A Tiny Piece of Sky

by Shawn K. Stout

  “Well of course, Frances,” said Mother. “What else would we be serving?”

  “I told you, German food,” said Frankie. “That’s what Leroy Price said, anyway.” She knew better than to take Leroy’s word for anything, but she also knew that Daddy’s parents were German, and there was a lot of talk lately about the Germans—those Germans this and those Germans that!—and Daddy was always full of surprises.

  Frankie thought she noticed Mother give a nervous glance in Daddy’s direction, but if Mother did, Daddy didn’t see it. He was still staring at the menus, paying attention to each word—from half fried milk-fed chicken to Philadelphia scrapple with syrup—as though he was adding up each printed letter on the pages, making sure all was accounted for. A missing letter, like a missing ingredient, you know, could really mess up a cake.

  Then Daddy handed out menus to Julie, Mr. Washington, Amy, and Seaweed. He asked them, “What do you think?”

  Julie answered right away that she had always wanted a horse. “A white one,” she said, tapping the menu, “just like this one.”

  Amy, Mr. Washington, and Seaweed only nodded. But Daddy was full of encouragement. “Come on, now, don’t be shy.”

  Seaweed was the only one to take Daddy up on this invitation. “Well, Mr. Baum,” he said, clearing his throat, “I see what you trying to do here with those cats and their horns on the front. I mean, they ain’t no Tommy Johnson or Blind Lemon Jefferson. But musicians are musicians, and the thing about musicians, you know, they be hungry a lot. Like for that turkey right there.” He licked his lips. “That look good.”

  Frankie’s stomach rumbled. It was getting close to suppertime. “With loads of gravy.”

  “And a side of potatoes,” said Seaweed.

  “And cooked carrots,” Frankie added, nodding.

  “Naw,” said Seaweed. “Never could stomach carrots much.”

  “I don’t think Mr. Baum is interested,” said Mr. Stannum, grabbing for the menu in Seaweed’s hands. “And you all have jobs to do, as far as I know.”

  Daddy stepped in between Mr. Stannum and Seaweed. “I’m very interested. I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”

  Still, Seaweed, Mr. Washington, Julie, and Amy handed over their menus to Daddy and went back to work. Then Mr. Stannum leaned close to Daddy and said in a quiet voice, “Mr. Baum, can I have a word?” Daddy nodded and followed him a few steps until they were standing by the kitchen door.

  Mr. Stannum towered over Hermann, but most people did, and Hermann wasn’t the least bit uncomfortable. The same couldn’t be said about Mr. Stannum, however. He had never been in such close proximity to Hermann before, and he couldn’t help but stare at his glass eye.

  The thing about that eye was that people felt as though Hermann were staring at them all the time. At least partially. And that’s the sort of thing that made some people, well, anxious. They didn’t know whether to stare back or look at their feet, and if they decided to stare back, which eye did they look at? It certainly was quite the predicament for some.

  Hermann eventually got used to people feeling uneasy around him, and even learned to turn himself into somewhat of an attraction. Particularly for Frankie and Joan’s friends, Hermann was happily obliged to entertain their curiosity about his glass eye by pretending to sneeze and then popping it into his hand. It was a perfectly gruesome trick. The first time he performed that trick in front of Ava and Martha, Martha turned the color of a pickled beet and then locked herself in the Baums’ bathroom for five hours until the fire department arrived and had to break down the door with an axe. After that, Mother told him he could never do that trick again, to which he mostly agreed but reserved the right for special occasions.

  This occasion might’ve qualified.

  Daddy could see that Mr. Stannum was uneasy and gave serious thought to having a sneeze for his benefit, though he knew Mother’s nerves were already worn thin and one good eye pop could do her in.

  Mr. Stannum continued staring at Daddy’s good eye, then shifted back and forth from one to the other, until he finally settled his gaze on his own shoes. That’s when he noticed the spittle on the toe.

  “Mr. Stannum?” said Daddy.

  “Right,” he said, keeping his head down while wondering if he had any shoe polish left in his cupboard at home, or if he needed to stop at Wexler’s on the way. “The staff restroom,” he said finally. “There’s only one.”

  “That’s right,” said Daddy. “Isn’t it working properly?”

  “Oh yes, it is in fine working order,” said Mr. Stannum.

  “Then what seems to be the problem?”

  “The problem,” he said, “is that there seems to be only one.” He stepped beside Daddy so Amy, Mr. Washington, and Seaweed were in plain view of Daddy’s working eye. “Only one, for all of us.”

  Daddy sighed and then nodded. “I see.”

  “Now, the only toilets for whites you’ve got are in the dining room,” said Mr. Stannum, “but me and Julie can’t be traipsing through the dining room when you’ve got customers to use those toilets. It wouldn’t be right.”

  “No,” Daddy agreed, “that wouldn’t be right. But neither would it be right for Amy, Leon, and Seaweed to do without facilities. I’m sure you’re not suggesting they just go in the street, Mr. Stannum.”

  Mr. Stannum adjusted the collar of his shirt, which was feeling a bit like a lonesome boa constrictor. “Of course not.”

  “Then what are you suggesting?”

  “Well,” Mr. Stannum said after a few moments of thought, “the only thing to do as I see it is to make the kitchen toilet for whites only, in accordance with the laws of the city, and not to mention the laws of nature, and to put in a new lavatory for the colored staff. Not that I mind so much”—he cleared his throat—“but I’m thinking of them. It’s just not what they’re used to. There’s a closet right beside the toilet back there, and we’ve got ample storage space already.”

  “That is one idea,” said Daddy. He scratched the top of his head and then smoothed his hair, which was thick with pomade, so that it didn’t stick up like a rooster’s tail. “Putting in a new lavatory would take some doing, though, not to mention a good bit of money. I just don’t think my pockets are that deep, considering all the construction going on in the dining room.” He patted Mr. Stannum on the back. “So it seems to me, the better plan is to use the same one.”

  “The same one!” said Mr. Stannum.

  “That’s right,” said Daddy. “I appreciate your concern for the others, as you say, but no one else has complained, and I shouldn’t think the others will be bothered. And since you yourself said you didn’t mind, I guess we don’t have much of a problem after all, do we?”

  “Well, er, but,” grumbled Mr. Stannum. “No, I suppose we don’t.”

  “Very good,” said Daddy. “Then there you have it.”

  “Excuse me,” said Mr. Stannum, heading back toward the stoves, where Mr. Washington and Seaweed were up to their armpits in grease.

  “Oh, wait,” said Daddy. “One more thing.” Then he stepped into the center of the room. “Everyone, give an ear for a moment, please.” When he had everybody’s attention, he said, “I’m inviting all the staff and their families here to the restaurant the night before we open. I thought it would be a chance to get to know everyone, and a good way to try out some of the things on the menu.”

  “But that’s July the fourth,” said Mr. Stannum.

  “That’s true,” said Daddy. “I know some of you were planning on going down to the celebration on the square, but I thought we could all do some celebrating of our own right here. I know of a place in Baltimore that sells an assortment of fireworks, too. Just wait until you see the Whirling Dervisher and the Marble Flash Salutes. Spectacular.”

  Seaweed looked at Amy and grinned. “That sound all right by me.”

&nb
sp; “He don’t mean us,” whispered Amy. “Don’t even think it.”

  “Sure he does,” said Frankie, who couldn’t help but overhear. “Don’t you, Daddy?”

  “That’s right,” said Daddy. “All are welcome.”

  June 21, 1939

  Dear Frankie, who I remember very well,

  You’ll be relieved to know that all of my fingers are working just fine. Aunt Dottie won’t let me near the tractor, which is all right by me. Incidentally, you shouldn’t make a joke about such a thing. There are people who have lost fingers and other parts in tractor accidents, and I’m sure they wouldn’t find that very funny.

  Anyway, I’m sorry I haven’t written, but I’ve been so busy settling into my new schedule here I barely have time for myself. Aunt Dottie, as it turns out, is quite strict. I have to get up at six o’ clock to feed the chickens and turn the horses out to pasture. Then there are chores around the house, weeding the vegetable garden, cleaning the horses’ stalls, and then and then and then and then . . .

  My afternoons are free, so I really shouldn’t complain, but lately I’ve been so tired from the morning activities that I fall asleep in a chair and don’t wake up until suppertime. I think I now know how it feels to be Grandma Engel. (But please don’t tell her I said that.)

  Tell me how the restaurant is going. I bet it’s really exciting. Will you get to work the cash register or seat the customers? Are you taking good care of Dixie? How’s Bismarck?

  Give my love to them and to Daddy and Mother, too. And Grandma Engel, of course. And everyone else. Even Elizabeth.

  Oh, I miss you so.

  With sisterly love,

  Joan

  P.S. Have you seen that no-good Leroy Price much?

  15

  “JOAN SAYS HELLO,” Frankie told Elizabeth as she folded the letter in half lengthwise and slid it into the front pocket of her dress. She sat on the middle of the living room rug and slipped her shoes into her roller skates.

  Elizabeth’s head was buried in Mother’s latest issue of Ladies’ Home Journal. “That’s nice.”

  “She also says that Aunt Dottie has her doing a lot of work around the farm.” Frankie fastened the buckles and tightened the skates with her key. “She hasn’t had any time to write before now, she’s been so busy.”

  “Mmm-hmmm.”

  “She wants to know all about the restaurant, so I’m going to write her all about Amy and Julie and Mr. Washington and Seaweed. And that awful Mr. Stannum, too. And how Daddy is throwing a big Fourth of July party and has invited everybody.”

  Elizabeth laid the magazine open on her lap. The page, which featured a high-arched eyebrow with step-by-step how-to instructions, draped over her leg. “I don’t know what Daddy was thinking.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Frankie. “Don’t you think all the work on the restaurant will be done in time?”

  “I’m not talking about all the work that needs done,” said Elizabeth. “I mean I don’t know what Daddy was thinking inviting everybody.”

  “Why shouldn’t he?” said Frankie. “We’ll have plenty of food.”

  Elizabeth sighed and shook her head. “You don’t understand. Just forget it.” She returned to her page in the magazine.

  “Forget what?” said Frankie. “What should I forget?”

  Elizabeth put down the magazine once more in a huff. “All I’m saying is that inviting all the staff, you know,” and then she brought her voice down to a whisper, “colored people along with the rest of us, people will talk. And I hope he doesn’t get in trouble.”

  “Elizabeth Baum,” said Frankie, getting to her knees, “you sound just like a snob talking like that.”

  “You take that back right now!” shouted Elizabeth. “I’m no snob. I’m only thinking of Daddy because of what other people might say. You’re too young to understand. It matters what other people think.”

  While Frankie didn’t give a fig about what others thought of her, Elizabeth strove for perfection in all that she did. When people took to calling you Princess since the moment you were born, anything less than perfection might disqualify you in their eyes and cause you to lose your crown. The expectation was set from day one, and Elizabeth worked hard to please everyone so that she could maintain her royal designation.

  “And what do you think you’re going to do on those skates?” asked Elizabeth, indignant.

  “Um, roller-skate?” said Frankie, who wondered why it was that Princess, of the three of them, was considered to be the smart one. Such a question.

  “No, you are not,” said Elizabeth. “It’s your turn to clean Dixie’s shed.”

  “I’ll do it later,” said Frankie. “I’ve already got my skates on.” She stuck her feet in the air and shook her wheels at her sister.

  “Mother left me in charge while she and Daddy are taking care of some business at the restaurant,” said Elizabeth. “And you need to clean the shed before you do anything else.” She licked her finger and turned the page of Mother’s magazine. The page made such a snap that it punctuated Elizabeth’s command, and Frankie knew that was the end of the argument.

  16

  FRANKIE READ JOAN’S LETTER to Dixie twice. The pony stomped her hoof when Frankie got to the part about turning the horses out to pasture, and then once again when she said Dixie’s name. “I am taking good care of you,” she said, but Dixie shook her head back and forth in her stall. “I am too,” insisted Frankie. “You’re as bad as Elizabeth.” And then she scooped a handful of oats from the metal bucket they kept in the food bin just outside the shed and held it out to the pony. Dixie immediately drove her nose into Frankie’s palm and sucked up every last one of the oats quicker than Mother’s Electrolux sweeper.

  “Frankie!” yelled Elizabeth from inside the apartment. “Make sure you give her fresh water! And latch the door when you are finished!”

  “I know!” Frankie shouted back.

  “Last time you didn’t and she got into the cider, remember?” yelled Elizabeth.

  How could Frankie forget, when Elizabeth brought it up all the time? She made a face in Elizabeth’s direction. “And it wasn’t the last time,” Frankie said under her breath, “it was last year.” She stroked Dixie along her mane. “Joan will be back before you know it. And in the meantime, I’m as good as a Number Two as far as you’re concerned.”

  But do you know, that pony shook her head again?

  Frankie glared at her. The Pony With the Human Brain, my word. “What do you know?” She grabbed the saddle hanging on the wall and laid it across Dixie’s back. Then she pulled down the leather driving harness from the shelf and spread it out on the grass. The pony snorted. Even she knew this was going to be a mistake. Frankie slipped the bridle around Dixie’s head, grabbed the reins, and led her out of the shed. That part she had done a few times on her own, without Joan, but the driving harness and the cart, well, that was a different story.

  For one thing, the driving harness had a lot of different parts and Frankie wasn’t quite sure where they all went, how they fit together, and what they hooked onto. That was a lot of things to be unsure about. She tied Dixie to the hitching post by the cart and then stood over the pieces of harness. There was the browband, noseband, and throatlash, which she recognized right away, but had some trouble putting on. It didn’t help that Dixie didn’t really enjoy having those straps around her head and so kicked up a bit of a fuss. Still, after a brief struggle and some more handfuls of oats, Frankie managed to secure them. “There you go,” she said, smiling. “I told you I could do it.”

  Dixie flicked her tail, which Frankie took to mean that she was impressed.

  Frankie stared at the remaining pieces on the ground: wither strap with rein rings, breastplate, false martingale, false bellyband, girth, traces, breeching and breeching strap, hip strap, and crupper and dock. These, of course, were the
proper names for the harness parts, but Frankie couldn’t remember what they were called and didn’t understand why they had to have such strange names in the first place. False martingale? Don’t you think that sounds like a bird who tells lies?

  Buoyed by her early success, Frankie moved on with confidence, hanging the other pieces of the harness all about the pony like garlands on a Christmas tree. Except that this Christmas tree wouldn’t hold still and was getting tired of being tied to a post, snorting and whinnying and making enough of a racket that Frankie was sure Elizabeth would hear and come running. And speaking of running, Dixie wanted to very badly. She was itching to stretch those legs and hear the lovely clop-clop of her hooves on cobblestone. There was no sound that gave her as much pleasure, except for perhaps the clang of the metal feed bucket. “Quiet now,” Frankie told her, and stuck the entire bucket of oats under her nose.

  Frankie went back to work and was quite pleased with herself when she finished, until she saw two straps with buckles lying by her feet. “Oh,” said Frankie, looking them over. “Where do these go?” By this time, Dixie had finished the oats—her thick tongue polishing the bottom of the bucket—and was back to rearing her head and raising a ruckus. Frankie told her to hush, but she didn’t pay her any mind. A pony only has so much patience, and this one had run out of her very tiny supply many minutes before. If Frankie didn’t untie her from the post that instant, there would be no telling what she’d do. The cobblestones were calling her name, and by golly, she was going to answer.