Isabelle and Little Orphan Frannie: The Isabelle Series, Book Three

by Constance C. Greene

  “Rolling Stones,” Isabelle said, head bobbing, feet moving with the speed of light. “Rolling Stones,” she said, opening the girls’ room door and rocking and rolling out into the hall.

  “Is that where she’s sending it?” Mary Eliza hissed. “Is that the magazine?”

  “I don’t think so,” Jane said doubtfully. “I think that’s who she’s dancing to. That’s the music she’s dancing to, I think.”

  THIRTEEN

  After school Isabelle went over to Mrs. Stern’s, in search of some TLC. She wanted to talk about the ceiling falling on Aunt Maude. About her plans to teach an unnamed person to read and write. And she wanted to discuss people who promised to write to her and didn’t. All that and more.

  Mrs. Stern was in the backyard, weeding.

  “You’re here in the nick of time, Isabelle,” and Mrs. Stern put out a hand. “If I stayed on my knees much longer, I might never be able to get up.” As Isabelle pulled her to her feet, Mrs. Stern winced. “You’re never old until your knees give out. Remember that, my child.”

  They went inside. “I know I have a fresh box of cocoa somewhere, but to tell the truth, Isabelle, I’ve been on such a tear I don’t know what I’ve got and what I don’t. Oh, here it is.” Mrs. Stern took out the cocoa. She poured some milk in a saucepan and stood at the stove, stirring it.

  “I was so sorry to rush off the other day,” Mrs. Stern said, “but John had made a reservation at the Yellow Cat and they won’t hold a table if you’re late. Please bring Frannie over soon. I promised you both a party. I scarcely had a chance to say hello. I hate being rushed. I seem to rush a good deal lately, what with one thing and another. Get the cups, please.”

  Isabelle got down the cups with a flourish. Then she opened a fresh pack of marshmallows and put one in each cup.

  “It’s dining and dancing and Lord knows what gallivanting with John here,” Mrs. Stern said as they sat down. “I’m all worn out,” and she smiled, and Isabelle could see she didn’t look in the least worn out.

  “John must be a party animal,” Isabelle said.

  “Isabelle!” Mrs. Stern exploded in laughter. “I must remember to tell him that. ‘Party animal!’ Wonderful.”

  “Has he gone for good?”

  “No, he’s visiting friends. He’ll be back again. To tell the truth, Isabelle, it’s nice having the house to myself.” Mrs. Stern drank her cocoa and left her marshmallow. Isabelle liked to hold hers in her mouth, swishing it about until she swallowed it whole.

  “I like being alone,” Mrs. Stern confided. “And it’s a good thing, too. If you don’t enjoy your own company, you’re in trouble.”

  “Where does John live?” Isabelle asked.

  “In Florida. I hate Florida. Too many old people there.” They both laughed.

  “John loves to go, you see. He likes to dance and go to the track to watch the horses race, and would you believe”—Mrs. Stern rolled her eyes—“he’s learning to tango.”

  “Is that a game or what? I never heard of tango,” said Isabelle.

  “It’s a dance, a very tricky, exotic dance. John says he’ll conquer the tango before it conquers him, and he probably will.”

  “He must be a very nice man,” Isabelle said primly. “If you like him.”

  “He’s a lovely man.” Mrs. Stern stared down into her empty cup. Isabelle could see the marshmallow sitting there, all soft and squishy, just the way she liked them.

  “Isabelle, I’d like to discuss something with you, something private and something I’d like you to keep to yourself. May I?”

  “Sure.” Isabelle dragged her eyes away from Mrs. Stern’s marshmallow. “Shoot.”

  “Well, it’s an adult sort of thing, and I know you’re a child and I’m an old woman, but still, you seem a sensible child.”

  Isabelle was stunned. She’d been called many things but “sensible” was a first.

  “I certainly can’t tell Stella, although I must admit I’d love to.” Stella was Mrs. Stern’s sister-in-law, who was always bragging about what great shape she was in, even if she was seventeen months older than Mrs. Stern.

  “If you want to borrow some money,” Isabelle said, “I have forty-four dollars in my savings account.”

  “Bless you.” Mrs. Stern’s silver eyes glistened. “No, it’s not money. I have enough money.”

  “Boy, you’re probably the only person I know who does,” Isabelle said.

  Mrs. Stern cleared her throat and laced her fingers together. “John has asked for my hand,” she said.

  “Your hand? How about the rest of you?” Isabelle asked indignantly. “Didn’t he ask for the rest of you?”

  “That’s an old-fashioned expression, Isabelle. To ask for one’s hand means you want to marry the person you ask, hand and all.”

  Isabelle was shocked and tried not to show it. Mrs. Stern married! A bride? Bizarre.

  “Well, if you gave him your hand,” she said in her new sensible fashion, “then he could live here and help you clean your gutters and weed the garden and paint and all. Then you could take it easy.”

  “No,” said Mrs. Stern. “We would go to live in his condo in Florida, and John said I’d never have to do another lick of work in my life. Everything would be done for us. For me.”

  “Would you like that?”

  “Well, no. No, I don’t think so. As a matter of fact”—Mrs. Stern tapped the table with her finger—“I think I’d hate it. It’s odd how sometimes if you put things into words, you get a clearer picture, isn’t it?”

  Isabelle knew Mrs. Stern didn’t expect an answer, so she clammed up and only nodded in her sensible way.

  “Yes, I think I’d absolutely hate it,” Mrs. Stern said. “I thank you, Isabelle, for your help. You’ve been a great help.” Mrs. Stern smiled. “Now I must get back to the weeds before they take over.”

  “Sure.” Isabelle got up. “Mrs. Stern, if you’re not going to eat your marshmallow, can I have it?” she asked.

  “It’s the least I can do,” said Mrs. Stern. “Take it and how about one more for the road?”

  Isabelle skipped home. She hadn’t skipped in a while and had forgotten how good skipping made her feel. She hadn’t told Mrs. Stern any of the things she’d planned to tell her. She’d only listened to Mrs. Stern’s problems. She’d been a great help. She was a sensible child. She was making progress, no matter what anyone said.

  FOURTEEN

  Frannie was perched on the back step, waiting, when Isabelle chugged up the drive.

  “I can stay tonight,” Frannie announced. “For supper. Like your mother said. I asked my aunt and she said it’d suit her a treat on account of she’s hosting a Tupperware party, and she said she needs to clean up the joint.”

  “I don’t know. I better ask,” said Isabelle. She decided on her way inside to take the positive approach and tell instead.

  “Frannie can stay for supper tonight,” she told her mother.

  It was not a good time. Isabelle could see that. Her mother’s hair and face were both frazzled. She’d been working on her word processor all day, and she was losing the battle. It was new and she said she was going to master it if it killed her.

  “Oh, not tonight, kids. Sorry, Frannie. We’ll be lucky if we eat supper at all tonight. The way it looks now it’s bread and milk for everyone.” Then she took a look at Frannie and said, “How about coming for Sunday dinner? We always have a gala feast then. Isabelle’s father fixes dinner on Sunday. We’d love to have you, Frannie. Think you can come?”

  “Well,” Frannie said, “I guess. But I can stay tonight too.”

  “Sunday’s better,” Isabelle’s mother stated, and went back to her work.

  “What time?” Frannie asked.

  “About twelve thirty, after church,” Isabelle said.

  “What’s he fixing?” Frannie said.

  Isabelle’s mother rested her chin in her hands and rolled her eyes. “It’s a secret. That’s what makes it so exciti
ng. It’s always something special.”

  “Yeah, and Aunt Maude usually stays too,” Isabelle told Frannie. “As a matter of fact, she always stays although she pretends she won’t. Aunt Maude’s a real aunt, though. Not a phony one, like yours.”

  “Who says Aunt Ruth’s a phony?” Frannie demanded angrily.

  “You said,” Isabelle replied. “You said she wants you to call her aunt, but she’s not a real aunt. So I call that a phony.”

  “You’ve got no business calling her a phony,” Frannie said, fists clenched. “You don’t even know her. If I come on Sunday”—Frannie had calmed down some—“I’ll wear my new frock. It’s a real frock, all right. I look like a movie star in that frock. I look like somebody in a game show. That’s what Aunt Ruth says.”

  “What’s a frock?” Isabelle asked.

  Frannie’s mouth dropped open and her eyes popped in astonishment.

  “You don’t know what a frock is?” Frannie said. “It’s this really special dress; you only bring it out for dressy parties. My mother sent it to me from Detroit. Did I tell you my mother’s boyfriend gave her a diamond?”

  Isabelle and her mother shook their heads no, she hadn’t told them.

  “Well”—Frannie licked her lips—“it’s about a karat, set in platinum with lots of little diamonds on the sides and all around. Now my mother says she can’t do the dishes or anything, on account of the diamond. Her hands were made for diamonds, and a diamond’s a big responsibility, you see.”

  “Right you are,” Isabelle’s mother agreed. “Now, girls, mind taking off? I’m very busy with this thing.”

  “Come on, let’s go,” Isabelle said, and they tiptoed outside.

  “How come she calls it supper when it’s a school day or something,” Frannie asked, “and when it’s Sunday she calls it dinner? What’s the dif?”

  Isabelle spread her hands, fingers fanned wide.

  “It’s very simple,” she said. “Supper is when she cooks it, dinner’s when he does.”

  FIFTEEN

  “Such a strange little girl I met outside just now,” Aunt Maude said, taking off her gloves. “When I admired her dress, she said, ‘This is not a dress, it’s a frock,’ and. when I told her I once had one very like hers, she ran away. Though mine, of course, had a little ruffle right here,” and Aunt Maude showed Isabelle where her ruffle had been. “And hers didn’t. But they were very much alike, nevertheless.

  “And she just raced off. I’m sure I don’t know where she’s gone to. Very odd, I must say.” Aunt Maude shook her head. “The sermon today was very short. I suspect the minister was off to play golf, as I saw he had on plaid trousers under his robe. Why not, on such a splendid day? What’s the marvelous smell?”

  “That must’ve been Frannie,” Isabelle said. “She’s coming for Sunday dinner. Are you staying, Aunt Maude?” Isabelle asked, eyes wide and innocent. She knew perfectly well wild horses couldn’t keep Aunt Maude from staying.

  “Oh, not today, child. I must hurry home to watch the candidates debate on TV. I must say, they all seem too young, too shifty, always calling each other names,” Aunt Maude said. “Very ungentlemanly, if you ask me. It seems to me they set a very bad example for the young people of this country.”

  “Hello, Maude,” said Isabelle’s mother. “New hat? Very chic, I must say.”

  “Do you really like it? I ordered it from the L. L. Bean catalogue,” Aunt Maude confided, beaming. “Some boys made noises at me when I came out of church, and when I asked them what they were doing, they said, ‘Imitating a duck.’ Then they all quacked at me. Well, since this is a duck hunter’s hat, I was thrilled. I wear it to the beach too. It keeps the sun out of my eyes. What is that divine smell?”

  The doorbell rang and Isabelle raced to let Frannie in.

  But it was Herbie, standing there, scowling down at the pad and pencil he was holding.

  “I can’t fight now, Herb,” Isabelle told him. “Frannie’s coming for dinner. We’re just about to eat.”

  “I’m doing a survey,” Herbie announced, puffing out his chest. “For the Bee. What’s your favorite cereal?”

  “Chex,” Isabelle said. Actually she liked Cocoa Puffs best, but her mother refused to buy them.

  “What’s your favorite, pizza or Chinese?”

  “Hey, I thought you were art editor of the Bee,” Isabelle said. “What’s this got to do with art?”

  “I’m a man of all jobs, Iz,” Herbie said ponderously. “I think I’m slated for the top job. They’ve got me in training.”

  Behind him, Isabelle saw Frannie coming up the walk, taking tiny, mincing steps.

  “I was unavoidably delayed,” Frannie said.

  “Sheesh!” said Herbie. “Where’d you find her?” and he darted off, shouting, “Catch ya later, Iz!”

  “This is my friend Frannie, Aunt Maude,” Isabelle said. “She’s an …”

  “Let me,” Frannie ordered, shoving Isabelle aside. “I’m a norphan, you see,” she told Aunt Maude who, upon hearing these words, put a little hand over her heart and drew down the corners of her mouth as if she might burst out crying. “My old daddy died and …” Frannie broke off and said, “What’s that smell?”

  “Turkey,” said Isabelle.

  “Turkey!” cried Aunt Maude and Frannie in unison. Aunt Maude threw up her hands and cried, “Gorgeous!”

  And Frannie said softly, “It’s not even Thanksgiving or Christmas.”

  Isabelle’s father appeared, whipping off his apron and calling, “À table!”

  “That’s French for ‘Soup’s on,’” Isabelle explained as they all trooped into the dining room and stood gazing at the big bird.

  “How many pounds, Dad?” Isabelle asked.

  “Fifteen and a bit,” her father answered. “And my special stuffing will take your breath away. It’s got oysters in it, among other things. Please be seated, ladies and gents. Maude, you here, and Frannie, here,” and he pulled out chairs for them.

  “Oysters,” Frannie whispered, turning pale. “Inside him?” and she pointed at the turkey with her elbow. Philip grinned at her and said, ‘Yeah, they’re swimming upstream too,” which made Frannie even paler.

  “Oysters don’t swim upstream,” Isabelle scoffed. “Don’t pay any attention to him, Frannie. That’s salmon who do that. I saw it on TV. My father’s stuffing is the best.”

  “Ahhh, now comes the moment of truth,” Isabelle’s father said, brandishing his knife, preparing to dissect the turkey. Frannie’s eyes were riveted on him as he began to carve. She watched, fascinated, as the slices fell away.

  “As you can see,” Isabelle said proudly, “my father’s an excellent carver.”

  “Is he a doctor?” Frannie asked, elbows on table, and Isabelle’s father stopped carving and a pleased look stole over his face.

  “Funny you should ask, Frannie,” he said. “My mother always thought I would have made an excellent surgeon.”

  And in her little, tinny voice which carried to the four corners of the room, Frannie said, “When my Aunt Ruth had her operation, she said the doctor carved her up something fierce. She has a scar from her belly button to her armpit, she says. So I just thought you might be a doctor.”

  The telephone rang just then and they all jumped. Philip leaped to answer.

  “You’re at dinner, tell her, Philip,” Isabelle’s father said. “Say you’ll call back when we’re finished.”

  Frannie and Isabelle listened as Philip told the caller they were at dinner. It took him quite a while.

  “Who was it?” Isabelle wanted to know and Philip looked at her and said, “Wrong number.” Frannie giggled and Aunt Maude said, “I’d like a bit of skin, if I may. Skin’s my favorite,” which sent Philip into such spasms of suppressed laughter he was almost sent from the table.

  Isabelle noticed that Frannie patted her mouth daintily after every bite and was impressed. Mouthful of mashed potatoes, pat, pat. Mouthful of turkey, pat, pat. Dab of cranberry
sauce, pat, pat. Frannie left her stuffing alone, Isabelle noticed.

  “Perfectly delicious,” sighed Aunt Maude contentedly. “I never tasted such turkey in my life.”

  “After, let’s go to your house,” Isabelle whispered as she and Frannie and Philip cleared the table.

  Frannie scowled and said nothing. “I have to be very careful,” she said. “I don’t want to spill anything on my frock.”

  Isabelle went to the bathroom and spent some time jiggling the handle to make the toilet stop running. By the time she emerged, Frannie had gone.

  “But I was going to go see where she lived,” Isabelle cried. “She said so. She said she’d show me,” although in fact, Frannie had not said anything of the kind.

  “That’s very bad manners, isn’t that what you said?” Isabelle asked her mother. “To eat and run, you said, is bad manners—you told me, and that’s what she did. She ate and ran.”

  “She was very polite,” Isabelle’s mother said. “She said good-bye and thank you for the delicious dinner.”

  “So I suppose you said, ‘Come again, Frannie,’ didn’t you?” Isabelle said crossly.

  “Of course. Why not?”

  “How can I be friends with a person who won’t ask me to her house? I ask you, how can I?” Isabelle wanted to know.

  “I probably would have been a good surgeon, when you come right down to it,” Isabelle’s father mused. “Imagine that child noticing my skillful carving. Clever little thing.”

  And “Sheesh!” said Isabelle, standing on her head, trying to make herself feel better. But, for once, standing on her head didn’t do any good. No good at all.

  SIXTEEN

  “I’m back,” the tinny voice said close to Isabelle’s ear next day.

  “Big deal,” Isabelle said. “I didn’t notice you were gone. I thought you spent the night in the garage.” She was still mad Frannie had skinned out so fast yesterday.

  “Why, hello Frannie,” said Isabelle’s mother.