A Tiny Piece of Sky

by Shawn K. Stout

  Puff.

  Puff.

  36

  OF COURSE, NOT ONE of the Baums knew about the emergency meeting of the council. Only Frankie knew that Mr. Price had whatever it was of Daddy’s and would do something bad with it, but when, what, and exactly how remained a mystery to even her most imaginative mind.

  Something else that was occupying her imagination? Exactly what was inside the package Daddy had left at Aunt Dottie’s. Joan’s letter had arrived the day before, and Frankie could think of nothing else. Frankie had never before seen a parcel that was carried all the way to Maryland by airplane across the Atlantic. How important it must be, but what was it, and who sent it? The woman in the photograph? Was this the box that Daddy told Fritz he had taken out of town to be safe?

  And what was wrong with Joan, anyway? For goodness’ sakes, how could she resist opening that package when there were enough mysteries already to drive Frankie mad?

  July 3, 1939

  Joan,

  I’m sorry all that country air you’re breathing in is clouding your judgment, but if you do not open that package this minute and tell me what is inside I will be forced to hand over your Patsy doll to Ava for her torture experiments.

  With regret,

  Frankie

  37

  FRANKIE SAT ON THE edge of Mother and Daddy’s bed and watched Mother slide a long beaded necklace over her dark hair. “Please can I go with Aunt Edith and Ava and Martha?” asked Frankie.

  Mother, who was sitting at her dressing table, shook her head. “The answer is still no. You are on punishment, remember?”

  How could she forget? Honestly. For the last ten days she’d been at the restaurant and at home—with the exception of Barnard’s Pharmacy, which doesn’t count—with no fun before, after, or in between. Today was the last day of it, but that did her no good. “But they are going to see Tarzan Finds a Son!”

  “You should’ve thought about that before your disappearing act,” said Mother. She slid a sapphire ring on her finger and pinched Frankie’s cheek. “You only have a few more hours. Things will be back to normal tomorrow.”

  “But the picture is playing tonight,” said Frankie, “and tomorrow is July the Fourth; the cinema is closed.” She played with the powder puff on Mother’s dressing table.

  “There will be other picture shows,” said Mother.

  Frankie sighed. That was not at all the point.

  Mother brought her hand to her ear. “Oh dear.”

  “What is it?”

  “Ear itch,” said Mother. “Somebody’s talking about me. I hope it’s not those women at the Ladies Auxillary.” She shook her head and then stood. “Mind your grandmother this evening, hear?”

  “Where’s Elizabeth?” said Frankie.

  “Spending the night with Katrina Melvich,” said Mother. “Now, I mean it, don’t make me have to worry about you running off or getting into trouble.”

  Frankie shook her head. “I won’t.”

  Then Mother took one last look in her mirror and closed her eyes. “Lord, give me the strength to deal with the women in the Ladies Auxiliary tonight and help me hold my tongue so that I won’t tell them where I think they ought to spend eternity.” Then she opened her eyes and winked at Frankie.

  “Amen,” she and Frankie said together.

  Grandma Engel was waiting for Frankie at the dining room table. “How about a game of poker?”

  “No, thanks,” said Frankie.

  “Setback?”

  Frankie wrinkled her nose.

  “Suit yourself,” said Grandma Engel. And she started laying out the cards for solitaire.

  “Can we turn on the radio?” asked Frankie. “The Shadow is coming on.”

  Grandma Engel flipped over a set of three cards. “Your mother told me no radio.” She eyed the eight of hearts on top. She needed a nine and she clucked her tongue. “Your punishment and such.”

  Frankie watched Grandma Engel’s hands, all puffed up and crooked with arthritis, fumbling the cards as she moved them. Like a crab trying to pick up a piece of dental floss. After a few more turns Grandma Engel said, without looking up from the cards, “But your mother isn’t here, and what she don’t know means more fun times for us.”

  Frankie smiled and leaped up from her chair to turn on the Philco. The set hummed, and while Frankie waited for it to warm up, she said, “I wonder what villain the Shadow will uncover today.”

  “Who knows?” said Grandma Engel.

  “The Shadow,” said Frankie. “The Shadow knows.” Then she laughed—“Wah-ha-ha-ha!”—just as the radio announcer’s voice came through the speaker. “Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?”

  If only she could know.

  She closed her eyes. Inside her heart, in the tiny pocket that was tucked away underneath the layers of ribs and muscles and skin, the place so deep within that it knew nothing of the talk and accusations that lurked on the outside, that was the part of her, perhaps the only part, that knew what was right, that knew what was the pure truth. Daddy was in there, in her heart, and when she thought of him in that place, she saw the man who sometimes hid behind the sofa to surprise her when she came home from school. The man who’d rescued Bismarck from that ditch. The man who’d stayed up all night singing to her that time she got the mumps.

  And when she opened her eyes, this is what she knew: Daddy was no German spy.

  She knew something else, as well. She knew that she needed to find something that would prove his innocence. So, after Grandma Engel retired to the upholstered easy chair, Frankie turned down the volume on the radio and switched off the table lamp. Then, although it was hotter than blazes outside, Frankie pulled the crocheted afghan from the back of the couch and draped it over Grandma Engel’s knees.

  “My goodness,” said Grandma Engel, “aren’t you a dear to look after me like this.” And then, “What are you up to?”

  “Are you comfortable, Grandma?” asked Frankie in a soft, soothing voice that was almost a sweet whisper.

  “I am,” she replied, “but why are you talking that way?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” said Frankie softly.

  Grandma Engel covered a yawn with the back of her wrist. “Stop doing that. You’ll have me out in no time.”

  And she certainly was. Out, that is. Barely a minute or two more and her eyelids drooped. When she began making the puh-puh-puh sounds with her mouth like she always did when she was in deep sleep, Frankie tiptoed down the hall and into Daddy and Mother’s bedroom.

  She went straight to Daddy’s desk. Unlike his desk at the restaurant, the one at home was tidy and spare, with only an oil lamp, a desktop calendar, a framed photograph of him and Mother on their wedding day, and a fountain pen. She opened the top drawer and sifted through a pile of papers, mostly receipts for things like the weekly milk delivery, repairs to the coal-fired boiler, and Mother’s wringer washer, which Daddy had bought as an anniversary gift. She opened the other two drawers and found mostly the same kinds of things.

  As she sat in Daddy’s chair, it occurred to her that she had no idea what she was looking for. It seemed that it was much easier to find evidence proving you were indeed a spy than to find evidence proving you weren’t. She doubted that she’d find a certificate signed by Adolf Hitler or President Roosevelt verifying that Hermann Baum was not now nor ever employed as a spy for the Nazis. That would be too darned simple.

  So what was she looking for, then? A tooth in a giant bin of corn kernels comes to mind. One single grain of sand on the ocean’s floor. One chicken feather in a million plucked birds.

  After all the desk drawers had been checked and she had run out of places to look, Frankie gave up and decided she’d better check on Grandma Engel. On the way down the hall, as she was thinking of what to do next, her foot ran smack into the s
ide of that old walnut dresser. Frankie winced and hopped on one foot while rubbing her sore toes, which she was sure were broken. “Stupid thing,” she said, cursing it.

  Then she noticed that the cupboard door at the bottom of the dresser was hanging open. She sat before the dresser cross-legged, pulled open the door, and began to root. Old issues of Time magazine were stacked in the corner behind table linens and boxes of candlesticks. A tin box filled with sewing notions. Also, old drinking glasses wrapped in newspaper.

  Just as she finished looking at all of these things and was returning the sewing box to the spot where she’d found it, her hand clipped the edge of something else in the far right corner of the cupboard. She reached in—way, way in—and pulled out a small framed photograph covered with dust. Frankie blew at the dust, but most of it stayed right where it was.

  Dust that has some age to it, don’t you know, becomes quite comfortable where it settles, and it takes more than a bit of breathy wind to uproot it.

  So, Frankie balled up the hem of her skirt and wiped at the glass and its tin frame. Black-and-white images of two people, a man and a woman in wedding attire, began to appear under the dirty glass. The woman was wearing a lacy dress and clutching a bouquet. She was pretty, with light-colored curls that framed her face, and young, but Frankie did not know her.

  Frankie spit on her skirt hem and rubbed harder at the stubborn dust. She could almost see the face of the man, who was dressed in a dark suit and cradling the woman’s waist with his arm. Frankie rubbed harder still, and as the man’s face finally started to peek through, she stopped rubbing. She knew that face.

  It belonged to Daddy.

  38

  “WHAT YOU DOING, SUGAR?” asked Grandma Engel. Her tall, stocky frame took up most of the narrow space at the end of the hall, and with the dim lamplight from the living room shining behind her, Grandma Engel’s silhouette had the makings of Frankenstein.

  Frankie jumped. “For the love of Pete!”

  Grandma Engel clapped her hands and slapped the wall. “Scared you, did I?”

  Frankie was tempted to throw the photograph back into the cupboard, forget what she’d seen, and challenge Grandma Engel to a game of setback. That certainly would have been the easiest thing to do. But by her count she had more questions than answers, and the questions were still coming. For example, in the last few seconds, this one: Did Daddy have another wife someplace else? And this one: Did he have a different family? A different life?

  Alas, the real question was, what would happen if the answer turned out to be yes?

  39

  MEANWHILE, JUST A FEW blocks away, Elizabeth and Katrina Melvich were sharing a glass of iced lemon water on the front stoop of the Melvichs’ apartment building. Katrina was going on about tomorrow’s Fourth of July celebration on the square and how her little brother had been practicing his tap-dancing routine for hours upon end the last eight nights—make that nine!—and had driven their mother and father to cotton-stuffed ears and Katrina to take refuge out of doors.

  “You’re so lucky to have younger sisters,” Katrina told Elizabeth. “Who don’t tap.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you had to share a room with them,” said Elizabeth. “You should have seen Frankie with the new cash register at the restaurant. Honestly, her behavior was so embarrassing.”

  And speaking of embarrassing, it was about that time Robbie McIntyre and his friend Albert Linden walked by. Robbie leaped on the top step of the stoop and hung on to the cast iron railing while screeching like a howler monkey. Katrina and Elizabeth screamed and then giggled. Katrina dipped her fingers into the drinking glass and flicked some lemon water at Robbie’s face. Elizabeth followed suit.

  Robbie opened his mouth wide and bit at the spray, grunting.

  You’d have to wonder why Elizabeth, a smart and sensible princess, would be entertained by such a thing. By such a boy. Albert Linden was wondering the same as he simply stood by with his hands in his pockets and watched.

  “Thanks for the bath,” said Robbie. He hoisted himself up on the railing and straddled it. “Nice of you two to wait out here for us.” And then he grabbed the glass of lemon water right out of Elizabeth’s hands and drained it dry.

  “Animal!” said Katrina, laughing. “Maybe they’ll have an opening for the likes of you at the square tomorrow.”

  “Yeah,” said Elizabeth, “too bad you don’t tap-dance; you could join Katrina’s brother and put on a good show.”

  “You both going to be there?” said Robbie.

  Katrina looked up toward her apartment window, where her brother was all but certain to still be slamming his shoes into the floor. “Yeah.”

  Elizabeth kept her head down.

  “What about you?” asked Robbie.

  She shook her head. “My daddy is throwing a party at the restaurant.”

  “Oh yeah,” said Robbie, adjusting his flat cap. “So I heard.”

  “You heard?” said Elizabeth.

  “Everybody has,” said Robbie. “People have been talking a lot about your father lately. Isn’t that right, Al?”

  Albert Linden nodded and then shrugged. “Seems so.”

  Elizabeth felt something get caught in her throat. “What do you mean?” she managed to squeak out.

  “You know, about him being a German,” said Robbie. He said it so matter-of-factly, as if he were talking about shoelaces. “Some people say he might even be working for—”

  “My daddy is no German!” shouted Elizabeth. “I wish people would stop saying that horrible thing. I don’t know who started that ugly lie, but people shouldn’t be allowed to say such things. And what’s worse is that people believe them!” Whatever was in her throat was starting to come dislodged.

  Katrina, Robbie, and Albert stared at her cautiously. Never before had they heard Elizabeth Baum raise her voice and turn such a shade of red.

  “I didn’t mean any harm, Elizabeth,” said Robbie. “I’m just telling you about the talk going around. It’s got nothing to do with you, anyway.”

  “I don’t care,” said Elizabeth. “I’m telling you it’s all a lie. Daddy is not a German. He’s got nothing to do with Germany, so if you want to spread something around, why don’t you spread that? The idea that Daddy is any different than anyone else in this town, any different than your fathers, is just plain wrong!”

  “You’re saying he was born here?” said Albert, leaning against the railing. “In America?”

  “Of course he was,” said Elizabeth, narrowing her eyes on him and trying to discern his meaning.

  “But he lived there,” said Albert. “In Germany, for a couple of years. That’s what I heard.”

  “He did not,” said Elizabeth, descending the steps and facing Albert square on. “That’s an outright lie. Who told you that?”

  Robbie stepped between them. “We didn’t mean to upset you. Like I said, it’s got nothing to do with you.”

  Elizabeth wondered how he could say such a thing. It had everything to do with everything, and nothing less.

  Katrina scowled at both boys and then put her arm around Elizabeth’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. It’s just talk. That’s all. Come on, let’s go inside.” She led Elizabeth to the door.

  “Aw, come on,” said Robbie, “don’t be mad.”

  Elizabeth stopped. “If people were saying these things about your father, what would you be?”

  Robbie shook his head, confused. “But, Elizabeth, my father isn’t a German.”

  40

  THINGS WERE JUST AS confusing back at the Baums’ apartment. Maybe even more so.

  “What you got there?” said Grandma Engel.

  Frankie placed the tin-framed photograph in Grandma Engel’s swollen hands.

  “You got all the lights turned down so low in here, I can’t even see my own elbows,” said Grandma Engel. �
��Come over to the lamp so I can see what’s what.” She carried the photograph over to the dining room table and took a seat while Frankie flipped the switch on the chandelier.

  Grandma Engel tilted the frame to catch the light and then brought it close to her face. Her green eyes widened, Frankie noticed, as she looked it over, but there was something in her eyes and the way she gently set the picture down on the table that told Frankie she had seen this before, or at least recognized the light-haired woman.

  “You know who that is,” said Frankie. It wasn’t a question.

  Grandma Engel nodded. “I do.”

  “Then who is it?” said Frankie, sitting next to her at the table. “Tell me.”

  “I can’t.” Grandma Engel patted Frankie’s hand. “It’s not my story to tell.”

  “But . . .”

  “Put that back where you found it, hear?” said Grandma Engel. “Your daddy will tell you when the time is right.”

  “Tell me what?” Frankie pulled her hand away from Grandma Engel’s.

  “I already told you, sugar, it’s not my story to tell.”

  Frankie’s whole body started to tremble. “He has another family, doesn’t he?” she blurted out. “In Germany. A wife and probably other daughters or maybe a son. That’s why he travels a lot, isn’t it? He goes to visit them. And that’s why he’s been on the telephone in the middle of the night.” It was all making sense to her now, finally. The package he left at Aunt Dottie’s was from his other family.

  He wasn’t a spy for Hitler.

  He was a stranger.

  The door to the Baums’ apartment flew open then, and in rushed Ava and Martha, out of breath. “Frankie, you’ll never guess what we saw hanging on the wall at the cinema!” said Ava.