasn't funny. It was scary. The war was over, and we won. Shouldn't we have peace now? Would we ever be safe? It was just not fair.

  I sang "Life Is Just a Bowl of Cherries" all the way home. I was being ironic again. It was all I could think of to do.

  16

  Mr. Bowman Knows Irony

  January turned cold and rainy. While Sophie and I made spaghetti and meatballs for dinner, Mr. Bowman chopped up lettuce for salad. He sang while he chopped. "Puccini," he said. "An Italian composer for our Italian dinner."

  "Mamma mia," said Sophie.

  I put on my best Sister Basil the Rotten face and said, "The correct term, Miss Bowman, would be 'papa mia.'" Sophie nudged me and got spaghetti sauce on the white blouse of my uniform.

  After dinner we sat by the big radio in their living room, listening to President Truman. He said he had ordered American scientists to begin development of a hydrogen bomb, a super bomb that would be a thousand times more powerful than the bombs we dropped on Japan at the end of the war.

  It was like a horse kicked me in the stomach. My heart jumped and my mouth got dry. Super bombs? Plain old atomic bombs killed people and destroyed everything. What would super bombs do?