The Rising Star of Rusty Nail

by Lesley M. M. Blume

  “Fine,” snapped Franny. “I’ll do the porch. But you owe me a huge favor.”

  “Thanks, old pal,” said Sandy, suddenly sounding remarkably chipper, and she hung up.

  After Mayor Reverend Jerry’s sermon, Franny walked over to Charlie’s house alone. The first coat of paint on the porch had dried overnight. She rang the doorbell.

  To Franny’s enormous surprise, the Russian opened the door.

  “Yes?” she said formally, looking down at Franny.

  “U-u-uh,” stuttered Franny nervously. “I’m just here to finish painting the porch.”

  “All right,” said Olga, yawning. She wore the same lovely silk robe she’d been wearing the day before, and something about her suggested a warm, luxuriant morning nap. “Knock when you are finished,” she said, and she began to shut the front door.

  “The paint and brushes are in the foyer,” Franny said quickly.

  “Oh,” said Olga. “Come in and get them.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Koenig,” she said, reaching for the screen door.

  “My name is not Koenig,” Olga snapped. “It is Malenkov. Madame Malenkov to you, Dyevushka.”

  “Oh,” said Franny. “But I thought you were married to Charlie.”

  The Russian looked perplexed for a minute and tapped her fingers on her lips. And then she said: “Come in and get the paint if you want it.”

  Franny scurried inside and gathered up the supplies as Olga drifted off into the kitchen. Franny went back out onto the porch. She daringly left the front door open and closed only the screen door, thus providing herself with a clear view into the house. Beginning with the banisters, she began coating the porch with a second layer of white paint.

  Soon she heard soothing kitchen noises coming from the back of the house: a teakettle whistling, water rushing quietly in a sink, the clink of silverware on a plate. Then, after a little while, there was a flutter of silk, and Olga swept through the hallway and into the parlor, where Franny had first seen her.

  Franny crawled over to the parlor window and, on her knees, painted the section of porch below the window. From inside, she heard the familiar creak of the lid above the piano keys being lifted. Olga began to play scales to warm up her fingers. Up and down four octaves she went, and even this basic exercise sounded thrilling to Franny.

  Suddenly the scales stopped, and Olga began to play a piece that Franny had never heard before. It was captivating, and as Franny listened, she could visualize the notes of the melody. She stopped painting and sat down beneath the window. After a few minutes, she peeked over the sill, just as she and Sandy had done a week earlier.

  Olga’s back faced the porch. Her fingers glided over the keys, and she bowed and raised her head dramatically as she played. Franny stared at the pianist’s fingers and noted with surprise that the artist’s hands were as large and inelegant as those of any farmer from Rusty Nail.

  Olga stopped playing to turn a page of the music. Then she froze and dropped her hands to the keyboard.

  “I know that you are watching me, Dyevushka,” she said.

  Franny’s face burned with embarrassment. “How could you tell?”

  Olga turned around. “Because I have eyes in the back of my head,” she said, narrowing the eyes in the front of her head.

  “I wasn’t trying to spy; I was just listening,” Franny tried to explain. Big fat baby tears welled in the corners of her eyes. She was suddenly very glad that Sandy wasn’t there.

  Olga still glared at her. “It seems that you like to spy a good deal. Every time I come downstairs, I expect to see two beady little eyes looking at me through the windows.”

  Franny swallowed. “I’m sorry, Madame Mackelov, but—”

  “Malenkov!” Olga interrupted sharply.

  “Malenkov,” Franny repeated, her face reddening even more. “It’s just that … I’ve just never seen anyone really good play the piano before.” And then, to her humiliation, a big tear ran down the side of her nose.

  Olga stared at her. Franny thought that the Russian was going to reprimand her some more, but instead, the woman said: “Well, you will be glad to know that this is not the first time my Rachmaninoff has brought someone to tears. I am glad that I have not lost my touch.”

  Franny quickly wiped away her tear. “It’s the first time that your what has made someone cry?” she asked.

  “My Rachmaninoff,” Olga said, pronouncing the name with great Russian gusto, emphasizing every syllable. “The famous composer. Why have you not heard of him? I thought that Charles said that you are a pianist of the highest stature.”

  “I don’t know,” Franny said dully. “I guess my old teacher just never taught me him.”

  “Even if she had, you probably could not have played his music,” Olga said haughtily. “Very few women can. Their hands are too small. You need wide, wonderful hands to play Rachmaninoff’s beautiful work. Let me see yours.”

  Franny held her paint-spattered hands up in front of the window. Olga came over to inspect them through the screen.

  “Well,” she said after a moment. “They are good hands after all. Very wide for a girl. You will either be a very good pianist or, more likely, a very good farm wife. I hope you have a good teacher.” She strode back to her piano.

  A farm wife! This woman had a lot of nerve. “I don’t have a teacher anymore!” Franny shouted. “So I guess I’ll just have to be a farmer, ’cause there’s no one left in this dumb town to teach me.” The tears threatened to return, and she bent down and started painting again so that Olga couldn’t see her face.

  The Russian didn’t say anything. She just turned back to the keyboard and started playing. Not a beautiful piece this time but a wild piece, filled with trickery and teasing. Franny painted the porch floor with hard, swift strokes.

  She worked long after Olga stopped playing and left the music room. Charlie came home and complimented her work, but she barely heard him. When she was done, Franny cupped her hands around her mouth and called up at the house: “I’m done!”

  No response—not even a flicker of a curtain. In a foul mood, Franny stuffed her hands into her pockets and stalked back home.

  That night, Franny’s noisy thoughts kept her awake. She tossed and turned in her bed and thought nasty thoughts about the Russian. Everyone had been right: Commies were just mean, haughty people, and now Franny could see why people in America hated them so much.

  But as the heavy, maize-colored moon rose in the big sky outside Franny’s window, she kept thinking about what Sandy had said to her at the Klompenhower farm: I mean, you’re real good at the piano and all, but maybe it’s not meant to be or somethin’.

  And every time Franny heard this in her mind, she scowled and kicked at her covers. Defiance swelled in her and then died down and then swelled again, like water boiling and subsiding in a pot over and over again.

  Then an impossible black thought crossed her mind: maybe she should try to convince Olga to be her new piano teacher.

  Her stomach prickled as she pondered the possibility: What would the women at the Colosseum say? Would they all think that she was in cahoots with the spy? Not to mention that Olga herself was terrifying! Just being around her made Franny feel jittery and like she was doing something wrong, but wasn’t that what Franny’s dad meant by “going to the crossroads”? After his Duke Ellington tale, Wes’s next favorite story was about Robert Johnson, a blues musician who’d gone once to a certain crossroads in Mississippi. According to the legend, there he met up with the devil and sold him his soul. In exchange, the devil made him a master at the guitar.

  Now that Franny thought about it, Olga lived at a crossroads too: Charlie’s house sat on the corner of Oak Street and Fair Street. This fact seemed like no coincidence. Olga’s appearance seemed nothing short of a dark miracle. And then Sandy had been talking about signs the other day. Wasn’t this as strong a sign as any?

  Finally, at about three a.m., an exhausted Franny resolved to go back
to Olga’s house that week and secretly ask the lady to teach her. Something in her gut told her that she had to do it.

  After all, people in Rusty Nail usually didn’t get second chances. If Franny was the rare exception, she’d better take advantage of it.

  Nearly a week passed before Franny got up the nerve to approach Olga. Four days in a row, she left the Polk School and walked toward the Russian’s house, only to have her courage falter once the house came into sight. And each day when she got back to Main Street, Franny loitered in front of Charlie’s office, hoping that the woman would come by. She did not.

  In fact, the Russian didn’t make a single appearance in town, which of course made the townspeople even madder. Not only was Olga a Commie, everyone mumbled, but she was an uppity Commie! It was just Rusty Nail’s luck to land a snotty Russian.

  Finally, on Friday, Franny forced herself to march up the freshly painted porch stairs and ring the bell. A few minutes passed.

  “Yes?” said Olga’s voice at last. She didn’t even bother to open the door a crack.

  “It’s Franny, Madame Malenkov,” said Franny, her voice quavering.

  “Who?” said the voice, with a trace of irritation.

  Franny swallowed. “Frances Hansen,” she said. “I painted your porch.”

  Silence.

  “You know, the spy,” Franny added somewhat desperately.

  Olga opened the door and looked down at her stiffly. “Now what do you want?” she said.

  “U-u-uh,” Franny stammered. “I just, um, wanted to know if you needed anything else done around the house.”

  “No,” Olga answered, starting to close the door. She winced in pain, and Franny saw that she was wearing a back brace. “Charles will let you know if we do.”

  “Wait!” said Franny, knowing that a fully closed door meant that she had failed completely. “I mean, I can do anything. I can build things, and clean too. That sort of thing.” Ugh! she thought. If Sandy heard me actually asking for more work, I’d never hear the end of it!

  Olga closed the door without another word.

  There was nothing left for Franny to do but go home and fume. But, of course, being told no only made her more determined.

  And so, the next afternoon, she went back to the crossroads. This time Olga slammed the door shut without even saying a word.

  Franny refused to give in. The very next day, she walked yet again to the Russian’s house.

  This time Olga opened the door before Franny even reached out to ring the doorbell.

  “I think that I know what you want, Dyevushka,” she declared before Franny could say anything. “You do not seem like a good-Samaritan type who does housework without expecting something in return. So, listen to me: I do not teach the piano to beginners.”

  “I’m not a beginner!” yelled Franny. “And my name is Franny, not Dee-ev-oosh-ka, or whatever you keep saying. And if you don’t give me lessons, no one will. I’ll go to waste, and it will be your fault.”

  Olga pursed her lips in disapproval. “Do you not know who I am?” she thundered. “I am a great performer, Dyevushka, not a common teacher who gives away lessons like at a charity.”

  Franny scowled. “Well, who are you performing for here in Rusty Nail? You haven’t even left your house yet! And I’m not looking for charity. I’ll work for my lessons— like I told you. Please?”

  “The answer is no, no, and no again,” Olga said. “I have enough problems in my life right now without a meddlesome girl making demands on me.” And then, as she started to close the door, she yelled, “Ohhh!” and grabbed at her back brace.

  “What happened to your back?” Franny asked nosily. “I hurt it lifting one of those boxes,” Olga moaned. “Now go away, girl.”

  Franny gave one last plea before the door closed. “Please give me a chance!” she exclaimed. “I was born to play the piano—everyone says so!”

  Olga opened the door again and glared at her. “Let me ask you a question, Dyevushka,” she said.

  “Okay,” said Franny warily.

  “If something happened to your hands tomorrow, and you couldn’t play the piano ever again—would you die?”

  Franny blinked. Was this some sort of trick question? She racked her mind. What did people need to live? Water, food, a house. She couldn’t imagine a Red Cross survival kit containing a piano.

  “I don’t think so,” she ventured.

  “Aha!” exclaimed Olga triumphantly. “You see? Then you weren’t born to play the piano after all. For real pianists, playing is not a hobby—it’s the very basis of their lives and souls, and they have no choice: play or die. Now leave me alone.”

  And she slammed the door.

  A few days later, Sandy and Franny played an after-school game of marbles on the sidewalk in front of Wes’s Main Street office. Franny had won all but two of Sandy’s marbles, and she aimed at a big blue one just inside the chalk circle they’d drawn on the ground.

  “You’d better not take Old Blue,” Sandy growled. “It took me fifty-three games to win that from Lowell.” Lowell was her fifteen-year-old brother, and he was the town’s expert marbles player.

  Franny flicked her marble into the ring and hit Old Blue with a satisfying clack.

  “To the victor go the spoils,” she said, using a phrase she’d learned in history class that week. She reached into the ring and snatched the marble out.

  “Hey-y-y!” shouted Sandy. “No fair! Your hand was way inside the line.” They argued until someone behind them said:

  “No brawling on the sidewalk, girls. It’s just not ladylike.”

  They turned around and saw Charlie Koenig standing over them, holding several big bags of groceries and packages from the butcher.

  “Why’re you carryin’ all those bags?” Sandy asked, shielding her eyes from the late-afternoon sun. “Isn’t your fancy wife supposed to do all the shoppin’ for you now?”

  Charlie laughed. “She’s not feeling so well right now,” he answered. “And I’m going out of town on a case for a week or two. So I figured that I’d stock up for her before I left.”

  “And I bet she makes you wear her apron ’round the house too, huh, Charlie?” Sandy said.

  Charlie reached into a bag, pulled out an apple, and bounced it right off the top of Sandy’s head.

  “Boy, you’re sassy, Sandy Anne,” he said, smirking, and he walked toward his house on Oak Street.

  The girls watched him go.

  “Why doesn’t that woman just come out of her house already?” Sandy said, picking up the apple and dusting it off on her sleeve. “It’s not like there’s a firin’ squad waitin’ for her. Not a real one, anyway.”

  Franny wasn’t listening. So, Charlie’s going out of town, she thought. That gave her just the idea she was looking for.

  Pleased, she picked up a marble, shot it into the circle, and took Sandy’s last marble as victor’s loot.

  The next morning, Charlie drove out of town in his mint green Ford sedan. Olga drew all of the curtains across the windows of their house and hunkered down in her fortress.

  Several blocks away, Franny secretly plotted her strategy. She let three days pass, then four, and decided that day five of Charlie’s absence would be the right time to strike.

  That day, after school, she strode to the Russian’s house. She rang the doorbell three times before Olga answered.

  “Oh, for the love of God—now what?” she said when she saw Franny standing there. A huge heap of moving boxes still cluttered the foyer, and packing paper littered the floor.

  “Charlie told me to come by to see if you needed anything,” Franny lied boldly. “He said you were sick.”

  “I am not sick,” Olga said peevishly. “I hurt my back, that’s all. I do not need anything.”

  “Are you sure?” Franny pressed. “It sure looks to me like you need some help cleaning up in there. Charlie said to help you, and he’ll be mad at me if you make me go away again.”

&nbs
p; “He said that?” Olga asked suspiciously.

  “He said he’d make me paint the whole outside of the house,” Franny persisted. “And then you’d have to have me around all the time.”

  “I suppose I would not mind some help cleaning up the kitchen,” Olga conceded, looking as though she’d just been defeated at chess. “And I need some fresh milk too. All right—come in, Dyevushka.”

  Franny scrambled into the house. Piles of dirty dishes covered the counter near the sink. The Russian lay on a couch in the living room while Franny started tidying up. When she finished washing the counters, she ran out to Hans Zimmerman’s grocery store and got several bottles of milk, which she placed neatly in Olga’s refrigerator.

  “Madame Malenkov—I’m done,” Franny said, peeking into the living room. Olga lay there, the back of her hand on her forehead like a tragic silent-film star. “Do you want to see what a good job I did?”

  Olga heaved herself off the sofa and staggered into the kitchen. “Very good,” she said. “Thank you.” She reached for her purse and handed Franny a dollar.

  “Thank you, but I don’t need your dollar,” Franny said humbly. “I’ll tell you what, though. I’ll come back and help you every day that Charlie’s gone if you just give me one little piano lesson. Just think about it—all that help, and all you’d have to do is sit there and listen to me play for half an hour. And if you think that I’m good enough to teach some more, I’ll help you after he gets back in exchange for lessons.” Her own boldness shocked her, but the words kept coming out anyway.

  Olga looked like she might cry from frustration. “How many times do I have to tell you, Dyevushka? No, no, no, no. Do you not speak English? In that case: Nyet! Non! Nein! Nie!”

  “Please?” Franny pleaded. “Just one lesson, and if you don’t think I’m good enough, I’ll never ask you again. And I’ll still help you until Charlie comes back anyway. Either way, you win—see?”

  Olga looked like she was really going to let Franny have it, but instead she got up and limped into the foyer.

  “Follow me,” she said.