After a moment, Frankie turned around and saw Mr. Washington and Amy and Julie taking way too much time plating the food. Without looking up from stirring a bowl of slaw, Amy said, “Don’t you worry none, Frankie, he didn’t mean that, no how.”
“It’s the heat,” said Julie. “It makes you act crazy.”
Seaweed stepped out from behind the stove. “Yeah, it ain’t no thing we can’t play here. I’ll just explain it to the boys.”
“This ain’t about you, Seaweed,” said Amy, giving him a look. Then she squeezed Frankie’s arm. “Your daddy got a lot in his head. Takes a lot to do what he done, startin’ up a new place like he is. He is up at the tippy top, and if one thing below goes out from under him . . .”
“Like the orchestra,” said Frankie.
Amy nodded. “In the blink of an eye the whole place turns into a pile of rubble.”
“In the blink of an eye,” Frankie said to herself.
“What I can’t figure is why the orchestra would cancel a paying gig at the last minute,” said Julie. “That Biggs sounds like a fool to me.”
But Frankie had an idea why. And she thought she had an idea who, as well.
44
FRANKIE HEADED STRAIGHT FOR the city square.
There she dodged a mess of Fourth of July planners who were busy wrapping streetlamps with red-white-and-blue ribbons and draping American flags at each corner. A wooden stage had been constructed in the square’s center, and a vote for price banner was hanging crooked—oh, those Price boys!—below the makeshift podium. Alongside the stage, there was a cart holding a block of ice nearly the size of Bismarck for selling penny sundaes.
Frankie usually loved the Fourth of July. But these days, there was no more usually.
She weaved in between the rows of hay bales that were meant for audience chairs and rested her legs on one right up front. She didn’t see Mr. Price anywhere, but she knew he would turn up if she waited long enough. He had everything to do with the orchestra canceling, she was sure of it.
While she waited, a quartet of singers, two men and two women, all wearing matching stars-and-stripes outfits, rehearsed a few patriotic songs to the tune of a banjo, and Frankie couldn’t help but think of Joan and how different things would be if she hadn’t gone away. Why, oh why, oh why couldn’t she be there, too?
Frankie lay down on the hay bale and looked up at the clouds that seemed to be playing keep-away with the sun. She watched those clouds for a long time, watched them while a brass band took the place of the quartet, watched them while Little Bobby Melvich rehearsed his tap-dancing number, and watched them while Joyce Sempleton practiced reciting Walt Whitman’s poem “I Hear America Singing.”
Joyce Sempleton, incidentally, needed the practice—because America, so it seemed, couldn’t get the words right.
Frankie wished she could reach up and touch those clouds. She wished she could grab hold, pull herself through them, and come out on the other side—where there was more than just a piece of sky; where it was wide enough for her to soar. Where there were no dishes to wash, potatoes to peel, or secrets to be kept from her. Where she was not just a Number Three, but a person who wasn’t a bother, who wasn’t in the way. Where she could make things the way they should be.
She reached up and closed her eyes, hoping that what she dreamed for herself could really come true. And then, as if the clouds had heard her request and wasted no time in providing an answer, something fell out of the sky and hit her squarely—smack!—in the forehead.
Her eyes flew open and she sat up. On the ground next to her bale of hay was a piece of paper crinkled into a ball.
“Direct hit!” yelled Leroy Price from the stage.
Frankie got to her feet. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I think I should ask you the same,” said Leroy, hopping down from the stage. Marty followed him, holding a penny sundae in one hand. But he had some trouble with the jump and fell into Frankie’s hay bale on the landing. “Saved it,” Marty said, admiring his snowball, which was still upright, before taking a bite. He brushed the hay from his hair and sat beside her. “Are you coming tonight to watch the fireworks, Frankie?”
That’s when Frankie saw two waitresses from the restaurant, Dolores Hemphill and BettyAnn Chase, each holding penny sundaes, walk by not even twenty feet away and disappear behind the stage. What were they doing here? Didn’t Mother say they’d called out sick with the summer complaint?
“So, are you, Frankie?” asked Marty again.
“What?”
“Are you coming to watch the fireworks?” he said.
“No, Marty.”
“Why not?” said Marty. “The whole town is going to be here watching. We’ve got fireworks and food and music. Daddy’s got the Metropolitans playing here. So why won’t you come?”
“Because she’s not invited,” said Leroy. “That’s why. Only Americans celebrate the Fourth of July.”
For a second, just one, she was taken aback. “I am an American,” she said.
“You ain’t,” Leroy said.
“I am too,” shouted Frankie. “You take that back right now, Leroy Price.”
Leroy grinned. “Why should I take it back? It’s the truth.”
And then she said, “Wait a second. Who did you say was playing here?”
“The Metropolitans,” said Marty.
“Yancy Biggs’s orchestra?” she asked. “Daddy hired them to play at the restaurant!”
“I guess they don’t want to play for no Germans, either,” said Leroy. “Can’t say that I blame them.”
Frankie threw the crumpled-up paper, which bounced off his shoulder and fell to the ground. She was aiming for his mouth. “I said, take it back!”
“Come on, Leroy,” said Marty, taking another bite of his snowball. “Leave her alone.”
“Shut your mouth, Marty,” said Leroy. “You heard what our daddy said. There’s no way we’re gonna let no-good Germans take over our town. They’re worse than the coloreds.” Then Leroy Price cleared his throat, gathering up as much phlegm as he could, and spat at Frankie. A gob of mucus the size of a fifty-cent piece landed just below her eye and began to ooze down her cheek.
A fire lit inside her. Without taking the time to think or wipe her face, Frankie lunged at Leroy, pushing him backward until he fell onto another hay bale at the far end of the stage. “Get off!” he screamed at Frankie, but she kept pushing down on him like a steam-powered roller.
“Take it back!” she yelled again. If she yelled loud enough and pushed him hard enough, maybe she could undo everything and start all over. Maybe she couldn’t change things all on her own and be anything more than a Number Three, but she could do something to make Leroy Price see her, like she wanted Daddy to see her and know that she was as good as anybody else. Look at me! Look!
With his back still on the hay bale, Leroy kicked at Frankie. She grabbed fistfuls of hay and threw them at him. He tried to bat them away, but she did not stop until he was completely covered, until she could no longer see his face. Then, when she could do no more, when all of her steam had been used up and she had nothing left but tears, she grabbed Marty’s snowball and dumped it on top of Leroy’s head.
Marty stood next to her. “Aw, man, what a waste of egg custard.”
“Sorry, Marty,” said Frankie, wiping the hair out of her face.
“No, I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice.
“It’s not your fault you have a monster for a brother.” Then she yelled “Monster!” at Leroy to finish him off.
“No,” said Marty. “I don’t mean that. I mean this. I’m sorry for this.” He picked up the balled-up paper and unfolded it, smoothing out the wrinkles on his stomach. Then he handed it to Frankie.
BOYCOTT GERMAN BUSINESSES!
BOYCOTT BAUM’S RESTAURANT!
&nbs
p; Our fair city is under threat from evil forces. But do not be mistaken, these forces are not just overseas, they are right next door.
To keep Hagerstown citizens, businesses, and families safe, we must NOT patronize German-owned businesses, whose loyalty is to Germany and ultimately to Adolf Hitler himself, rather than this great nation of ours.
We must keep our wallets closed to those who seek to contaminate our town! Thank you for your cooperation.
Hagerstown Chamber of Commerce Council
45
MR. STANNUM SAT IN his office at the restaurant with the door closed. Ever since he met with Mr. Price at the pharmacy, he’d been having strange feelings. He had thought he was doing the right thing, for his country, for his brother. He had, hadn’t he? Done the right thing? After all, it was his duty, just as Mr. Price said. His duty!
But now, well . . . he tap-tap-tapped his fingers to some odd beat.
What if he were wrong?
He pulled his handkerchief from his jacket pocket to dry his face, and as he did, a slip of paper fell to the floor. He picked it up and unfolded it.
He swallowed, then wiped the sweat from his neck as he read the handwritten words: WHERE IS YOUR HEART?
46
YOU NEVER HAVE SEEN so much red, white, and blue as was in the dining room of Baum’s Restaurant that night. The sheer number of adornments would have rivaled those in the nation’s capital. Streamers, garlands, and paper chains galore were strung from the chandeliers to each wall and back again. Under that canopy, three long tables had been fashioned together, side by side, each seating twenty-four. At every place setting there were vases of red, white, and blue flowers with tiny American flags tucked in them, and ribbons in the same color scheme were tied around the backs of each chair.
There was no way Mr. Price would doubt Hermann Baum’s loyalty if he saw all this. But perhaps that was the point.
Fritz and Inky had already taken their seats at the end of the first table and were debating President Roosevelt’s domestic policies. “Welcome, welcome,” said Hermann, shaking their hands. Then he nodded toward the bar and said, “Mr. Dench will make you whatever drink you’d like.”
“I highly recommend a rickey,” announced Grandma Engel, who was sitting on a stool at the bar. “Mr. Dench here makes the best in town.” Then she gave him a wink.
“You all right, Hermann?” asked Fritz.
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” he answered. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”
Mother, who was perched at the door, ready to greet the guests as they arrived, gave Grandma Engel a disapproving look. To which Grandma Engel replied by sticking out her tongue.
Elizabeth grabbed the water pitcher and starting filling Fritz’s and Inky’s glasses at the first table, while Aunt Edith and Uncle Hal, along with Ava and Martha, arrived and took their seats beside them. “Oh, thank heavens,” said Aunt Edith to Uncle Hal, looking at the eighteen empty chairs at their table. “I thought for sure we’d be late.”
Martha grabbed a dinner roll from a basket on the table in front of her. Ava tied her napkin around her head to cover her nose and mouth. She stuck her finger into Martha’s side and said, “Give me that roll or else.”
“I will not,” declared Martha, starting to take a bite.
“I’m warning you,” said Ava. “I said or else.”
“I don’t care,” said Martha, chewing with her mouth open. “Go ahead and shoot. I’m not playing; I’m hungry.”
Ava yanked off her napkin in a pout. “You’re no fun.”
At the far end of the second table sat Mr. and Mrs. Bulgar, Julie’s father and mother. As Elizabeth filled their water glasses, they sipped on mixed drinks and sampled a basket of breads and muffins that Julie had brought out special for them. “Delectable,” they said. “Just scrumptious.”
The only other person at that table was Mr. Dench’s sister, Fern, who had just been to the dentist the day before, where she’d had all of her teeth extracted due to a severe gum problem. She wouldn’t be fitted for dentures until the following week, so until then she was unable to eat any foods other than, say, applesauce and rice pudding, and was too embarrassed to converse with anyone lest they see her pink, swollen gums and missing bicuspids. No one else knew this, of course, except for Mr. Dench. As Fern just sat quietly, staring at her water glass and waiting patiently for the ice to melt, the Bulgars whispered about her unsociable character and ill-begotten manners. But toothless Fern Dench wasn’t the only thing they were whispering about.
“What should we do?” Mr. Bulgar asked his wife. “I didn’t know there would be coloreds here. Not in the same room. Never in my life have I dined right next to Negroes.” He looked over his shoulder at the table behind them, where Mr. Washington’s wife, Henrietta, and their two young boys were seated, alongside Amy’s mother, father, grandmother, aunt and uncle, and her eight cousins. Katie Resden, the Baums’ housekeeper, was there, too, chatting up Seaweed’s mother and sister Peaches about the oppressive heat.
“It’s a shock to me, too, dear,” replied Mrs. Bulgar quietly. “Julie never mentioned this would be a mixed affair. Let’s just eat quickly and then leave. We don’t want to disappoint our Julie.”
And speaking of disappointment, there was a good bit of that going around. By Daddy’s count, there were forty-three empty chairs. The Wexlers, the Hoffmans, and plenty of others had said they were coming, and yet they were almost an hour late, if they were coming at all. Daddy had tried telephoning many of them, but he could not get a single answer.
Forty-three no-shows, with enough food to feed seventy-five. Daddy rested his hand over his chest to calm his racing heart.
Since there hadn’t been any more guests to greet in a while, Mother left her position at the door and took his side. “Where do you think everyone is?” she whispered.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Something is not right.”
“Should we go ahead and serve the food?” asked Mother.
“Let’s give them a little while longer,” said Daddy. “They’ll be here.”
“All right,” said Mother, giving his arm a squeeze. “I’ll get back to the door.”
Aunt Edith took a sip of her iced tea and said, “Hermann, I’m so excited to hear the Metropolitans play tonight. What a treat!”
Daddy winced. “About that,” he said. “There’s been a change of plans.” He raised his voice so that everyone could hear. “We had an arrangement with Yancy Biggs and his Metropolitans to play for you tonight, but as you can see, they aren’t here. And the reason they aren’t here is that they aren’t coming. Mr. Biggs called me earlier today to inform me that he has another, more fruitful opportunity, as he put it, and he apologized for not being able to make it.”
Aunt Edith’s high-arched eyebrows said it all.
This was a blow to Daddy, a kick in the gut. And as the guests looked at the empty corner of the room where the orchestra was supposed to be playing, and then at all of the empty chairs, they started to wonder, as Daddy did, just what was going on. Some of them, the Bulgars, for instance, had heard talk around town about Mr. Baum having ties to Germany. But there was quite a bit of talk about a lot of things these days, and the Bulgars were so pleased that Mr. Baum had employed their only daughter that they were willing to overlook what they viewed as just rumors.
The rumors hadn’t spread so far as to reach those on Jonathan Street, though, so Henrietta Washington and others at the third table attributed the poor showing to Daddy not knowing much about running a restaurant.
Regardless of what anyone believed about Daddy, they all could agree on this: the party was not much of one.
“Biggs is a second-rate bum,” said Fritz, pounding a fist on the table and breaking the silence, which had gone on too long.
“I never did hear them play none,” offered Katie, “but I know they ain’t no Duke
Ellington. They ain’t nobody like the Duke.”
“Except Cab Calloway,” said Amy’s father, clearing his throat. “That there’s a bandleader.”
“Now, Benny Goodman,” said Mrs. Bulgar, “there’s a man who knows how to lead an orchestra.”
“Amen,” said Mr. Bulgar.
“The King of Swing,” said Grandma Engel. She slid down from her bar stool and wiggled her hips.
“That’s it, call up Benny,” said Uncle Hal, laughing. “That’ll show old Yancy Biggs he’s nothing but a bum.”
Seaweed’s mother stood up. “Now, hold it one second.” Her mouth was pulled tight in a straight line. Finally, after a long couple of seconds, when she was sure she had everyone’s attention, she said, “Let’s get one thing straight in here. The king ain’t got nothin’ on Lady Ella. Fitzgerald, I mean,” and her face broke into a wide grin.
Everyone laughed, and the room—at least for a few minutes—had the flavor of a celebration.
Now, it was around this time that Inky whispered to Hermann and pointed up toward the balcony. There, perched at the Hammond electric organ, was Mrs. Inkletter, cracking her fingers and waiting for her cue. “Right,” said Hermann, hoping that Mrs. Inkletter’s playing would help spur on the guests’ good humor. And so he made another announcement, introducing Mrs. Inkletter and her fine musical talents.
Mrs. Inkletter sat tall in the center of the bench and let her fingertips rest gently on the keys. In all fairness, she started out strong with “God Bless America,” an appropriate, if not lively, selection.
“There’s my girl,” shouted Inky. “Listen to those notes.”
Alas, while no one, and I mean no one, could follow the greats—Ella, Duke, Cab, and Benny—in a performance, Mrs. Inkletter proved that it’s disadvantageous to follow a conversation about them as well. When you’ve conjured up musical legends in people’s minds, your playing better be legendary, too, or you might as well pack up and go home.
But packing up and going home wasn’t in Mrs. Inkletter’s blood. Like I said, she started out strong, but about halfway through, she hit a wrong note. It was a whopper of a wrong note, too. A dilly. A beaut. A corker. A real humdinger. One that could be heard from the mountains to the prairies to the oceans white with foam, just like was written in the song. Then she stopped playing altogether, God bless her.
A Tiny Piece of Sky Page 18
