The Loud Silence of Francine Green

by Karen Cushman

  "Wonderful," said Mr. Bowman. "We will have the ability to kill everyone in the world a thousand times over. What an achievement! What a boon to mankind!" Holy cow, I thought, Mr. Bowman knows irony! "Super bombs. Have we gone crazy?"

  We sat silent after President Truman finished. Finally Sophie cleared her throat. "I think Truman is a war criminal," she said. "I'm going to start a Ban the Bomb Club, with signs and banners. Maybe sweaters with Ban the Bomb embroidered on them." She stood up. "Come on, Francine. We can make plans while we do the dishes."

  "No, stay, Francine. Sophie can do the dishes, and we'll talk," Mr. Bowman said. He got up, poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the dining table, and sat down again. "So what do you think about the bomb issue?"

  He was asking me? He wanted my opinion? I thought a moment. "Well," I said finally, "Sister Rott ... uh ... Basil said bombs are forces for good because they could mean the end of godless communism."

  "Bombs like this H-bomb could mean the end of everything. Every living thing. Did you know that? Some people are building bomb shelters in their backyards, but I think even if one could survive, one wouldn't want to live in the world that was left." He sipped his coffee noisily. "What do you think? Not Sister Basil. You."

  Me? I looked quickly around to make sure Sister wasn't standing there, smiling, but I said nothing.

  "Now that Russia has the bomb," he went on, "should we develop a bigger one? And what if Russia develops an even bigger one? A K-bomb or a U-bomb or a Z-bomb? What should we do then?" He took another noisy sip of his coffee. "Speak up, Francine."

  Speak up? What a notion, coming as I did from the land of "Sit down, Francine" and "Be quiet, Francine." What did I think? "I don't know," I told him.

  "It's important to know what you think, my dear, or else you will be so hemmed in by other people's ideas and opinions, you won't have room for your own."

  It was drizzling as I walked home. I remembered how, during the war, my family would gather around our big radio in the living room to listen to President Roosevelt. I'd sit on my father's lap, and although I didn't understand anything that was said, the president's familiar voice and my father's big arms made me feel safe and protected, even with a war on. Now Mr. Truman was president and there was talk about a hydrogen super bomb. Would we all die? Would I die? It was hard to imagine. I had a lump in my stomach, and it wasn't just from Sophie's meatballs.

  Getting ready for bed that night, I sat at Dolores's dressing table and studied my worried face in the mirror. I tried so hard to be invisible, sometimes I felt like I wasn't here at all, like if I looked in the mirror, I would see no one there. What if someday there really was no Francine there, her having been smashed to bits by a super bomb?

  Mr. Bowman thought I should speak up. If I were acting in a movie, I'd know what to say. I'd call President Truman and say—

  No, even better, I'd send a telegram. People in movies always sent telegrams. A boy in a brown Western Union uniform bicycled up to someone's door and handed over an envelope. Women ripped them open and fainted dead away. Men would crumple them up and punch the wall. And soldiers sent telegrams to their girls that said: DARLING STOP I LEAVE IMMEDIATELY FOR THE FRONT STOP I MUST SEE YOUR FACE ONE LAST TIME STOP MEET ME UNDER THE CLOCK AT GRAND CENTRAL STATION AT NOON STOP LOVE STOP ELMER

  I could see President Truman in his little glasses and bow tie opening the envelope and reading my telegram: DEAR MR PRESIDENT STOP I HEARD YOU ON THE RADIO TONIGHT TALKING ABOUT THE FUTURE STOP IF YOU ARE GOING TO TALK ABOUT THE FUTURE I THINK YOU SHOULD LET US HAVE ONE AND NOT BLOW US ALL UP STOP EVEN TO STOP COMMUNISTS STOP I AM AFRAID OF COMMUNISTS BUT I THINK I AM MORE AFRAID OF THE BOMB STOP I AM NOT SURE BUT I AM TRYING TO HAVE AN OPINION STOP YOURS TRULY STOP A CITIZEN

  That would be much too long and expensive, and I didn't know how to send a telegram anyway, and in the third place I would be too nervous to actually send it.

  Then I had a brainstorm. I picked up a pen. Dear Montgomery Clift, I wrote.

  I am a girl with some troublesome questions and problems. The way you stood up to John Wayne in Red River and fought for what you thought was right, although you were much younger and much smaller and had a lot to lose, made me think that you were a person who would understand and help me sort things out. I am worried about so much—my friend Sophie Bowman and the bomb and communists. People are telling me so many different things, and 1 don't know what to believe. Ordinarily I would talk to my friend Sophie about my problems, but as she is one of my problems right now, could I talk to you? You could call me at Olympic 3479, collect if necessary. 1 will figure out how to explain it to my parents. Or send me a letter at 1374 Palm View Drive. Thank you.

  Your true eternal fan,

  Francine Green

  In Photoplay there was an address listed where you could send fan mail. I addressed and stamped the letter and left the house quietly in the dark to mail it before I lost what little nerve I had. My heart pounded like a Gene Krupa drum solo. This was not just my imagining. I was writing to a real person who would write back. And that real person was a movie star. And that movie star was Montgomery Clift!

  The air was fresh and clean after the rain. The stars looked close enough for me to grab and put in my pocket.

  My hand trembled as I dropped the letter into the mailbox. I held my breath, as if I expected J. Edgar Hoover and the FBI to come sweeping around the corner onto Palm View Drive and lock me up right there. All was quiet. I let out my breath and walked slowly home.

  I climbed into bed and listened to Dolores's breathing from the other bed, but I couldn't sleep. I had too many questions and no answers.

  An airplane flew overhead. I held my breath until it was gone. Bombs. Ye gods. I pulled the pillow over my head and tried to think instead about Montgomery Clift reading my letter.

  Nothing came of Sophie's Ban the Bomb Club. Sister Basil ripped down her posters, saying, "Shame on you, Miss Bowman, bringing communist ideas into our school." And no one wanted to join, not even me.

  Some days later Sophie came over for supper. Dolores was out with Wally and Artie was in bed with a cold, so only the four of us were there for

  DINNER AT THE GREENS', The Sophie Episode

  MOTHER: Come on, you two. You can set the table.

  SOPHIE: Right away, Mrs. Green.

  FRANCINE: What are we having?

  MOTHER: Macaroni and cheese, corn, and yellow cake. I know how you like yellow cake.

  FRANCINE: Yikes, an all-yellow meal. See, Sophie, I told you she liked things to match.

  MOTHER: If you have complaints about supper, young lady, you may skip it and go right to bed.

  FRANCINE: Sorry.

  MOTHER: Fred, Sophie is here for supper.

  FATHER (with a mouth full of corn): Hrghhll.

  MOTHER (passing the macaroni): Here, Sophie dear.

  FRANCINE (silently): "Sophie dear"? The only time I hear "dear" around here is when we're talking about Bambi.

  SOPHIE: This is delicious, Mrs. Green. How ever did you make it so tasty?

  MOTHER: I have a secret ingredient. I put a dash of Al Steak Sauce in it.

  SOPHIE: Well, it's just delicious.

  FRANCINE (silently): Oh nausea.

  MOTHER: Francine, you clear the table and start the dishes. I want to show Sophie some of my recipes.

  FRANCINE: But I did the dishes last—

  FATHER (ruffling Francine's hair): That's enough, Francine Louise. Just do what your mother says.

  After dinner I walked Sophie halfway home. Neither of us said anything for a long time. Finally I said, "How come all of a sudden you care more about macaroni and meatloaf than free speech and such?"

  "What do you mean?" she asked.

  "You and my mother sure were buddy-buddy over those recipes."

  "Are you jealous, Francine Louise?"

  "Jealous? Me? Don't be silly." Of course I wasn't jealous. It was only my ordinary, boring, annoying mother.

 
"Well, good. Your mother was just being nice to me."

  "It's more than that, Sophie. She never tells anybody about the steak sauce in the macaroni."

  "I enjoyed having a family for an evening," Sophie said.

  "Your father is pretty great. Isn't he enough family for you?"

  "Family? Harry is more like a teacher or something. He likes to make speeches and educate me, but he's not exactly father material."

  "Oh, Sophie, how can you say that? He's the best father ever. He lets you call him Harry. He never says 'That's enough, Sophie' or 'Sit down and be quiet, Sophie,' and he never gets mad when you get into trouble for doing stupid things."

  "Fathers should make you feel safe," she said. "I never feel safe."

  I thought about that as I walked home. My father was sitting on our porch when I got there. I could see the tip of his cigarette glowing in the darkness. "I was just making sure you got home all right," he said, and put his arm across my shoulders as we went in.

  17. February 1950

  Francine and Sophie Talk About Life

  "(Mother, can I go to the movies with Sophie next Saturday?"

  "We're playing canasta with the Willbanks on Saturday" she said. "Dolores will be out with Wally, and we'll need someone to watch Arthur."

  "I'll be home by eight," I told her.

  "What movie? Are you sure it's nothing we'd object to?"

  "It's a musical. Mr. Bowman's friend, Jacob Mandelbaum, has a part in it. Imagine, just imagine, going to a Hollywood premiere and knowing someone who is in the movie!"

  "I don't have to imagine. I'm sure you'll be telling me about it for days. You may go, as long as you're home by eight."

  I went to the Bowmans's. The Sunday afternoon was rainy, long, and lazy. We were happy to stay inside and do little. "It's not a Hollywood premiere, you know, Francine," she said, pushing me in the rocker with her foot. "It's one of his old pictures. It's a benefit."

  "What's a benefit?"

  "It's something to raise money for somebody. This one is for Mr. Mandelbaum."

  "I thought he was a movie actor. Why does he need money?"

  "He's been blacklisted."

  "What's blacklisted?"

  "Jeeps, Francine. Where have you been? Blacklisted means he's on a list of people supposedly suspicious or subversive, and no one will hire him anymore."

  I put my feet down, and the rocking stopped abruptly. "You mean he's a communist? I thought he was a real Yankee Doodle."

  "You don't have to be a communist to be blacklisted. Lots of ordinary people have been blacklisted. You know, like the Hollywood Ten."

  "What's the Hollywood Ten? Sounds like a baseball team."

  "You dope," Sophie said, laughing. "It's been in the newspaper for years. They're screenwriters from Hollywood who the government wants to put in jail for refusing to answer questions about maybe being communists. I mean, some guy asks them questions that are none of his business, and when they say, 'It's none of your business,' bingo, they're criminals, and they can't work because no studio will hire them. That's blacklisting."

  "But if they weren't communists, why wouldn't they just say so?"

  "It's a matter of free speech. People have the right to speak and the right not to speak."

  "And if they are communists, shouldn't they go to jail?"

  "Being a communist is not a crime in this country, Francine," said Mr. Bowman, coming in the front door and shaking water off like a wet dog. "Not yet anyway." He took off his hat and brushed his hair back.

  At the door of his study he turned and said, "This anti-communist madness, like all madness, will get out of control. Mark my words. Yesterday I heard that a butcher on Melrose was picketed for advertising Polish hams." He gave a barklike little laugh, but I wasn't sure whether it was a joke or not.

  Why wasn't being a communist a crime? Except for Sophie and Mr. Mandelbaum and maybe Mr. Bowman, people seemed to think communists were dangerous and un-American, that they would use any means, even the movies, to betray and destroy us. We had to be vigilant. "This movie we're seeing on Saturday isn't about communists, is it?" I asked Sophie, being vigilant. "You said it was a musical."

  "It's about a boy and girl trying to win a dance contest. His father is a dentist."

  "That should be okay, then." I didn't think there were communist dentists, but still I was anxious. Sister once said that most movie people were communists. I hoped there wouldn't be communists at the benefit, kidnapping people and shipping them to Russia or East Germany.

  "What kind of movies does your father write?" I asked Sophie, worried that she'd say communist propaganda films about the glories of Russia.

  "He's a serious drama kind of guy."

  "Like what? I've never seen 'Written by Mr. Harry Bowman' up on the screen."

  "That's because there's no movie yet with his name on it. He says he writes a script, someone is brought in to rewrite, someone else to mutilate, and someone else to destroy. And the destroyer gets the screen credit."

  That couldn't be true. I was certain that movie people were as wonderful as the movies. Maybe Mr. Bowman just wasn't a very good writer yet. "What if he wrote a movie for Montgomery Clift someday? Wouldn't that be too much?" I rocked quietly for a minute, relishing the thought. "What about you?" I asked her finally. "Do you think you'll be a writer, too?"

  "You bet. I'm going to be a crusading reporter and expose injustice wherever I find it." She leaned over and picked up the shiny wooden nut bowl from the coffee table. After examining all the nuts carefully, she selected one. "I'll never get married—no husband, no kids. Just dogs. And a green convertible." The nutcracker closed on the nut with a sharp sound. "What about you?"

  Be an actor, Miss Velma had said, but I wasn't ready to tell anyone about that yet, not even Sophie. "Probably I'll just live with my parents all my life," I told her. "Maybe they'll let me get a cat or a parakeet or something." I thought about it while Sophie continued demolishing nuts. Catholic girls who didn't become nuns were supposed to be Catholic wives and mothers. I didn't want to be a nun, but I couldn't imagine getting married. I still hadn't spoken a word to Gordon, much less had a date. I'd have to get a job somewhere.

  My father worked for a company on Wilshire Boulevard that built housing developments in the San Fernando Valley. He was a member of the International Federation of Professional and Technical Engineers, and his union dues were the only bill he ever paid without grumbling. My mother did the laundry made martoonies, and cut out coupons to save money. For fun they played canasta and listened to Fibber McGee and Molly on the radio. I didn't want to be like them.

  The question of my future had been on my mind ever since Vocation Day when our class was visited by student nuns from the Order of Mary Help of Sinners, to which our Sisters belonged. They visited eighth-grade classes all over Los Angeles every year to share with us the joys of nunhood, joys so great we would want to be like them—living together all their lives, never getting married or having babies, singing and praying and working in eternal poverty, chastity, and obedience.

  The student nuns were young and perky, not at all the type I would imagine wanting to be nuns. They wore short skirts and tiny white veils that left their hair mostly uncovered. One called Miss O'Hara giggled a lot and had wavy red hair that fell to her waist. I couldn't imagine why she'd want to hide in a convent all her life.

  After the visitors left, Sister Basil had asked us, "How many of you girls aspire to join the Holy Sisterhood?"

  The Perfect and Admirable Mary Agnes Malone was the first to raise her hand, of course, and then most of the girls raised theirs, too. Susan, Gert, Sophie, and I were the only ones with our hands still folded on our desks. Sister stared at Susan until her hand went up, and then Gert's followed. It was just Sophie and me. Unlike most Catholic girls, I'd never wanted to be a nun. I thought about being a saint sometimes—it seemed the highest calling to which a Catholic girl could aspire, since Mother of God was already taken—but never a
nun.

  Sister walked a little way down the aisle and stood next to my desk, looking right at me, her black eyebrows like a slash across her white face. When she raised her left eyebrow, I could feel my hand begin to rise, as if a string were tied from that eyebrow to my arm. Slowly, slowly, up it went. And Sister nodded.

  She looked at Sophie for a minute but shrugged and walked away. Even Sister Basil could only do so much.

  A note was waggled at me. A nun? You don't really want to, do you?

  Jeepers, no. I didn't want to raise my hand, but it was like I couldn't help it. I think Sister Rotten has magical powers.

  Could you believe the part about poverty, chastity, and obedience?

  No money, no men, and no mind of your own. Sounds a lot like my life.

  Suddenly Sister was standing beside me, so close I could smell the slightly sweet and soapy nun smell of her. She was swinging her rosary beads and smiling. "Francine, would you care to share with the class what you find so interesting?"

  My heart jumped and a shiver ran through my body. Sophie stood up, pocketing the note. "It was not Francine but me, Sister," she said. "I was being rude, impertinent, and blasphemous, as usual. Do you want me to go stand in the trash can?"

  "Sit down," Sister growled.

  Since that day a week ago 1 had been wondering about my future. And now Sophie had asked, "What about you?" Well, what about me? Could I really be an actress? I imagined myself on a movie set with Montgomery Clift or Clark Gable, starring in some romantic drama, tingling with excitement, opening my mou—...That's as far as 1 got. Even in my daydream I couldn't open my mouth. It would take some sort of miracle to turn me into a movie star.

  "I suppose I could work in a pet store," I told Sophie, "feed the hamsters or something." Yes, that sounded more like me.