A Tiny Piece of Sky

by Shawn K. Stout

  “It is,” said Grandma Engel.

  Ava put her face real close to the picture. “Aunt Mildred don’t even look like herself.”

  “That’s because it isn’t her,” said Frankie, looking at Grandma Engel.

  “This was your daddy’s first wife,” said Grandma Engel. “Her name was Victoria.”

  “First wife?” said Ava. “How many does he have?”

  “Ava,” said Grandma Engel, “would you please?”

  “Would I please what?”

  Grandma Engel shook her head. “Victoria and Hermann were married before he and Mildred were married.”

  “I didn’t know Daddy was married before,” said Elizabeth.

  “What happened to her?” asked Frankie. “Where is she now? Does she live in Germany?”

  “Germany?” said Grandma Engel. “Why in the world would you think that? For goodness’ sakes, she lived right here in Maryland. She was a lovely girl.”

  “You knew her?” asked Frankie.

  “I did,” said Grandma Engel. “Not too well, but this was a smaller town back then and most people knew of each other at least. Not like today. Anyway, she and your father were married a few years and they were expecting a baby.”

  This was all too much for Frankie to hear. “A baby!”

  “Does Mother know?” asked Elizabeth.

  “Well, of course she does. What do you think?” Grandma Engel said.

  Frankie didn’t know what to think, and apparently neither did Elizabeth.

  Grandma Engel lovingly patted the photograph. She sighed. “And, as sometimes happens, sadly, Victoria died while giving birth. They lost the baby, too.”

  The words, all of them, hung in the air like smoke.

  Frankie found it hard to swallow. “Was it a girl?” she whispered. “The baby, I mean?” She didn’t know exactly why she wanted to know this, or why it mattered, just that it did.

  “Frankie!” scolded Elizabeth, as if such a thing were nobody’s business, especially hers.

  Grandma Engel cocked her head to the side as if she were trying to understand the reason behind Frankie’s question. “No,” she said finally. “It was a boy.”

  A boy.

  There weren’t any boys in the Baum family, only girls. Which made Frankie wonder if it was an even bigger disappointment to Daddy that he never got to have that boy, or any other. Three girls, that’s what he ended up with, but was he hoping for a boy each time?

  “Huh,” said Ava, and then she went back to the table to practice her card trick.

  “Is that it?” asked Frankie.

  “That’s all she wrote.” Grandma Engel handed the photograph back to Frankie. “Now the story has all been told. You can go ahead and put that back.”

  Frankie was about to return it to the cupboard. But then she wondered aloud, “Why did Daddy put it at the bottom of that dresser? It was all covered with dust.”

  Grandma shrugged. “You’d have to ask him about that. But sometimes you don’t want to be reminded of painful things. Sometimes you just want to put them away somewhere and forget they ever happened.”

  Frankie wasn’t sure she understood, and she felt bad for Victoria that she was left in the dresser that Daddy hated, in the thing that left him with bruises. So she went to the kitchen and, with a damp dish towel, wiped off the rest of the dust. Then she laid it carefully on the pile of table linens in the dresser and closed the cupboard doors.

  52

  THE RAIN CAME THAT night and continued into the next morning. Frankie lay in her bed facing the window and watched the rain shadows dance down the curtains in crooked lines. Her body ached with sorrow, as if from a bad dream that she couldn’t remember. Her eyes still heavy with sleep, she blinked away the fog and tried to call up the events of the day before in her mind.

  When they came, oh my, they came. Like horses breaking free of their pen, the memories ran through her. She sat up in bed, wondering how long she’d been sleeping and if Mother had come home from the hospital with any news of Daddy. Across the dark room, Elizabeth’s bed was empty and made up. Frankie pushed against the lump beside her as she pulled her legs from under the covers. “Come on, Bismarck,” she said. “Move.”

  “I’m not Bismarck,” said Joan, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

  “Joanie!” yelled Frankie. “You’re here!” She threw her arms around Joan’s neck and knocked her back on her pillow. “What are you doing here?”

  Joan squeezed Frankie tight. “Fritz came up to Aunt Dottie’s to get me, you know, after. We got home late and you were already asleep. I tried to wake you up, but you just kept calling me Bismarck.” Frankie let go and they sat across from each other on the bed, knees to knees. Joan turned on the bedside table lamp. “I’m really glad to be . . .” And then she looked at her pillow and her side of the bed, which were covered in dog hair. “Didn’t I tell you not to let Bismarck get too used to my side?”

  “Didn’t I tell you to stop bossing me so?” Then Frankie stared at Joan’s curls. “Oh no, your hair!”

  “Don’t you dare laugh, Frankie. It’s awful, I know.” She pulled at her curls to try to straighten them, but as soon as she let go, they snapped back into perfect ringlets.

  “You do sort of look like Shirley Temple.”

  “Frankie!” said Joan.

  “All right,” said Frankie. “I won’t say anything else about it.”

  “Thank you.” Joan stretched out her legs, which nearly reached to the foot of the bed. “I don’t know how it happened,” she said, “but this bed got smaller.”

  They both laughed, but then immediately felt bad for doing so, and were quiet. “Did you see Mother?” asked Frankie.

  Joan shook her head. “She wasn’t here when I got home.”

  “She must be home by now,” said Frankie.

  Their feet hit the wood floor at the same time, and when they reached the hall, Frankie was two steps ahead.

  Elizabeth and Grandma Engel were on the living room sofa, sitting on either side of Mother. She was pale, except for her eyes, which were puffy and pink. She clutched her eyeglasses in her hand, and without them on, there was a trace of young Mildred Engel, scared and alone among the garbage cans, hiding from the truant officer.

  “Girls,” said Grandma Engel, when Frankie and Joan came into the room. “Have a seat.”

  “Joan,” said Mother. She opened her arms and brought her in. “Welcome home, dear. It’s wonderful to see you.” Joan kissed her damp cheek.

  “What about Daddy?” asked Frankie. Her breath caught when she said his name.

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about, girls,” said Mother.

  Then Joan went back to Frankie and grabbed her hand. They squeezed into the easy chair together. And they waited.

  53

  DADDY’S HEART HAS A disease. That’s how Mother explained it to the girls, and that’s how the doctors at the hospital had explained it to Mother. Daddy was a very sick man, and there was nothing anyone could do for him to make him better, other than keep him comfortable and in bed. Until.

  After Mother got all that out, she laid her head on the back of the sofa and wept.

  That was the gist of it.

  But it made sense to no one.

  “He’s so young,” said Elizabeth, wiping away her own tears. “I don’t understand.”

  “He’s going to die?” asked Frankie, squeezing Joan’s fingers. That couldn’t be right. There must be some kind of medicine that could help. And then she wondered if the doctors at the hospital had seen those flyers and had heard the rumors about Daddy. They wouldn’t decide not to help him if they could, would they?

  Mother moaned into her hands, and Elizabeth stroked her arm to soothe her. “Frankie, please,” said Elizabeth, giving her a look.

  “Everybody’s going to die
sometime,” said Grandma Engel. “Hermann’s alive right now, and I don’t care what those doctors say, they don’t know a plum thing more than any of us do about it. When it’s your time, it’s your time.”

  “Can we see him?” asked Joan.

  Mother blew her nose into a handkerchief. “In a few days,” she said. “You all can see him in a few days.”

  “That will be the best medicine for him,” said Grandma Engel, nodding.

  “What about the restaurant?” said Frankie. “The grand opening is supposed to be tonight.”

  Mother got to her feet. “As far as I’m concerned, the restaurant is closed.” Then, without saying another word about it, she made her way across the room, pausing once. “It’s just as well. If last night was telling, there wouldn’t be anybody to show up tonight anyway.” She went on down the hall to her room to lie down.

  “This is all Mr. Price’s fault,” said Frankie. “And Mr. Stannum’s.”

  “Mr. Price from the Chamber of Commerce?” said Grandma Engel. “And Mr. Stannum from the restaurant? What do they have to do with anything?”

  Then Frankie explained about how she followed Mr. Stannum to the pharmacy and saw what she saw. And about the boycott german businesses flyers that the Price boys were handing out.

  Elizabeth wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. “If you’re talking about whose fault this is,” she went on, “you might want to look in the mirror.”

  “What do you mean?” said Frankie, dropping Joan’s hand and getting to her feet.

  “I mean, Daddy was out looking for you when this happened,” accused Elizabeth.

  “Elizabeth!” said Joan. “That’s not fair.”

  Grandma Engel stomped her foot on the floor. “Stop it now! Just stop! What happened to your father was nobody’s fault. Didn’t you hear what your mother said? He is sick. Now, I don’t want to hear any more of this kind of talk, do you understand?”

  Elizabeth, Joan, and Frankie nodded.

  “Let me hear you,” said Grandma Engel.

  “We understand,” the girls said at the same time.

  “Good,” said Grandma Engel, standing up. “Now, let’s get some breakfast going. We’ll all feel a little brighter with full stomachs. Elizabeth, why don’t you help me?”

  When Elizabeth and Grandma Engel were gone, Frankie whispered to Joan, “What Elizabeth said. Do you think she’s right?”

  “Of course not,” said Joan.

  “But Daddy wouldn’t have been out there at the square looking for me, if I hadn’t . . .” The thought sickened her.

  “I’m certain that had nothing to do with it,” said Joan.

  Frankie nodded, succumbing to tears. “He must have been so worried and upset.” But there was more to Frankie’s grief. She also felt terribly guilty for having wondered if Daddy was really a spy for the Germans. That he could have been. She no longer believed that to be true, of course, though she still couldn’t explain the piece of paper that Mr. Stannum had found. But thinking that she’d doubted Daddy, even for a short time, well . . . how was she any different from Mr. Stannum or anybody else who was swayed by those rumors?

  Joan shook her head. “Aunt Dottie told me that their father was sick a lot while they were growing up. So maybe Daddy has the same kind of heart problem. Frankie, nobody is to blame.”

  “Maybe not for his heart,” said Frankie. But there was plenty of blame to go around for everything else.

  54

  THE HOSPITAL WAS FOUR blocks away. Visiting hours began at nine o’clock sharp, and Mother made sure she and the girls were out the door, in formation, and moving at a brisk pace by ten minutes till. She had also made them dress alike this morning, in flower-printed cotton dresses that Daddy had brought back from a business trip to Philadelphia several months earlier.

  The girls would normally have protested such a thing, but they were well aware that Mother’s nerves were in a fragile way, and so they held their tongues. There was, in fact, only one thing they hated more than Mother making them wear matching dresses, and that was walking down the street with her.

  The three girls had to walk side by side—Elizabeth on the left, Joan in the middle, Frankie on the right—and never behind one another. Behind was where Mother walked, for that position had the vantage point of seeing and correcting any mischief-making, as well as setting the pace with the rhythmic trip trap of her heels on the sidewalk. Mother’s legs may have been petite, but they could move like nobody’s business. To Mother, walking was not a leisurely sport or done for pleasure; it was a means of getting from place to place in as quick a manner as possible.

  Walking behind also helped her improve the girls’ posture.

  “Keep your head up, Frankie,” said Mother before they had even gone one block. “Shoulders back, Joan. You’re not on the farm.”

  Joan and Frankie exchanged a look, but in truth, Frankie was relieved to have something else to concentrate on other than Daddy and what he would look like in that hospital bed.

  When they got to the front door of the hospital, Mother took the lead. They climbed three flights of stairs and wandered down a long hall with white walls, passing nurses in all-white dresses and matching socks and lace-up shoes. Frankie had only been to the hospital one other time, when Joan had her tonsils out a few years back. The smell of ammonia and urine, the one thing that stuck out in Frankie’s memory of the place, was the same and as strong as ever. Frankie pinched her nostrils closed until Mother saw and told her to act like a lady.

  “I can’t hold my nose?” asked Frankie.

  “It’s not polite,” said Mother.

  “Are you telling me that no lady holds her nose, ever?”

  “That’s right,” said Mother.

  “Not even if she’s around the most awful smell you could imagine?” said Frankie. “Like if she was down in the sewer pipes?”

  “Don’t be smart,” said Mother. “When was the last time you saw a lady down in the sewer pipes? And you shouldn’t be talking about sewer pipes in the hospital. It’s unsanitary.” Then she took a deep breath and stopped in front of a wide door, number 303. A nurse came out of the room and smiled at Mother and then at the girls. “Good morning, Mrs. Baum,” she said in a quiet voice. “He’s ready to see you all.”

  Mother thanked the nurse and gently pushed open the door. She went inside first, followed by Elizabeth and then Joan. Frankie lingered in the doorway. Daddy may have been ready to see them, but Frankie was not sure she was ready for whatever was in that room. At home, at least, she could imagine him as he’d been the last time she saw him, or every other time before that. But if she went through that door, whatever he was in there, lying on that bed, that’s what she was afraid she would never be able to rid from her mind.

  She knelt down and adjusted the buckle on her sandal, for something to do. Then she did the other one. Perhaps there was a bathroom nearby that she could use. But then, Daddy called her name.

  She straightened her legs and went inside.

  The curtains were drawn closed, except for a narrow gap that let in a thin ray of sunlight. It took a few moments for Frankie’s eyes to adjust to the dark after the bright lights in the hallway. There were two beds on either side of the room, and Daddy was in the one closest to the window. In the other bed, there was an older gentleman with thin white hair combed over his otherwise bald head. His eyes were open, gazing up at the ceiling, and his hands were folded neatly above the covers, as if he were patiently waiting for something to happen.

  Frankie rushed by him, for if something was going to happen, she didn’t want to be nearby to witness it. Mother, Joan, and Elizabeth were crowded around Daddy, and there was no place for Frankie, so she stayed back by the foot of the bed.

  “There you are, Frankie,” whispered Daddy. He smiled and moved his shoulders as if he wanted to sit up, but then winced and lay b
ack down again.

  “Does it hurt?” asked Mother.

  “It’s nothing,” he said, keeping his eyes on Frankie.

  It was a relief to see that he looked more like himself than the frightening thing Frankie had imagined he might, though he was pale and his eyes were cradled by dark moons. He seemed so small, stretched out in that bed, and Frankie wondered if it was merely the size of the mattress that made him look that way, or if life had already begun to leave him.

  He touched Joan’s face and then squeezed Elizabeth’s hand. Mother sat down in a chair beside the bed. Daddy asked Joan about Aunt Dottie’s and about how she liked the farm, and then he quipped about all the pretty nurses who brought his meals right to him without him even having to get out of bed.

  “How is the food?” asked Mother. “Are you eating?”

  “Well, it isn’t Baum’s Restaurant,” he said. “But they say it’s food, so I’m inclined to believe them.”

  Mother’s mouth turned down at the mention of the restaurant, and she pulled the curtain closed so that the thin piece of sunlight was no more.

  “Joan,” said Daddy, “just wait until you see it. A place of wide renown is what it is.” He looked at Mother. “Mildred, maybe you can all go by the restaurant to show her, and check on things.”

  Mother gave a brief smile. “Did you sleep well?” She fussed over his blankets, smoothing out the folds. “Didn’t get too chilled?”

  “I don’t know how anyone can sleep in here,” he answered. “Someone was in to check on me every ten minutes or so, waking me.”

  “As they should,” said Mother. “I’m glad to hear you’re getting good care.”

  Daddy looked from Elizabeth to Joan to Frankie. “So, girls, tell me what you’ve been up to.”

  None of them knew what to say. Frankie knew better than to say what she’d been up to with Mother in the room. Anyway, Mother didn’t give any of them the chance.

  “Reinhart is making arrangements to come,” Mother said.