The Loud Silence of Francine Green

by Karen Cushman

  The afternoon drifted away. And the whole week. Still no letter from Monty. On Saturday we went to the movie. Mr. Mandelbaum played a friendly shopkeeper named Mr. Smiley. He still seemed like Mr. Mandelbaum, only in a white apron. I don't know if I'd call that acting.

  I was nervous, but no communists tried to kidnap me. It was just a movie.

  18

  Mr. Roberts

  It was raining again as I walked Sophie home after school. "Want to stay for dinner?" she asked.

  "I don't know," I said. "I have to find a book for my book report."

  "My dad has a million books in his den. You can borrow one of them."

  We went into a small room lined with bookcases to the ceiling. Photographs of Franklin Roosevelt, Jackie Robinson, and a woman who looked a lot like Sophie stood on the desk.

  "Here," Sophie said, grabbing a book off the seat of a soft leather chair. "Try this."

  "Are you crazy?" I said, examining the book jacket. "I can't do a report on a book named The Naked and the Dead. Sister would hang me by my ears in the playground."

  Sophie laughed and poked me with her elbow. "I know, dummy. I was joking."

  "A joke? Really? It's about time," I said.

  She pulled another book from the shelves. "How about this one? My father actually laughed."

  There was a soldier or sailor or somebody on the cover. "I don't like war books."

  She held the book above her head. "Well, perhaps that's for the best," she said. "There's no guns or fighting in this, but from what I hear, it's not exactly for children. Maybe it's too old for y—"

  I grabbed it. Mr. Roberts. It had to be better than Dotty Dimple Out West. I looked around the room. "So many books," I said. The books we owned wouldn't have filled half a shelf. "Did your father write any of them?" I asked Sophie.

  "No, he mostly just writes his movie scripts, which mostly don't get made into movies, even when the studio assigns him one to write, which they aren't doing right now."

  "Why not?"

  "He thinks it's because he helped with the benefit for Jacob Mandelbaum. His agent told him he's suspected of having 'communist sympathies.'"

  Jeepers. Was that true? I looked quickly around the room, afraid I'd see a hammer and sickle magically appear on the wall. "Does he?"

  "Have communist sympathies? You mean, like trying to help a friend who can't work because of his beliefs? Belonging to the Screenwriters' Guild and the Committee for the First Amendment? If you call that having communist sympathies, then yes, I guess he does." She sat down, and her shoulders slumped. She pushed her hair back in that way she did. "I'm worried about him. What if he can't work? Or gets put in jail? What would I do?"

  I couldn't imagine Mr. Bowman in jail. I couldn't imagine any of it—A-bombs and H-bombs, communist sympathies, losing your job or worse. It was like something out of a horror movie. "You could always live with us, Sophie." I said, "but probably it won't come to that. Maybe you could talk to your father and ask him to be more careful. Not speak up so much or call attention to himself. Not get involved. Maybe he should—"

  "Give it a rest, Francine," she said. "What do you know about it?" Her words were clipped and sharp edged, as if she had cut them with a knife.

  I was startled and a little bit hurt. If free speech meant Mr. Bowman saying what he really thought, then free speech meant I could say what I thought. But Sophie didn't seem to see it that way.

  All the talk about communists made my stomach hurt. I didn't feel like staying for dinner. I told Sophie I had to go home, even though it was my mother's meatless Wednesday—spaghetti and rice balls. You'd think there was still a war on.

  Sophie walked me toward the front door. Mr. Bowman was sitting on the couch with a martini, listening to the radio. He didn't even notice us. "Today," the voice on the radio was saying, "Senator Joseph McCarthy of Wisconsin claimed he had a list of 205 people working in our government who are known to be members of the Communist Party."

  Mr. Bowman grunted and took a sip of his martini. When the newscast paused for a commercial—"Lucky Strike means fine tobacco"—I sat down on the arm of the couch. "Is that true?" I asked Mr. Bowman. "Are there really communists in the government?"

  "I don't know, Francine," he said, "and neither does Senator McCarthy or anyone else. And what if there are? Is there any proof that they are disloyal or dangerous or planning to overthrow the government? Innocent people will suffer, mark my words."

  I stomped in puddles all the way home. I was not happy (splash!). I wanted the world to be clean and neat, black and white. I wanted the bad guys to be punished, the good rewarded, and I wanted it to be easy to tell who was who (splash!). I wanted the government to be right and fair, to keep us safe and out of war. I wanted communists to go back to Russia and get rid of their bombs. I wanted Americans to get rid of our bombs (splash!). I wanted the world to be like I thought it was when I was four or five. It was much too scary now that I was thirteen (splash! splash!).

  To take my mind off communists and bombs, I started reading Mr. Roberts when I got home. I kept reading, even through the boring parts. I wanted to see what had made Mr. Bowman laugh.

  Mr. Roberts is the story of the men aboard a supply ship in the South Pacific in World War Two. They didn't fight but took food and toothpaste and toilet paper to those who did. The captain of the ship was mean and nasty, and all the men hated him. They called him Stupid behind his back. Stupid grew palm trees in buckets by the door of his cabin. They were the joy of his life. Mr. Roberts was the first lieutenant. The men loved him because he stood up for them when they got in trouble from the captain's stupid rules like no chewing gum or no taking off your shirt when it is hot. Once when the captain was especially mean to some poor sailor, Mr. Roberts threw the palm trees overboard. The crew made him a medal.

  "I'm reading Mr. Roberts," I told Sophie later, "but I can't write a book report about it."

  "Why not?" she asked.

  "Are you kidding? Sister would never approve. It's all about sailors drinking, using bad language, and chasing women."

  "So what? Probably that's what sailors do."

  I shook my head. "Doesn't matter. Sister would never approve. How come your father read this, anyway? I thought he only read serious books that improve your mind."

  "Someone gave it to him. She thought it might make a good movie."

  "I guess it would if they left out all the boring parts."

  I didn't have time to read another book, so I wrote a report on A Tree Grows in Brooklyn again. I got a B+. At No Sinners, being approved is more important than being original.

  19. March 1950

  Oklahoma! and Lepers and Mary's Maidens

  When I got home from school, I checked the mail. Still nothing from Montgomery Clift.

  Dolores called from our bedroom, "Francine, is that you?" She grabbed me as I walked in. "I need your help."

  Me? Dolores was asking me for help? I was overcome and speechless.

  "You know the high school is doing Oklahoma!?"

  I nodded.

  "Well, I'm going to try out."

  "But Dolores, you can't sing a note."

  "I'm sure there'll be some non-singing parts."

  "How could there be—it's a musical."

  Dolores socked me in the arm. "Stop interrupting. As I said, long ago, before you started pestering me about singing, I want to try out. I have to prepare a scene for my audition. Will you help me?"

  "You mean like act with you, in front of people?" My legs turned to jelly at the very thought. Obviously I wasn't ready to be a movie star yet. "I couldn't, I just couldn't."

  "You don't have to audition, you drip, just help me find a scene to do and rehearse it with me."

  "What kind of scene?"

  "I don't know. Doesn't one of those books you're always reading have a scene I could act out?"

  I thought for a moment. "I have a great idea. We just saw a movie about Father Damien in class. You know, the prie
st who went to Hawaii to work with lepers whose noses and ears were falling off and stuff." Dolores grimaced. "Just listen. Every day he preached to them, beginning, 'My friends.' One day he was soaking his feet in a bucket of boiling water and he could not feel the heat, and he knew that meant he had caught leprosy. So the next morning he stood up to give his sermon, and he said, 'My fellow lepers,' and everyone knew that he had leprosy too. Isn't that the end? It breaks me up every time. You could do that scene for your audition. 'My fellow lepers.' It just kills me."

  "That's one line, Francine. I have to prepare more than one line."

  "But—"

  "No. Nothing about lepers. What else you got?"

  "I read a play about George Washington in the—"

  "Will you be serious? I need something romantic or dramatic."

  "How about Beth's death scene from Little Women? It's dramatic."

  "I never read it."

  "Honestly, Dolores, you might as well be illiterate. I know you saw the movie. Remember? Elizabeth Taylor and Margaret O'Brien and Peter Lawford?" We both sighed, thinking of Peter Lawford.

  "Well, maybe if I could play the Elizabeth Taylor part," Dolores said, fluffing her hair.

  "Elizabeth Taylor wasn't in that scene. You should be Beth. It could go something like this."

  I instructed Dolores to lie down on her bed and put a hairbrush in her hands like a flower. "'Oh sorrow,' I say. I'm Jo. 'Oh sorrow, our blessed saintly Beth is leaving us. She is so kind and good and always tried to do right. What will we do without her?' And Jo looks out the window where spring is approaching in their little garden, kind of sniffles a little, and says, 'The birds and the flowers have come to say goodbye to our Beth and I must be brave. I love you, my Beth. Sleep well.' Now, Dolores, you cough sort of delicately and breathe a big breath like a sigh and die."

  "Francine, Jo has all the lines."

  "Well, then, you could be Jo."

  Dolores shook her head. "I'm not going to play some tomboy with a man's name."

  "I'm trying to help you, Dolores, but you just won't be helped. Why don't you read some lines from the script of Oklahoma!?"

  "Boring. Everyone will be doing that. I wanted to do something more interesting, some part that has lines and where I don't have to be called Jo. Can't you find anything good?"

  I thought Dolores shouldn't be so snippy to someone she had asked for a favor. I had half a mind to tell her to find something herself. But this challenge was right up my alley. I knew 1 could come up with the perfect romantic and dramatic scene, even if I had to write it myself.

  At school the next day, Sister had a surprise for us. "This Friday," she said, "there will be a prayer meeting at Gilmore Field sponsored by Mary's Maidens. Mrs. Thomas Murray, one of the organizers of the event, will be here today to tell us about Mary's Maidens, and I would like to make a bargain with you. If you behave, all of you," she said, looking straight at Sophie, "behave, and do not shame me in front of Mrs. Murray, we will attend the prayer meeting."

  We all cheered, in a subdued, Catholic-school sort of way. Getting out of the Sin-Free Institute for Truly Feminine People was a rare treat.

  Mrs. Thomas Murray came in after lunch. She was old, but in a strong sort of way, with kind blue eyes and silver hair piled high on her head. She was dressed all in blue, as befitted a Mary's Maiden, I thought, and spoke in a soft voice that made you want to listen. If I had to get old someday, I thought I'd like to get old like that.

  We all sat quietly, hands folded on our desks, as she began to speak. "We, Mary's Maidens, are women of all ages who seek to grow in holiness through prayer and service to others. We try to listen to God and His Holy Mother in the quiet of our hearts and do what they bid us, whether it be collecting and distributing food and clothing to the poor or sponsoring prayer meetings for the intentions of His holy church." She sounded a little like the Blessed Martin de Porres Sophie had spoken about at the speech contest. I was sure that Sophie would want to join right away.

  "On Friday we will gather together with girls from Catholic schools throughout the Los Angeles area to ask God's Holy Mother to inspire our hearts to do as God commands, without pride or desire for acclaim, but humbly, as the early Christians did, brother and sister caring for one another." Her face shone with faith and commitment. Sister beamed at her. "Will you come? Will you join your prayers to ours?"

  The Perfect and Admirable Mary Agnes Malone, of course, weasely Weslia, Florence, and some others stood and said, "We will, we will," but in the seat in front of me, Sophie stiffened. I could tell from her back that she was going to say something, something disruptive, and we would not be going to the prayer meeting.

  She started to stand, but I pulled on her sweater. "No, Sophie, don't. Please don't."

  Mrs. Murray said, "Do you young ladies have a question?" I knew when I was beaten. I let go of Sophie and she stood up. The other girls groaned.

  "Mrs. Murray, from what Sister says, the early Christians were very much like communists, living and working together, holding all their goods in common, and distributing them to each according to his need. Do you mean we should pray to be communists?"

  Mrs. Murray frowned. "My dear child, you—"

  Sophie wasn't finished. "The way Sister described Jesus and his apostles, I think they were communists, too, working together for the benefit of all, sharing their food and possessions, no man seeking to be greater or richer than another. Sister said they—"

  Mrs. Murray turned toward Sister, her blue eyes sad and puzzled and horrified at the same time. "Sister, just what is it you are teaching these children?"

  I stopped listening. It was over. We would not be going anywhere. I looked at Sister. She had tears in her eyes. Yes, Sister Basil the Rotten, with actual tears in her eyes. Who would have thought it?

  Sister was so distressed that she neglected to make Sophie stay after school. Sophie and I left together, but I walked quickly ahead of her to the bus stop. "Francine, wait," she called, but I wouldn't. I sat in the back of the bus, far from our regular seats, but she followed me and sat down.

  I looked at her. "Sophie, why? Why did you spoil it for everybody?"

  "Oh, she was such a goody-goody, I just had to ruffle her up a bit. What's the problem? Did you really want to go to this prayer thing?"

  "Actually, Mary's Maidens sounds kind of interesting. They do good work, and besides, we would have gotten out of school for a day. But that's not the point. Other people wanted to go and you ruined it."

  "I have the right to speak up, to say what I want. Free speech—"

  "I've heard all that before, Sophie Bowman. Your idea of free speech is 'act like a two-year-old and make trouble.' I don't think that's what the Constitution means by free speech. Did you ever think about keeping your mouth shut sometimes?" I surprised myself, having the nerve to say that to Sophie, but just then I didn't care if I ever saw her and her big mouth again. I turned away and looked out the window.

  We got off the bus in silence and walked toward home. Finally Sophie said, "I'm sorry, Francine, sorry I spoiled things for you. I guess I didn't have to tell her my communist apostle theory just then."

  I could tell Sophie didn't understand, but I knew I would forgive her anyway.

  20

  Joan of Arc

  The house was perfectly quiet and still smelled of our dinner meatloaf. My mother and father had gone to the movies to see Bette Davis in All About Eve, but I wasn't allowed to go with them because of Artie.

  "Why can't Dolores be in charge of Artie?" I'd asked. "He's sleeping and won't be any trouble."

  "Dolores has homework," my mother said.

  "So do I."

  "Well, then, that's another reason you can't go to the movies." She straightened her hat and pulled on her white gloves. "Dolores needs to concentrate and study very hard or she'll be in real danger of being a junior again next year. Let her work, and you take care of Artie and the dishes." She kissed me on the cheek, took my father's a
rm, and left.

  I rubbed at the sweet, sticky mark her lipstick left on my cheek. Why did I have to do everything? I thought as I dried the dinner plates. And the "everything" was so boring. I wished something exciting would happen to me, like being asked to star in a movie with Montgomery Clift, or the Virgin Mary appearing and telling me holy secrets, or God calling me to lead soldiers to save France like Joan of—

  I threw the dish towel into the air. Of course. Joan of Arc! It was a brilliant idea. It was dramatic and romantic, and the nuns would love it. Dolores could audition with a scene about Joan of Arc. All I had to do was write it.

  The next day after dinner, I found Dolores at her dressing table, pinning to the mirror frame what was either a dried corsage of yellow roses or a cabbage. "I have just the audition scene for you, Dolores. Joan of Arc."

  "Remind me who she is," she said.

  "Dolores, you remember every shade of nail polish Revlon ever made and you can't remember who Joan of Arc is?"

  "If you're going to be snotty, you can leave."

  "Okay, okay. Just listen. Picture this. England has invaded France, and Charles, the rightful king of France, sits useless in a palace in Paris. One day Joan, a French peasant girl of fourteen, is laboring in her father's fields. Labor, Dolores. You're Joan."

  Dolores stood and sort of waved her arms around.

  "You look like you're dusting the dining room," I said. "Labor, Dolores! Dig or plow or something." She waved her arms around a bit more. "Okay, Joan is laboring in the field when a brilliant figure with wings and a flaming sword" (I brandished the toilet plunger I'd brought from the bathroom) "appears to her. I'll be Saint Michael and say 'Joan, you are Lo lead a mighty army and save France from the dreadful English.' Now, Dolores, you read this."

  Dolores put on her glasses, took the script, and read, '"Why me, a peasant girl who can neither ride nor fight? Nor read nor write nor—"'