Franny marched triumphantly after Olga into the music room. The Russian sat on a little couch near the front window and closed her eyes, her hands on her back.
“Go sit down at the piano,” she instructed.
“Aren’t you going to come sit next to me?” asked Franny over her shoulder as she sat in front of the splendid piano.
“I am not giving you a lesson,” said Olga. “I want you to play your best piece for me, so I can see how much of an amateur you really are. Go ahead and begin.”
Franny took a deep breath, and her hands trembled. What should she play? Olga was a dramatic person, and therefore, the situation clearly called for the most dramatic piece Franny knew. She decided to play the only Russian piece she knew, by Tchaikovsky, hoping that it would curry favor with Olga. She racked her mind to remember the notes.
“I am waiting,” said Olga, tapping her foot on the floor.
Franny pretended that she was back at her apartment, practicing the piece. Slowly the jumpy haze in her busy mind cleared, and in her mind she saw the notes on the paper. She began to play, tentatively at first, and then with greater gusto. She liked what she heard, and played more showily. Remembering what Olga had looked like at the piano, Franny tried bowing and raising her head in time with the music. Her fantasy about charming a Russian with Russian music was coming true at last!
She finished the piece with great relish. Silently congratulating herself, Franny folded her hands in her lap and waited for Olga’s astonished praise to wash over her.
Instead, a long silence followed. And then the Russian said: “Your playing is melodramatic and you are utterly undisciplined. Your fingering is appalling. And your head movements are gauche. You are as primitive as I suspected.”
Humiliated, Franny got up to leave. Her face burned. “But—to my surprise, you are not beyond hope,” Olga said. “Somehow, under all of that noise, you seem to have good musical instinct.”
“What does that mean?” asked Franny, not knowing how to feel about anything at that point.
“It means that you have something good in your playing that cannot be taught,” Olga said, and sighed. “I will make this deal with you. You must unpack all of my boxes and clean the house and do the grocery shopping and the dishes for me until Charlie gets back. If you do a good job, then I will give you a lesson.”
“It’s a deal,” Franny said. She had to stop herself from reaching out to shake Olga’s hand, Sandy-style.
“Just a minute, Dyevushka,” Olga commanded. “I want you to know that under other circumstances, you would not meet my standards, and I am making an exception now only because I need your help in the house. If you are lazy or if you disappoint me, I will not think twice about leaving you to your bad fingering.”
Franny grew excited despite Olga’s harsh words. “When will my first lesson be?” she asked.
“Come after school each day next week, and on Friday will be your lesson,” answered Olga. “And if you annoy me in any way, or spy on me—no lesson. And that includes keeping that ragamuffin friend of yours out of the bushes as well.”
This last part was a tall order, but Franny nodded gratefully. “Thank you very much,” she said.
“And do not forget to tell your mother where you are each day,” said Olga. “I do not want a hysterical housewife knocking on my door, thinking that a Communist has kidnapped her daughter.”
So Olga knew about the rumors flying around Rusty Nail. Franny didn’t know what to say to that.
“Do not just stand there like a stick of wood,” Olga said. “Go home. Now I have a headache from your Tchaikovsky in addition to the pain in my back.”
Franny was just about to leave when Olga called to her: “Wait! There is one more thing, Dyevushka. While you work here, you are never, never to answer the phone if it rings, do you understand?”
“What?” said Franny. “How come?”
Olga scowled. “That is not your affair. If you disobey me about this, you will not set foot in this house again.”
“Okay,” agreed Franny, confused. Why would Olga not want to talk to anyone? Lorraine talked on the phone for hours at a time, twirling the cord around her finger and examining her nails.
She left and sprinted all the way home, both thrilled and petrified about the deal she’d cut at the Rusty Nail crossroads. Franny could hardly believe that her plan had worked. Not only was she getting lessons from a pro, she now had keys to the fortress that no one else in Rusty Nail had been able to invade.
But first she had to tell her parents.
“So, guess what happened at football practice today,” said Owen that evening at dinner, mashed potato churning around in his mouth like clothes in a washing machine.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” said Lorraine. “What happened?”
“We all ran outta the locker room and Crazy Frankie was passed out right in the middle of the field,” said Jessie. “Lying there like a dead raccoon. It took three of us to haul him away, and he smelled like the bathroom over at Elmer’s Bar.”
“And just how do you know what Elmer’s Bar smells like?” exclaimed Lorraine, sitting up straight as a poker.
Jessie blushed up to his hairline. “I meant, he smells what I think that place would smell like,” he said quickly. “Jeez, Ma—I’m just trying to be creative in my storytelling.”
Lorraine glared at him suspiciously as she handed the tuna casserole to Owen. Franny figured that it was as good a time as any to tell everyone her news.
“So, guess what happened to me today,” she said as casually as possible, studying the dismal contents of her plate. “After school, I went over to Charlie’s house to bring his new wife some groceries because she hurt her back and can’t go shopping by herself and he’s out of town and then she offered to give me a piano lesson because she’s a famous pianist and all I have to do is go over there every day after school to help her unpack and stuff.”
She peered meekly up to see how her announcement had gone over.
Everyone was staring at her, their forks frozen in the air halfway to their mouths, as though time had suddenly stopped. Even the radio in the living room seemed to go silent.
Wes cleared his throat. “What did you say?” he asked.
Franny sank down in her chair as though she’d drunk a shrinking potion from Alice in Wonderland. “Madame Malenkov’s going to give me a piano lesson if I help her around the house,” she said.
“Madame what?” shouted Jessie. “You call her ’Madame Mal-vee-koff’? You’re going to work for the Commie spy? Are you crazy?”
“Miss Hamm is definitely rubbing off on you, isn’t she,” added Owen. “I’ll call the loony bin and tell ’em to have a room waiting.”
Wes and Lorraine looked at each other with surprise. “And just how did this come about?” asked Lorraine.
“I already told you,” said Franny, growing indignant.
“Fran-ces,” said Wes, staring down at her with the gravity of God and country. “You and Sandy haven’t been harassing that woman in any way, have you?”
“No-o!” Franny lied. “Sandy and I were just over there painting the porch, and Charlie told her that I play the piano too, and one thing led to another. Can I go?”
Lorraine stood up and started snatching plates off the table. “I’m not very comfortable with this arrangement,” she said. “First of all, we don’t even know this woman. I don’t like the way she hasn’t even come out of her house, but invites you in with open arms for some reason. It sounds fishy to me. And how much would she charge? We can’t afford a fancy teacher like Nancy Orilee’s parents.”
“She won’t charge anything,” said Franny desperately. “I’d work for her in exchange for the first lesson, and if it goes well, she’ll give me more. And you said yourself that it’s bad to judge someone without having even met them! Isn’t that what you’re doing now?”
Lorraine clattered a pot down into the sink. “Hmph,” she said, clearly annoyed
to have been caught in a hypocritical moment. “That’s only all right when I say it, but not you. I’m going to call her right now and talk this over.” She marched over to the phone and dialed Charlie’s number. An electrically tense silence charged the room as the family waited for Olga to answer.
“She’s not picking up,” said Lorraine, frowning as she hung up.
“That’s ’cause she has a hurt back!” shouted Franny. “She can’t get up!”
Wes stood up next to his wife. “Hold on a minute, Lorraine. Don’t get so upset,” he said, and Franny felt the pendulum subtly swing in the other direction. “This might be a great thing for Franny. The Russian’s a famous pianist, you said? What are the odds of that? I don’t see any real harm in letting her have one lesson. Who else is going to teach her?”
“I just don’t think …,” Lorraine trailed off warily.
“I guess that old trout Smitty’s gotten to you after all,” Wes said. “I always thought that you were way too sensible to succumb to mass hysteria about this Commie invasion nonsense.”
“No one’s being hysterical,” answered Lorraine. “I just don’t want there to be any trouble, that’s all.”
Wes’s eyes shone like they did when he talked about Duke Ellington. “Oh, I doubt there’s going to be any trouble,” he said. “The woman is Charlie’s wife, after all— and don’t forget that he loves Rusty Nail and everyone in it. He wouldn’t have come back here after law school if he didn’t. And in any case—in this place, we have to take whatever opportunities come our way, ’cause the pickings are slim.”
Franny nodded piteously at her mother.
“I’ll think about it, but I’m not making any promises,” said Lorraine, clearly still dubious. “But I’m going to call her this week to talk things over.”
“I’ll take care of it,” said Wes quickly. “I’ll swing by her house tomorrow, introduce myself, and see what’s what. I don’t want you to worry about a thing.” He gave his wife a peck on the cheek. Then he leaned over and ruffled Franny’s hair. “Let’s give it a shot,” he said.
In the living room, a big-band program came on the radio.
“Oh, this is a good song—it’s Count Basie!” Wes yelled. “Franny, c’mere!”
Franny leaped up from the table and ran after him into the living room. To her surprise, Wes pushed her music books off his trumpet case for the first time in many months and pulled out the shining brass instrument. Then he turned up the radio as loud as it would go, and “One O’Clock Jump” blared out of the speakers.
“You try to play along on the piano, and I’ll play too,” Wes shouted over the music. “One, two, three!”
He blew into his trumpet with all of his might. Franny stood in front of the keyboard and tried to play some of the chords, glancing over her shoulder at her father.
“That’sa girl!” Wes yelled, and put the trumpet to his mouth again. His cheeks swelled out like balloons as he blew. Franny tried to listen carefully and imitate the melody. The music got wilder and wilder, and they both played as hard as they could. The ruckus grew so loud that Lorraine and Owen and Jessie stuck their fingers in their ears. At last, the song thundered to an end, and Wes let out a final deafening blast. Franny leaped up and down and clapped.
From outside, Stella Brunsvold hollered up from the sidewalk below: “Quiet up there, Wes Hansen! Who d’ya think ya are, waking up the whole neighborhood like that?” even though it was only seven o’clock.
Flushed, Wes tossed his trumpet onto the couch and slammed the living-room window shut. He stalked over to his daughter and gave her a fierce hug.
“You might just make it after all, Mozart,” he said, and squeezed her extra hard.
The next afternoon, right after school, Franny ran straight home. But instead of going upstairs to her apartment, she burst into her father’s accounting office on the ground floor.
Her father sat behind a huge desk covered with a mess of papers. An old, heavy adding machine with a crank teetered on the edge of the desk, and the faint smell of cigars filled the room. A Farmers Bank of Rusty Nail calendar, set to the wrong month, dangled from a nail on one of the wood-paneled walls.
“Hey there, Mozart,” Wes said, looking up from his work and smiling. He wore a green eyeshade, which made him look very official. “Staying out of trouble?”
Franny nodded. “Did you go talk to Madame Malenkov yet?” she asked nervously. “What’d she say?” All day long, she’d been worrying about the meeting. If Olga had told Wes the truth about how Franny had begged and wangled her way into the lesson deal, her parents were sure to be embarrassed and keep her from going back to “harass” the Russian.
“I haven’t had time to go over there yet,” Wes said. “Look at this place. The only sure things in life are death, taxes, and that your old man will always have more work than he can handle.”
Franny threw herself down in one of the hard leather chairs in front of his desk, as though she was one of his customers. “Well, when will you have time?” she asked.
“Later,” her father answered vaguely, going back to his work on one of his ledgers.
“Can I come along?” Franny nudged. She wanted to be there to manage the situation as much as possible.
“Sure.”
“Can we go today? When you’re finished with work? As soon as you’re done?”
Wes put his pen down in amused annoyance. “All right, all right,” he said, getting up. “Since you’re clearly not going to let me get a moment of peace until I go over there, let’s go now.” He headed for the door.
Franny’s heart pounded as they walked up Fair Street toward Olga’s house. They climbed the porch stairs, and Wes knocked on the front door.
“Dad!” Franny hissed. “Take off your eyeshade!” Wes was always forgetting to take it off when he left the office, sometimes wearing it to dinner or while he drank beers at Elmer’s Bar. Franny knew somehow that Olga would not be terribly impressed by it.
No one answered the door, so Wes knocked again.
“Let me try,” suggested Franny. She cupped her hands and called into the crack between the door and the frame: “Madame Malenkov—it’s me, Franny Hansen!”
Footsteps approached the front door.
“I told you not to come until next week, Dyevush—” Olga said as she opened the door, stopping in midsentence when she saw Wes standing there. “Yes?” she said formally, standing up as straight as possible in her back brace.
“Hi—I’m Wes Hansen, Franny’s dad,” Wes said, sticking out his hand to shake Olga’s. The Russian only looked at it coldly, not moving.
“Her back hurts, Dad,” Franny whispered, desperately trying to put a good face on things.
Wes put his hand back down. “Oh! Sorry,” he fumbled. “Well—um, welcome to Rusty Nail! The folks ’round here are real curious about meeting you.”
Another stony silence followed. Franny’s heart sank.
“How can I help you?” Olga said, finally.
Wes seemed taken aback. “I understand that you’ve offered to give Franny piano lessons,” he said. “And Franny’s mother and I are grateful for it. She’s a real Mozart, you know.”
Franny’s face reddened.
“And, well, um … I’m sure that you’re used to training some fancy students where you come from,” Wes went on, twisting his eyeshade in his hands. Franny had never seen her father so nervous before! “It’s just that—and I hate to say this—we can’t afford to pay real steep prices. We paid her old teacher a dollar a lesson. And I just wanted to make sure that there was no misunderstanding on that count.”
Olga cleared her throat. “You do not need to pay me,” she said. “Your daughter and I have an arrangement. She will help me here with the housework, and if she does a good job, I may teach her. Nothing is for certain yet.”
Franny shot the Russian a grateful look for giving her father such an edited version of their deal.
“Oh—well,” said Wes. “That
’s really very generous of you. Are you sure that’s all you need?”
“All I require is good work,” Olga said. “And more importantly—absolute privacy. Good day.” She began to close the door.
“I can guarantee that she won’t disappoint you,” Wes jabbered on. “Hey—did she tell you that I also had a chance to be a big-deal musician once—did she tell you about the time Duke Ellington came to town?”
But the door was already shut, and Olga did not open it again.
Wes just stared at it incredulously. After a few moments, they turned and walked down the stairs.
“Well, she’s certainly not the … warmest person I’ve ever met,” he said as they headed back toward Main Street. “But if this is your big chance, it’s your big chance.” He put his eyeshade back on and mustered up a smile for Franny. “Now let’s go home and give your mother the all-clear sign.”
Franny breathed a sigh of relief. “So, you really don’t care about all the mean stuff that women are saying about her in the Colosseum?” she asked.
“You know what?” Wes said. “If this woman was an alien with twenty-two eyes, I’d probably still say yes if she could make you into the star you deserve to be. It’s time for you to get serious.”
To celebrate, he treated Franny to a huge chocolate egg-cream at the town’s soda fountain—which, fortunately, ruined her appetite for the Spam supper Lorraine cooked up that evening.
The following Monday, Sandy waited for Franny outside the school.
“You’re here just in time,” she said excitedly. “We have five minutes before the bell. I told Runty we’d meet him at the dumpster outside the cafeteria.”
“Why?” asked Franny.
Sandy looked at Franny with unrestrained impatience. “Frances,” she said. “What day is it?”
“It’s Monday,” answered Franny.
“Correct,” said Sandy. “It is Monday, October twenty-sixth. Do you even realize what that means?”
“No,” said Franny. “Have you lost your mind?” cried Sandy. “It means that we have only five days left until Halloween. Only five days left to plan our pranks. And guess who the prank guest of honor is this year?”
The Rising Star of Rusty Nail Page 9
