Julie Bulgar, an older lady with her light brown hair pulled into a tidy bun on the top of her head, was the baker. Her dimples were deep and pronounced when she smiled, like someone had poked her pale, doughy cheeks with two fingers just because. “How do you do, young lady?” she said.
Leon Washington, the line cook, nodded in Frankie’s direction but didn’t speak to her. He was as tall and slender as Mr. Stannum, but colored, and without any facial hair. He had a jagged scar under his right eye about the size of a key and Frankie noticed that he kept his head lowered when he talked, like he was afraid of what he might see in others, or afraid of what others might see in him.
Next to him was Seaweed Turner, a young boy no more than fifteen, the prep cook for Mr. Washington. He was tossing up a washrag by the grill, snatching it out of the air before it hit the ground, balling it up in his fist, and then tossing it again.
“I’ve got to check on the potato shipment,” said Mr. Stannum. He nodded at Amy and Frankie. “Get to work. No time to waste.”
After Mr. Stannum left, Seaweed grabbed two ends of the washrag and wound it around itself until the rag was the likeness of a rope. Then he unwound the thing and tossed it from one hand to the other.
“That’s for cleaning with, boy, not for doing no tricks,” said Mr. Washington. But Seaweed didn’t pay him any mind, and instead flashed a wide smile at Frankie and then spun around quick while the rag flew into the air. “Frankie?” he said to himself, loud enough that she could hear. “Thought that was a boy’s name.”
This time, Mr. Washington grabbed for the washrag but missed. “Boy, if you don’t start working like you playing, you going to be out of a job right quick.”
“Easy, boss,” said Seaweed, waving the rag above his head like he had just dropped his weapon and was surrendering to the other side. “I got you covered.” He flashed another smile at Frankie before dropping the rag onto the soiled grill top and leaning into it with both hands, back and forth.
“I’m not sure a boy called Seaweed has a right to make a remark about anybody else’s name,” said Frankie, her hands balled up into fists by her side. She was surprised at how quickly this came out of her mouth, but she was already riled up from having to be there in the first place, and she wasn’t going to let a smart-mouthed boy get one up on her.
Seaweed blinked and then his eyes got wide. He stopped scrubbing. Frankie stood firm and readied herself for a comeback, but he just looked at her, and eventually his mouth turned up in a grin.
“She’s got you there, Seaweed,” said Julie.
Seaweed went back to cleaning, and after a quiet minute or so, Mr. Washington whistled and said, “Oh man oh man, see here, see here. The boy’s been stumped. That’s the first time he’s shut up all day.” He hung his apron on one of the wall hooks behind him. “I’m going to the toilet,” he said to Seaweed, “and when I get back, you and me are gonna scrape clean the inside of this here oven.” The lavatory for kitchen help was in the far corner of the room, and as Mr. Washington passed by Amy and Frankie, he said, “Yep, this girl gonna be good, I say.”
“Shoot,” said Seaweed, shaking his head.
Frankie felt her cheeks burn. Amy took her arm and led her to the stack of boxes by the back door. “Don’t pay him any mind,” she whispered. “Seaweed just playing. He don’t mean nothing by it.”
Frankie didn’t know if Amy was worried about Frankie’s feelings getting hurt or if she thought Frankie would tell Daddy and get Seaweed in trouble. But Frankie wasn’t much bothered about the remark itself—after all, it wasn’t the first time somebody had made fun of her nickname, and in truth, it was a boy’s name. And one thing was for sure: Frankie Baum was no snitch. “I’m not going to tell,” she said to Amy.
Then the doors swung open, and there stood Mr. Stannum, appraising the room and any progress that had not occurred in his absence. He came to a stop in the center of the kitchen, and as he looked around, he began tapping each finger to his thumb on his right hand like he was trying to follow the beat to a drum. “Where is Leon?”
“Toilet,” said Seaweed.
Mr. Stannum craned his neck in the direction of the lavatory. He set his jaw and stared, while his fingers found a steady rhythm. Beat, beat, beat, beat. Finally, Mr. Washington emerged from the lavatory and returned to work without fail and without noticing Mr. Stannum watching him intently. But Seaweed noticed. He most certainly did. “Mr. Stannum,” he said, “you all right?”
That seemed to knock Mr. Stannum off his cadence. His fingers slowed and then came to a stop. “What?”
“You just standing there staring,” said Seaweed. “My grandma’s got sugar and does that sometime, you know, goes off staring at nothing for no good reason. Most of the time when she been into the cookie jar. You got sugar?”
Sugar was one problem Mr. Stannum didn’t have. But he had others. “Why are those boxes still unpacked?” he yelled. “Amy, I suppose you find boxes as hard as cookstoves?” He bit at each word as he spoke them, and his mouth began to produce enough froth so that by the time he got to the word “cookstoves,” a glob of spittle the size of a shirt button flew out of his mouth and clung to his mustache.
“No, sir,” said Amy. She quickly set about opening the box closest to her and pulled out a stack of aluminum jelly roll pans. She kept her eyes on her work and would not allow herself to look at Mr. Stannum, lest she see the thing that was now hanging past his lips. Amy had barely put the jelly roll pans on the counter before she dove into the next box.
Mr. Stannum shook his head—Do you know that glob of spittle hung on?—and eyeballed the grill top. “Didn’t I tell you that a steel brush is what you need for that?” he growled at Seaweed. “You’ve got to be hard on it. It’s the only way you’ll get anywhere, for Pete’s sake.” Only he didn’t say “for Pete’s sake.” He said something worse and seemed to forget that Frankie was standing right there. His fingers were really moving now, as if he was still trying to follow that drum and keep time to it, but he could barely hear its beat, beat, beat.
“Don’t you worry none, Mr. Stannum,” said Mr. Washington. “We’ll be ready.”
“We’ll be ready,” mocked Mr. Stannum. “We’ll be ready. Look around you! Do you know how much there is to do before this is a working kitchen? A couple of weeks. We’ve got a measly couple of weeks and I’ve got . . . I’ve got”—he looked around and threw up his arms—“this.” The spittle couldn’t hang on any longer. It fell, first stretching into a thin line and then finally letting go of those silver hairs and splattering on the toe of his shoe. Whether he noticed or not was uncertain, but he muttered a few words to himself about colored people, and having to do everything around here himself, and then he left the kitchen once more.
“Why is he so upset?” said Frankie.
“He ain’t upset,” whispered Amy. “He just ain’t got no heart.”
13
THE DAY CREPT ALONG in the tiniest of increments. After the remark about Frankie’s name and the period of silence that had followed, it didn’t take too long for Seaweed to start up his tricks again. Mr. Washington tried several times to cut him down to size, but Seaweed had the sort of personality, it seemed, that could not be easily cut down or contained, at least not within the four white walls of a reasonably small kitchen.
Frankie concentrated on clearing the stack of boxes by the door. Finally, after every pot and pan was properly shelved, she gathered up the empty boxes to take outside. She pushed open the door, but could only open it partway, as the brick building next to the restaurant was so close, it hindered the door’s full potential. The space between the buildings was wide enough that Frankie could squeeze through the door, but not with all of the boxes filling her arms. She looked back inside the kitchen. Everyone was tending to their own tasks. Everyone, that is, except for Seaweed. But as soon as Frankie noticed him watching, he turned his back and emptied th
e dirtied wash bucket into the deep porcelain sink.
Frankie let the boxes fall to her feet and then slipped through the door. She stepped out into a very narrow alleyway, if you could even call it that, because it was so thin, she could fit only if she kept her arms by her side. Once outside, even as she was so confined, she found she could breathe. She looked up at the narrow strip of sky that lit the small space around her, and with stiff soldier arms followed the alley all the way to the street.
The alley emptied out at Potomac Street, and she stood for a minute trying to decide which direction would be the quickest route home. Before she could make up her mind, Leroy Price came up behind her and kicked the backs of her knees so that her legs buckled and she fell to the brick sidewalk. “Smell that?” said Leroy to Marty, who was standing a few feet behind him. Leroy got close to Frankie and sniffed her hair. “Stinks like sauerkraut.”
Frankie got to her feet and charged at Leroy, swinging. He put his hand on her forehead and kept her at such a distance that her arms couldn’t connect. And he laughed. Oh brother, did he laugh.
Marty Price came forward then, just as casual as could be. “So, Frankie,” he said, “have you been swimming yet this summer?” He said this as if it were the most normal thing in the world to have a conversation with someone while she’s in the act of trying, albeit unsuccessfully, to knock their big brother’s head off. “Me and Leroy’s been twice,” he went on, “and I can do a backflip off the side. Just learned how.”
Frankie was still swinging at Leroy and grunting like a trapped pig. “That’s nice, Marty,” she managed to say.
“Think you might be going sometime soon?” he asked. “You can watch me.”
Finally, Frankie’s flailing arms got tired and she quit fighting. “I don’t think so,” she said, catching her breath and turning her head under Leroy’s grip so she could eyeball him.
“How come?” said Marty.
She grabbed Leroy’s wrist with both hands and tried to pry his hand loose. “Because I guess I have to be here, most days.”
Leroy maintained his hold. “What kind of a restaurant is this, anyway?” He reached down with his thumb and pushed against the tip of Frankie’s nose. “What do Germans like to eat?”
A fire ignited inside Frankie. “What did you say?” she yelled.
Then Seaweed stepped out of the alley holding a wire brush. He cleared his throat and it sounded like a low warning growl of a dog. “Heard a lot of racket out here. Thought maybe one of the pigs from the butcher down the street done got loose. And here it was just you, Frankie.”
Frankie gritted her teeth at him.
Leroy let go of Frankie’s head, finally. “What business is it of yours?” he said.
Seaweed looked right past Leroy and said to Frankie, “Your daddy come huntin’ for you in the kitchen.”
Leroy kept his eyes on Seaweed, and while he did, Frankie kept hers on Leroy and thought of at least two clever things she wanted to say about him being so stupid, but since he wasn’t paying attention, she decided instead to kick him in the kneecaps. As she brought her leg back, though, Seaweed warned, “Now, Frankie. I know you don’t want to keep your daddy waiting.”
Frankie dropped her leg mid-kick and nearly lost her balance. Leroy looked right at her. “Yeah, Frankie,” he said, laughing. “Better do what you’re told.”
Frankie was burnt up about the both of them: Leroy, for being . . . well, Leroy, and Seaweed, for treating her like a Number Three. What she didn’t need was another keeper. She made her way back to the alley and kept going past Seaweed without even putting eyes on him.
“See you, Frankie,” said Marty, before Leroy smacked him on the back of his head.
Frankie didn’t reply, but marched stiff-armed down the alley back toward the kitchen. Only then did she notice the wooden, painted sign on the door: colored entrance.
“There you are,” said Daddy, who, along with Mother and Elizabeth, was standing next to Mr. Stannum. Daddy smiled when he saw Frankie and held out his arm to fold her in, but she pretended not to notice and instead kept her eyes on the floor. The fire inside her was still burning. Daddy dropped his arm and gave Mr. Stannum a pat on the shoulder. “The kitchen is certainly shaping up. But are we on track to open on the fifth?”
Mr. Stannum swallowed. “Yes, Mr. Baum.” He glanced around at Mr. Washington, Amy, and Julie, and then his eyes narrowed on Seaweed, who had just come in from the alley. “Come hell or high water.” Then he looked at Frankie, and Mother and Elizabeth, and cleared his throat. “Pardon me.”
Mother gave a polite smile, but Frankie had other things on her mind. She didn’t know where Leroy Price was getting his information, but she was not about to let his remark go unanswered. She took a step forward so that she was in front of Daddy’s good eye and asked, “Are we making German food?”
14
WELL, OLE MR. STANNUM’S cheeks flushed. Everybody else in the kitchen kept on about their business but leaned a keen ear in Frankie’s direction. “German food,” said Daddy. “What makes you ask that?”
“Leroy Price said—” started Frankie, but Daddy cut her off.
“That reminds me,” he said. “The menus! Stay right here.” Daddy strode into the main dining room and, a few minutes later, came back carrying a stack of rectangular menus printed on heavy paper stock. He handed one to Mother first, then to Elizabeth and Mr. Stannum, and then Frankie.
“Oh, in color, too, Hermann,” said Mother, holding on to the menu tightly, as if she wanted to be sure it wasn’t a dream and wouldn’t suddenly dissolve into raindrops. She ran her finger over “Baum’s Restaurant and Tavern” in black, regal-looking letters at the top. Below the name was an unusual scene: a line drawing of a white horse with a medieval soldier on his back, riding to war or to something else. He was holding a long trumpet to his mouth, a solid red flag hanging from its end. Behind him were a castle and two more soldiers—one with a smaller trumpet and the other carrying a cooked turkey on a serving platter. To the right, a young maiden holding a jug of wine, presumably, which was nearly half her size. She was looking up, the young lady was, in the direction of the galloping horse, and right in that empty white space of the menu was this quotation printed in dark, scrolling letters: “An Eating Place of Wide Renown.”
“It’s beautiful, Daddy,” said Elizabeth, predictably.
“What’s it supposed to mean?” asked Frankie. “‘An eating place of wide renown’? And what’s the horse for? And why are there soldiers?”
“Frances,” whispered Mother.
“What?”
“They aren’t soldiers,” said Elizabeth. “For one thing, they would have guns if they were soldiers. They’re musicians. You know, on horseback, traveling with the king.”
“What king?” said Frankie. “We don’t have any kings.”
“Not a specific king,” explained Elizabeth, trying hard to show her smarts. “A king, in general. Any king. Right, Daddy?”
“Well, where is he, then?” asked Frankie. “In the castle? And is this restaurant supposed to be a castle, because”—she looked around the room and then shook her head—“it is not.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Frankie.”
Mother smiled at Daddy. “It does look like something out of a storybook.”
Daddy turned his head slightly so that his one good eye had full view of the drawings. Then he held the menu at arm’s length as if he were judging a work of art. “I think it shows the magic of the restaurant. When people sit at a table to eat, I want them to have an experience here like no other the world over.”
Frankie opened the menu and looked over the food offerings. Under the heading Fruits and Juices:
Large glass of Chilled Tomato Juice . . . 10 cents
Eight ounces of Pure Orange Juice . . . 15 cents
One-half Seedless Grapefruit, c
arefully cut . . . 10 cents
Selected Prunes in heavy home-cooked syrup . . . 10 cents
“Blech, prunes,” said Frankie. Hopefully they weren’t Grandma Engel’s stewed prunes, which she force-fed to Frankie whenever she was constipated. There was nothing that smelled or tasted worse. Grandma ate them by the tablespoonful until her teeth and tongue were coated with the thick brown sauce. It was, in a word, disgusting. And why anyone would pay money for them, let alone ten cents, was beyond Frankie.
“Oh,” said Mother, smiling, “you’ve even put Mother’s prunes on the menu. She’ll be tickled.”
Heavens.
Then this:
Large Italian Purple Plums . . . 10 cents
Full ripe Bananas, sliced in milk, 10 cents . . . in cream, 15 cents
Fancy Spiced Crabapples . . . 10 cents
Frankie read further and saw an assortment of cereals, hotcakes, club breakfasts, and eggs and omelettes.
Under Eggs and Omelettes, this note:
Will you kindly give your waitress explicit directions as to how you like your eggs —we know you have a preference.
We serve two Eggs—Fried, Boiled, Scrambled, Poached, or Shirred—for 20 cents. Crisp Bacon and two Eggs for 40 cents.
Country Cured Ham and Eggs 65 cents or, if you like, Swift’s Premium or Armour’s Star Ham and Eggs 50 cents. All orders served with Rolls or Bread and Butter. Toast 5 cents.
Then a list of various omelettes made to order, all for 35 cents, except the plain for 25: ham, cheese, bacon, hamburger, tomato, Spanish, or onion. Then Toasts and Salads and Tavern Specials, which included hot blue plates, cold platter combinations, cold meats—full orders, and seafood in season, ranging from 25 cents for one dozen fresh shrimp to 65 cents for the genuine calf’s liver (with onions or bacon), potatoes, and cabbage slaw. Frankie was happy to see “Toasted Cheese Sandwich” under Famous Tavern Sandwiches, which was her very favorite, but most of all she was relieved to see that there wasn’t any German food to be found, except for German fried potatoes under the heading A la Carte, whatever that meant. And considering that there were Italian plums, Spanish omelettes, and Gherkin dressing—whatever that was—Frankie didn’t think one German thing on the menu made any difference. “So we’re selling American food, then?” Frankie asked.
A Tiny Piece of Sky Page 7
