The Loud Silence of Francine Green

by Karen Cushman

  DOLORES(stomping from the room): You don't want my hair to be curly. You want me to be ugly. You want me to have stringy hair and never get married and stay here with you the rest of my life! I'd rather die.

  FATHER: Pass the meat.

  MOTHER (passing something vaguely meat-like to her husband): Arthur drew a picture of a duck in school today, didn't you, Arthur?

  ARTIE (his mouth full): Hmmumm.

  MOTHER: I think Arthur is very artistic. Maybe he should be taking art lessons.

  FATHER: How about another martooni, Lorraine?

  FRANCINE (silently): Oh nausea.

  MOTHER (returning to the table with Father's martini): How was school today, Francine?

  FRANCINE: Fine.

  MOTHER: And how is Sophie liking it? francine: Fine, I guess. mother: Why "I guess"?

  FRANCINE: I don't know. I assume she likes it okay. She's used to getting in trouble at school.

  FATHER: Trouble? What kind of trouble? I don't want you getting involved with troublemakers.

  FRANCINE: She kind of talked back to Sister Basil.

  FATHER (putting his martini down so hard it sloshes on the table): "Kind of"? There is no "kind of" talking back. I don't want to hear about you doing that. You are not there to bother the holy sisters.

  FRANCINE: I know. But she only—

  MOTHER: That's enough, Francine.

  FRANCINE: I just—

  FATHER: Lower your voice, Francine.

  FRANCINE: I—

  FATHER: Francine, be quiet!

  ARTIE: Pass the meat.

  Fade out

  I tried to imagine my father asking what I thought about world events:

  FATHER (takes a deep puff of his cigarette. The smoke circles his head as he speaks): Francine, my dear, what do you think about godless communists and their evil desires to take over the world? How best can we stop them?

  FRANCINE: Why, Father, I'm glad you asked. I am of the opinion that—

  FATHER: And what do you make of current efforts to promote peace in the world?

  FRANCINE: Well, Father, I—

  FATHER: Pass the meat.

  My imagination just wasn't up to the task. Holy cow.

  5. October 1949

  The Post Office, the Piggly Wiggly, and the Bomb

  "I want to go too," Artie said.

  "No."

  "Pleeeease?"

  "Take him with you," my mother said, handing me three dollars for stamps. "You know how he loves the post office."

  "The post office is a silly place to love."

  "Never mind. Just take him. And if I hear you were unkind or let him get lost, there 11 be trouble."

  Obviously I had no choice. Sophie should have painted "There is no free speech in this place" on our living-room floor. "Get a jacket," I said to Artie. "And wash—"

  He jumped up. "I know. Wash my hands. Get rid of the Germans," he said.

  "Germs, Artie."

  "Germans," he repeated.

  Artie and I left hand in hand for the post office. He had put on last year's Easter suit: short brown pants and jacket, long brown socks, and a matching beanie. It was too small for him, but our mother made him wear it anyway because it cost $3.97 and wasn't worn out yet.

  "It's a long walk," I told him. "Don't say I didn't warn you." He dropped my hand and raced ahead of me up the street.

  Palm View Drive ended at the ivy-covered stucco wall of the Twentieth Century Fox studio, where movies got made and dreams came true. I walked past the studio every chance I got, hoping sometime to glimpse a movie star or, even better, the head of the studio, and he would discover me and I, Francine Green, would myself be a movie star. I knew I would love being an actress. I could pretend to be someone else entirely and not me, tongue-tied and empty-headed, at all. I had never seen a movie star or the head of the studio in all the years we'd lived on Palm View Drive, but it could still happen. I kissed my fingers and touched the wall for luck.

  Artie and I turned onto Pico, where he let me catch up to him. "Why aren't we taking the bus?" he asked.

  "Because I don't have nickels to throw away. Now stay close."

  After three more blocks Artie began to drag his feet. After five blocks he began to whine, "Fran-seeeeen, don't go so fast." We slowed down.

  Seven blocks into the walk, he stopped dead and said, "I don't want to go to the post office anymore. It's too far."

  "Well, I'm not walking you all the way back home and then starting over again. It's only a little ways yet. Come on." I reached for his hand.

  "No." He sat right down on the sidewalk.

  "I'll tell you a story."

  He looked up at me. "About a cowboy?"

  "Yes, if you want."

  He got up. I brushed the dirt off his pants and took his hand, and we started to walk again. "So, once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess who—"

  "About a cowboy, Fran-seeeeen."

  "There was a beautiful princess," I repeated, "who loved a cowboy."

  "No, no love stuff."

  "Well, he'd have to love his horse."

  "That's okay. Just no love stuff with princesses or girls."

  "But that's how this story goes," I said. "You can't just change a story."

  "Then tell another story. One about cowboys and horses and no girls."

  "Never mind. We're here." And we were.

  The post office was crowded. I stood in line, looking at the criminals on the wanted posters on the wall—mostly angry-faced men with mean eyes who needed shaves. I examined the photos closely, but I didn't recognize anyone. Perhaps they were not pursuing their lives of crime in Los Angeles. Artie, meanwhile, helped himself to a handful of change-of-address cards, peeked into the mailboxes, and got in everyone's way. The Rice Krispies in his pockets dribbled out onto the floor and snap-krackle-popped as people stepped on them.

  Finally the clerk took my money, gave me a roll of three-cent stamps, and stamped "First Class" on Artie's hand.

  Before heading home, we walked around a bit. Artie stared at his stamped hand while I admired the fall dresses in the shop windows. The new fashions were darkly romantic: wools and cotton plaids, with full skirts, wide collars and capes, and peplums that nipped the waist and flared out over the hips. "Look at that blue and green one, Artie. Isn't it just drooly? Artie? Artie?"

  He was gone. In only one block—okay, maybe three or four, I wasn't counting—from the post office, he'd gotten himself lost.

  I don't know if I was more scared for him, being lost, or for me, being in big trouble. I retraced my steps, looked on every corner, and walked slowly back up the street, checking each store: The Darling Shoppe, Newberry Five and Ten, The Feed Bag, Millie's Millinery, Fogarty's Appliances, where a crowd of small boys was watching puppets argue on a television set in the window.

  Normally I would have stayed to watch too, because we didn't seem likely ever to have a television in our house. My father said it was too expensive and just a passing fad. I told him that I'd read in Life magazine that one out of seven families in America had a television set. He said I should count six houses down the street from us and go watch their set.

  I examined the television-watching boys closely. No Artie.

  "Seen a little boy dressed for church?" I asked the people I passed. No one had.

  Just as I was about to give up and call a policeman, I saw a commotion across the street. I ran over, hoping the hubbub was about a little lost boy.

  Where a building had been going up for months behind a tall fence was now the largest grocery store I had ever seen. Piggly Wiggly Supermarket, a banner said. A giant pig with huge golden scissors was cutting a ribbon strung across the front door, signaling the official opening of the store. And there pulling on the pig's curly tail was Artie.

  "Artie!" I said, grabbing him. "I was scared to death. Don't ever wander away like that again!"

  "He's okay, miss," the pig said. "I was watching him for you." I could see a man's face thr
ough the holes in the mask cut for breathing.

  "Thank you," I said to the pig. I had never imagined having an occasion to say thank you to a pig. But there it was: "Thank you," I said to the pig. "Let's go, Artie," I said, reaching for his hand.

  "No. I want to go in there."

  "Artie, that's enough. We have to go home."

  "No!" Artie ran into the market.

  I collared him by the soap flakes and grabbed his hand.

  "What is this place?" he asked, looking around.

  I looked too. Soft music came from somewhere above. Ceiling lights reflected off the shiny metal of the shopping carts, and the red linoleum floors gleamed. "It's like a grocery store in Heaven," I said. Artie and I walked up and down the brightly lit aisles of peanut butter and rye bread, Twinkies and Oreos and Stopette deodorant, chops and steaks and bacon in tight plastic packages.

  Pyramids of lettuce and oranges and beets in bright colors looked like paintings by some great fruit artist. "Buy me an apple, Francine. This apple," Artie said, taking an apple from the very base of the pyramid.

  "No, Artie," I said, too late, as the pyramid collapsed and all the apples fell to the floor. "Come on, " I said. "Let's scram before they figure out it was us."

  We were headed for the door when Artie stopped in front of a phone booth. "I want to check for nickels," he said, climbing onto the seat.

  "Come on," I said, pulling his hand.

  "Noooo!" cried Artie, grabbing onto the dial of the telephone and holding on tight. And then he wailed, "Fran-seeeeen, get me outa here!" His finger was stuck in the dial. I tried pulling it free, but it just got stuck tighter and tighter and Artie wailed louder and louder. People stopped to watch us, a red-faced girl and a little boy hanging by his finger from the telephone dial.

  "Let me try," said a man in a blue jacket that had Leroy, Manager embroidered on the pocket. He opened a jar of Vaseline and smeared some on the dial and Artie's finger. A few tugs and the finger came free.

  Leroy Manager, was shaking with the laughter he was too polite to let out. "Thank you, Mister Leroy," 1 said, and hurried Artie away. My arm hurt from yanking on Artie and my face burned with humiliation. And Sophie thought I wouldn't like being an only child. Ha! Not today.

  "Now don't go telling Mother any of this," I said once we were outside. "Do you hear me?" I looked at Artie's face. He would be telling Mother before the front door slammed behind us.

  After all that, I was happy to spend my nickels to go home on the bus. Artie slept, his head bobbing against my shoulder, glasses sagging. He had a smile on his face and Rice Krispies stuck to his fingers. I pushed his glasses back up onto his nose.

  What a day. What a lot of stuff for Artie to tell Mother. He snored softly, and I rested my head on his, breathing in the familiar warm, salty, little-boy smell.

  We got off the bus at the stop near the Petrovs' store. Tiny, red-haired Mrs. Petrov was washing the front windows. I could see smeared red paint saying Russkies go home and a big six-pointed star on the glass. When she saw us, she shook her head. "That's why Petrov and I left Russia, to get away from such thugs," she said. "And now look, they follow us here. Russia explodes an atom bomb and it's our fault?"

  Russia? Atom bomb? Where? Were people dead? Were we at war? I took Artie's hand and ran home, my face turned to the sky, watching for Russian planes loaded with bombs for Palm View Drive.

  "Mama," Artie cried as we ran in the door, "Francine losted me and a telephone tried to eat me and—"

  His shouts were drowned out by my own. "Mother. Mother!" I called, letting the screen door slam behind me.

  "In here, Francine," she said from the kitchen, "and don't be so noisy."

  The kitchen smelled of dish soap and coffee, familiar and comforting. My mother and father were sitting at the table. She was clipping penny-off coupons from a magazine. Artie climbed into her lap and snuggled down.

  I sat down too. "I just saw Mrs. Petrov. She said something about Russia dropping an atom bomb. Is that true?"

  My father rustled his newspaper. "I was just reading it here. It was a test. Soviet scientists have successfully tested an atomic bomb." He shook his head. "Communist Russia with the bomb. That Mao fellow and his communist army in China. Commies fighting the French in Indochina. The world is getting a whole lot more dangerous."

  All I knew about communists was that they believed everyone owned everything in common, wore fur hats, and hated God and America. Now they had an atom bomb. My stomach fell between my knees, or at least that's what it felt like. "Will they drop the bomb on us?"

  My father leaned over and ruffled Artie's hair with one big hand and mine with the other. "Now, don't you little guys start worrying. You got the U.S. government, your mother, and me. We won't let anything bad happen to you."

  I got up to leave the kitchen but stopped and turned back. "Oh, I just remembered. Somebody painted nasty stuff on the Petrovs' window."

  "Oh, poor Luba," my mother said. "I have to call her."

  "Stay out of it, Lorraine," said my father.

  "Why would someone do that?" I asked him. "The Petrovs aren't communists, are they?"

  "Someone who'd do that wouldn't care what's true and what's not," he said. "They just want to stir up trouble. You stay out of it too, Francine. Get groceries at Willard's Market for a while."

  "But I like—"

  "That's enough, Francine," my mother said. "Listen to your father."

  I went to my room and lay on the bed. In a way, things had been simpler during the war. We all knew who the enemy was and worked together to defeat him. My father wasn't in the army—his eyes were bad and his feet were flat—but my mother had a victory garden, where she grew our vegetables so that more food could be sent to the soldiers. I liked to read lying on the warm ground under the tomato vines, smelling the pungent scent of the leaves and watching the pole-bean shadows dance on my legs. We ate lots of macaroni and fish, and I helped Dolores collect gum wrappers so the government could use the silver foil in the war effort.

  And when it was all over, people hugged each other and danced with strangers, knowing the bad guys were gone and the good guys had made us safe. People's fathers and brothers and uncles came home, and we had plenty of meat again, and butter and gasoline and shoes. Was that all over now? Would Russia having the bomb mean another war and more dead soldiers?

  I knew what atomic bombs could do. I had seen Fox Movietone newsreels of Japanese cities turned to rubble, of exploding buildings, children on fire, piles and piles of charred bodies. And the world was getting more dangerous. I pulled the blankets over my head.

  6

  Discovering Irony

  "In order to make our writing livelier," Sister Basil said as we opened our grammar workbooks, "we can employ a number of tools. You know about adjectives and adverbs, phrases and clauses. Today we will learn about some figures of speech: similes, metaphors, oxymorons, and irony."

  I already knew about similes, saying things were like other things, and metaphors, saying things were other things. Oxymorons, which used two words of opposite meaning together, and irony, where the ordinary meaning of the words is the opposite of what is really in your mind, were new to me.

  We had to make up examples in our workbooks to show we understood. I wrote:

  Simile: Dolores blew her nose, which was as red as a rose.

  Metaphor: When his cap pistol broke, the little boy cried a river of tears.

  Oxymoron: I gave a silent cry of desperation.

  Irony: I just love to go to the doctor for a shot.

  Irony was especially appealing to me. I thought of lots more examples, but I didn't write them down: I was so pleased to see Mary Agnes Malone there. Yes, Mother, I think Dad looks exactly like Montgomery Clift. Sure, let's draw flowers all over our uniform skirts. I know Sister would be crazy about it. Oh, no, the idea of the world blowing up doesn't bother me one bit.

  I was pretty excited. With irony I could mean the very opposite of wha
t I said, but no one would know that. I could say exactly what I thought without getting into trouble.

  "Francine," Sister said, "will you please go up to the board and write down your example of a metaphor?"

  "I can't think of anything I'd rather do," I said ironically.

  After school I went to the classroom that served as the school library.

  "Sister Peter Claver," I said to the nun reading behind the desk, "I'm Francine Green. Sister Basil the Great sent me to help you." Sister Basil the Great—was that irony or oxymoron? I wondered.

  Sister Peter Claver, the librarian, was new this year. She looked up at me so quickly that her cheeks wobbled. "Hello, Francine. Call me Sister Pete. Most of the girls do."

  I nodded.

  "Thank you for coming," she said. "I could certainly use your help. But tell me, is this something you chose to do, or did Sister Basil request that you do so?"

  Request? Sister Basil never requested. She had said, "You, Francine, go help Sister Peter Claver in the library after school." And what could I say but "Yes, Sister"?

  "Some of both, I guess," I told Sister Pete. "I do like books."

  "Well, then, welcome to the library, Francine Green." She stood up slowly, a great wave breaking on the shore of her desk (metaphor). Sister Pete in her black habit was as round as a bowling ball (simile), rolling around the library as she showed me the filing system for library cards, pointed out the shelving cart, and taught me how to check books in and out using the little rubber date stamp.

  "Well, that wore me out," she said with a sad smile (oxymoron) as she sat back down at her seat behind the counter. I picked up a book to shelve: Dotty Dimple at School? Ye gods. No doubt a book full of deep wisdom (irony).

  "Wait a moment, Francine. I'd like to get to know you a little bit. Why don't you tell me about some of those books you like?"

  I didn't know how to talk to a nun except to say "Yes, Sister" and "No, Sister." What could I say to her? "Ummm" is what I said, and I looked down at my feet.