“What was that song supposed to mean?” said Frankie.
“I asked you first,” he said.
Frankie sighed. This boy was too much. “I’m just taking my pony out to stretch her legs. It’s not good to keep her cooped up in her shed all day, you know.” She tried to sound as though she did this all the time and that it was no big achievement, even though it certainly was. A Number Three trying to move up the ranks should never act like a Number Three, or that’s all people will think of you.
“You best be going on home,” he said, standing up.
Frankie planted her feet. “It’s a free country.”
Seaweed raised his eyebrows and nodded. Then he said under his breath, “You’re right, it is. For some.”
“For your information, I am aiming to go on home,” said Frankie. “But a snap on one of the lines broke. And I can’t go anywhere until I fix it.”
“Hey, are we playin’ or what?” said the boy with the blues harp. He started blowing, sounding like a train whistle bearing down the tracks.
Seaweed nodded at him. “In a minute.” Then he stood and said to Frankie, “Let me have a look.”
“I don’t need any help,” said Frankie. She made her way around Dixie and picked up the broken line. “Not from you or anybody else.” She wanted to make that point very clear.
“All right,” said Seaweed. “Then go on and fix the thing on you own and get on with youself.” He sat back down on his washtub. “We tryin’ to practice over here.”
Frankie looked at the broken snap again. She tried to squeeze the metal ring closed, but it was no use. What she needed was some rope or wire. She checked the cart.
Emptier than a street beggar’s tin cup.
Frankie shook her head. She could leave Dixie here and walk home. Or lead Dixie by the bit. Either way, with or without a pony, home was a long way to walk. A long, long way. And when she got there, oh, the trouble that would be waiting.
While she was trying to figure out what to do, Seaweed started picking at his guitar and the other boys were carving out another slow, gloomy tune. Frankie watched them sway their heads in time with the rhythm, the boy on the blues harp with his eyes closed, the boy with the bass making such a grimace, as if his appendix was having a spontaneous burst. Frankie’s eyes were stuck on Seaweed’s fingers. Or to be more exact, the strings on his cigar-box guitar.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I’m sorry to interrupt.”
“Aw, man,” said the bass player. “What is this?”
“Lord Almighty!” yelled the one on the blues harp.
“Now you want help, do you?” said Seaweed, grinning. “Come to you senses?”
Frankie scowled at him. “No. I don’t need any help. I just need to borrow one of your guitar strings.”
“One of my guitar strings!” shouted Seaweed. “You crazy, girl.”
“I’ll give it back,” she said. “Tomorrow, at the restaurant. I just need it to get home.”
“Now I know you crazy,” he said.
Frankie reached for his guitar. “You’ve got four others there. I’m only asking for one.”
“Only askin’ for one?” said Seaweed, his mouth hanging open.
“You don’t know nothin’ about no music if you think four strings ain’t no different than five,” said the boy on the blues harp. “Seaweed, are we practicing here or what?”
“Hold on a second, Shorty,” said Seaweed. “I got me an idea.” Then he looked at Frankie square in the eye. “Let’s say I do give you a string to fix your horse. What you give me?”
“Your string back tomorrow, like I already told you,” she said.
“Naw,” he said. “I don’t mean that. Let me think.” He rubbed his chin. “All right. Here it is. I let you borrow a string if you promise—no, swear to it—here and now that you will get your daddy to let us play at his place.”
“Play at his place?” asked Frankie.
“That right,” said Seaweed. “His place. You know, the restaurant. And I mean when it’s open for business, in front of a mess of people. Me and my band.”
“Your band?” said the bass player.
Frankie looked from Seaweed to Dixie. The setting sun cast a light on Dixie’s head in such a way that her eyes gave a sparkle. She flared her nostrils and nudged Frankie’s arm with her nose. The pony liked it when the stakes were high.
“What you say?” asked Seaweed, sticking out his hand. “We got us a deal?”
Frankie shook his hand. “Fine.”
“There you go, boys,” he said, taking a bow, “I just got us a gig.” Then he laid the cigar-box guitar across his lap and began to remove one of the strings. It only took a few seconds before the string was free and he was handing it over.
Frankie brought it to the broken snap. Seaweed followed. “Make sure you ain’t gonna break it,” he told her.
Frankie looped the string around the broken snap and tied it to the bit line. She tugged on it a few times to make sure it held, and as she did, a police car came to a stop beside them.
“Come on, let’s go,” said Shorty, as he and the bass player scrambled to pick up their washtubs and took off down the alley.
“Oh brother.” Frankie shook her head, convinced that this was Mother’s doing.
Officer McIntyre emerged from the police car and placed his hand on the billy club suspended from his leather belt. “What seems to be the problem here?”
“No problem here,” said Seaweed, keeping his eyes down.
“I wasn’t talking to you, boy,” Officer McIntyre said. He eyeballed Frankie. “Miss, what are you doing there?”
“I’m sorry my mother troubled you, Officer,” said Frankie. “I would’ve been home by now if this line hadn’t broken. But I’ve fixed it now and that’s where I’m headed.”
“Your mother?” asked Officer McIntyre.
Frankie nodded. “Mildred Baum. Didn’t she call you?”
“I received no such call, miss,” he said. “Just on my routine patrol and spotted you here. This part of town is no place for a young girl like yourself.” He looked at Seaweed. “Unsavory people around here.” He stepped out of the way so that Frankie could climb into her seat on the cart.
Seaweed patted Dixie at her neck. “I better be gettin’ on home, too. Ma be thinkin’ I hopped a train to the Windy City by now.”
Officer McIntyre grabbed the cigar-box guitar from under Seaweed’s arm. “Aren’t you the same Negro I caught last week on Church Street pestering a shop owner to let you play and disturbing the peace?”
“No, sir,” said Seaweed. “Ain’t me. Never been on Church Street.”
Officer McIntyre swung the guitar like a baseball bat, waiting for one right down the middle. Seaweed’s eyes were in a panic as he watched the policeman handle his most prized possession, but he held his tongue. “Best be quiet,” his mother had always warned him. “The more you say, the deeper your grave. Anything more than yes, sir and no, sir be cause for trouble.”
“You wouldn’t be lying to me, would you, boy?” said the policeman, taking his billy club from his belt and a step toward Seaweed.
“No, sir.”
“He helped me, Officer,” said Frankie, interrupting the officer’s questions. “He works at my daddy’s restaurant, and wasn’t doing anything but trying to help me get on my way. Honest.”
Her heart was beating so loud in her ears she could barely hear Officer McIntyre ask, “Miss?”
“Baum,” she said. “Frankie Baum.”
“Baum?” said the officer. “Is your father Hermann Baum?”
Frankie nodded and then smiled, hoping that her father’s name would lend credence to her words.
But the officer just narrowed his eyes. Finally, he tossed the guitar at Seaweed, who caught it by the neck and nestled it under his arm.
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“I don’t want to see you around here again,” he said to Seaweed.
“No, sir,” said Frankie and Seaweed at the same time.
As Officer McIntyre returned to his car, Seaweed picked up his washbasin and headed for the alley without looking back. Frankie flicked the reins and started Dixie in a trot. She tried to slow her racing heart and stole a glance at Seaweed as he disappeared between the buildings.
She wondered about many things on her journey home. Among them, what had almost happened? And, how on earth would she make good on her deal?
18
IT WAS A QUARTER past six o’clock when Frankie steered Dixie to the backyard of the apartment.
Ten minutes later she had Dixie securely tucked away in her shed, harness unfastened and returned to the shelf. She untied Seaweed’s guitar string, wound it in a coil, and stuck it in her dress pocket. Dixie could not get to the water pail fast enough, and while Frankie was fumbling with the snaps, that pony was lapping up the water as if there were peppermints sitting on the bottom.
At half past six, Frankie was sitting on the stone steps that led to the alley alongside the apartment and thinking of what she would say to Mother and Daddy in defense of her whereabouts. Much of her thinking had to do with it all being Elizabeth’s fault. After all, Elizabeth was in charge and hadn’t been keeping an eye on Frankie as she should have. As everyone knew, that was one of the main responsibilities of a Number One.
A solid excuse, don’t you think?
Frankie hadn’t gotten very far along that line of thinking when Bismarck, who had been trying to keep cool under the shade of the side porch, caught her scent on the hot breeze—a mix of sweat and equine—and tracked her. He soon began announcing her arrival in the only way he knew how—howling and yipping, and licking at her face. Apparently, he wanted everyone in the neighborhood to know that he, and no one else, had found her, safe and sound.
Frankie tried to quiet him, but it was too late.
Mother was first out the kitchen door, followed by Elizabeth, and then Daddy. Frankie got to her feet and winced when she saw Mother with the cake turner in her hand. “I just took Dixie out for a bit,” said Frankie, getting to her feet, careful to keep her rear out of Mother’s reach. “She was in her shed all day. Elizabeth hasn’t taken her out for a while . . .”
“Don’t you dare pin this on me,” said Elizabeth, with her hands on her hips.
Frankie ignored her. “And since Joan is gone, it was up to me to do. And look”—Frankie pointed to Dixie and then to herself—“we’re fine. Except for a broken snap, which I fixed, nothing at all bad happened. We went out in the cart and everything.”
“You hooked up Dixie all by yourself?” said Daddy. “To the cart?”
Frankie nodded, and she thought she saw a trace of a smile cross Daddy’s face. “I can do a lot more than you think.” She cleared her throat. “Even at the restaurant. I can seat customers or something like that. I know it.”
“What does the restaurant have to do with anything, young lady?” said Mother. “We’re talking about your leaving home without asking your sister, all by yourself, where nobody knew where you were. What if something happened?”
“Like what?” said Frankie. For the life of her, she didn’t know what Mother was afraid would happen, only that there were fears of all sorts of things living inside her, fears that the worst could happen at any given moment, and then how do you go on when your worst fear comes true?
“Like what?” Mother said, her knees buckling slightly and throwing her off center, as if the ridiculousness of the question caught her by surprise. “That animal could throw you, leave you lying in an alley somewhere with your head cracked wide open. You could be run over by a car, kidnapped by Gypsies, roughed up by thugs . . .”
“Mildred,” said Daddy, putting his arm around her shoulders. “Let’s not get carried away.”
“You just ask Mr. and Mrs. Lindbergh about getting carried away,” she snapped. It had been seven years since the baby boy of Charles Lindbergh, the famous aviator, was kidnapped, held for ransom, and later found dead, but it still haunted Mother, along with much of the rest of the country.
Mother held up her hand, the one without the cake turner, and showed Frankie the very small distance between her thumb and index finger. “I was this close to calling the police. Don’t ever do that to me again, you hear me?”
“I won’t,” said Frankie, keeping to herself the fact that the police had turned up anyway.
“Good.” Mother took in a deep breath. “Now, you’re on punishment for ten days.”
“Ten days?” complained Frankie.
“Would you like to make it eleven?” said Mother.
Frankie shook her head.
“And I don’t want to hear any talk about it,” said Mother. “You’re to be at the restaurant all day and then come right on home. No pony rides, no playing out back, no roller-skating, and no radio.”
“No radio!” said Frankie.
Mother raised the hand with the cake turner ever so slightly, and Frankie relented.
“Supper’s getting cold.” Mother turned on her square heels and went back into the apartment without waiting for the rest of them.
Elizabeth followed close behind after shaking her head at Frankie, showing her disappointment—a classic Number One move. But it was Daddy whom Frankie was concerned about. “You gave your mother a real scare,” he said, linking arms with Frankie as they walked the alley. Bismarck stayed by Daddy’s other side.
Frankie nodded. “Daddy, I took Dixie to the restaurant to show you and Mother, but when you weren’t there, I went inside to get her some water. I overheard Mr. Stannum talking to Mr. Price.”
Daddy’s steps slowed a bit. “Overheard?”
“I was in the cupboard.”
“I see.” Daddy nodded but didn’t ask for any further explanation, as if being inside a cupboard was a very normal, run-of-the-mill kind of thing.
“Mr. Price was asking a lot of questions about the restaurant,” she went on.
“Was he, now?”
“He wanted to know how many people worked there, for one thing,” said Frankie. “And then he wanted to know how you had the money to start the business, you know, because of the Depression being on.” She was about to step up onto the porch, but Daddy placed his hand on her arm.
“Yes, well, the Chamber of Commerce likes to know those kinds of things,” said Daddy. “And Mr. Price thinks it’s his job to know everything about everything. Not for you to worry.”
But Frankie was worried. She knew she should tell Daddy about what else Mr. Price had said, about Hitler’s spies and about whether or not Daddy was really born here in America, but she was afraid. It’s not as though she believed those things were true. Of course she didn’t. But if she said them out loud, if she repeated them, she worried that maybe—just maybe—they could be.
Daddy gently pinched Frankie’s chin. “You run along now and eat your supper. You know how lima beans are when they get cold. Even Bismarck won’t touch them.”
Bismarck licked Daddy’s knuckles at the mention of his name, and Frankie opened the screen door to the kitchen. But she turned back when she noticed Daddy wasn’t behind her. “Aren’t you coming?”
“I’ll be along in a minute,” he said, taking a seat on the porch step. “Just catching my breath.”
“But the limas,” said Frankie.
“I said, go ahead now,” said Daddy. “Don’t keep your mother waiting any longer.”
Frankie did go ahead, and when she got to the dining room she found Grandma Engel, Mother, Uncle Hal, Aunt Edith, Ava, Martha, and Elizabeth all huddled around the table. “There she is,” said Grandma Engel with a wink. “No need to send out the cavalry.”
Frankie took her seat on one of the two empty chairs. The food was already on each of t
he plates: slippery potpie, boiled lima beans seasoned with ham, and buttered bread.
“Can we eat now?” moaned Martha, her face hovering just over the plate of food in front of her.
“Not yet,” said Mother. “We’re just waiting for Hermann.”
“You shouldn’t have gone off by yourself like that,” Aunt Edith told Frankie. “Don’t you care a thing about your mother’s nerves?” Aunt Edith was short, like Mother, but more round and just as nervous. She liked experimenting with makeup, and never left her house without a fresh coat of red lips, and eyebrows painted pencil-thin and so high on her forehead that she always appeared surprised.
“Aw, come on now, Edie,” said Uncle Hal. “It turned out all right.”
“My girls always were worriers,” said Grandma Engel. “You’d have thought they’d grow out of that.”
Aunt Edith pursed her dark red lips and neither one said anything more.
“Where’d you go?” asked Ava, all wild-eyed and eager for information. “To the racetrack? Or to the cinema? Naw, don’t say you went to the cinema. There’s been no good show there since Son of Frankenstein played last winter.”
Grandma Engel said, “So you say. That Young Mr. Lincoln picture is a good one, I’d bet. Henry Fonda is a fine actor, and nice looking, too.” She fanned her face with her napkin.
As Grandma Engel was going on about the likes of Mr. Fonda, Martha had her tongue out and was letting it dangle across the pile of boiled dough on her plate. Then she let it linger over the pat of butter on her piece of white bread.
“He certainly is,” said Aunt Edith. She reached across Ava and swatted at Martha’s arm.
Martha retracted her tongue and then started to tear up. “But I’m so hungry,” she sobbed.
Ava shook her head. “Henry Fonda ain’t no Boris Karloff.”
“Isn’t,” corrected Elizabeth.
“Remember the part when Baron Wolf von Frankenstein swings across his laboratory on a rope and knocks the monster into a fiery sulfur pit?” Ava sat back in her chair and smiled. “That was just about the best thing I ever seen.”
A Tiny Piece of Sky Page 10
