The Loud Silence of Francine Green

by Karen Cushman

  '"He left when he was fifteen to become a holy brother in a monastery. He worked there as a barber and a gardener, spending his nights in prayer and his days caring for the poor and those stricken with plague, especially the slaves brought to Peru from Africa, even though that wasn't an easy thing to do in those days. He helped found a hospital, an orphanage, and a home for homeless dogs and cats. He even forgave the rats and mice that stole his food, saying that the poor little things were hungry."'

  "But anybody could do those things," I said. "Why Christina the Astonishing could fly, and Saint Simon Stylites lived for forty-eight years on the top of a pillar, and Saint Bernadette had actual conversations with the Blessed Virgin. How come you didn't pick one of them?"

  "Because I'm supposed to pick a model for today's youth. Do you think we should be encouraged to fly or live on a pillar?"

  I thought a moment. "Of course not, but—"

  "Martin de Porres did things that anyone could do to help people. That was his way of honoring God. That's why I chose him. Let me finish my speech.

  "We do not call Martin de Porres blessed because he withdrew from the world to fast and pray or beat himself with whips and chains or turned his bathwater into beer like some saints, but because he cared for those in trouble, like slaves and sick people and hungry mice. He gave food to those who needed food and a home to those who had none. He did not care about money or fame but only about what he could do for others. That is why we call him blessed.

  "'And that is why we young people should learn from him, to be as kind and generous and compassionate as he was, not to judge people by the color of their skin or the size of their bank accounts, to stand up and do what is right when we know it is right.

  "'The Blessed Martin de Porres died in 1639 of a fever, but in a way he never died, for he is still an inspiration to young people today and a shining example of social justice.'"

  My head was spinning. I had never thought about saints quite like that, as human beings like me who did good things and tried to make the world a better place. Trust old Sophie to make me see things in a different way.

  Later I wondered what saint I would have chosen to speak about. I considered roasted and tortured martyrs, miracle workers, hermits who lived in the desert on dry bread and bugs, but finally settled on Joan of Arc, who led the soldiers of France against the English invaders, even though she was just a peasant girl and afraid. Last year Ingrid Bergman starred in a movie about Saint Joan, which my parents let Dolores and me go see. I fell asleep, the movie being mostly talk and me being only twelve, but I knew about Saint Joan from religion class.

  She was just an ordinary person like me at first, but then she saw something that needed doing and did it. Okay, not like me at all. But that's who I would have chosen. Probably.

  By the time the big day came, I knew Sophie's speech well enough to deliver it myself, although the very thought made my stomach flutter alarmingly.

  I put on my beanie, pulled it low on my forehead, and went over to Sophie's. Clothes were flung all over her room. Socks hung from dresser drawers, skirts and sweaters tumbled off the bed, and a white scarf patterned with four-leaf clovers dangled from the light fixture in the ceiling. "It looks like an explosion hit the Broadway's Junior Miss department," I said.

  "Shut up and help me," Sophie said. "What should I wear? This? Or maybe this?" She held up a flowered dress and a blue nylon blouse.

  "No," I said. "Your yellow sweater set. It's dreamy. And your dark-green pleated skirt."

  She fished them out, tried them on, and twirled around the room. "Sit," I ordered her, "and I'll make sure the skirt covers your knees. You know how nuns are about knees."

  The skirt passed the nun test. Sophie added saddle shoes over white socks that bagged around her ankles, and I tied a green ribbon in her hair. "You look gorgeous," I said, "and you're smart and well prepared. Don't worry."

  "I'm not worried," she said. "I know my speech is good. But I didn't want to look like a poor relation at that snooty school."

  We went outside to wait for Mr. Bowman, who would drive us downtown. Bitter brown smoke came through the kitchen window. "What's that awful smell?" I asked Sophie. "Is your father cooking?"

  She sniffed. "My father's friend Jacob Mandelbaum must be here. He smokes stinky black cigars."

  "Is he coming with us?"

  "No, he's going to see the Hollywood Stars play baseball."

  "You mean the team or actual movie stars?"

  "You're kidding, right?"

  "Right, Sophie."

  "I can't always tell," she said. "I'm not that great in the sense of humor department." I gave her hand a squeeze, meaning I know, but you're my best friend anyway.

  Mr. Bowman drove us to Holy Cross in Beverly Hills, where the speech contest would take place. It was a snooty school, much larger and fancier than All Saints, with its own chapel. A sort of Holier-Than-Thou Cross, I thought.

  Sophie gave us a little wave as she went up and joined the other speakers on stage. Mr. Bowman searched for seats for us and then, bowing slightly, said, "After you, Miss Green." We sat.

  Suddenly I felt shy. I didn't know what to say to him. He was so old and smart, a real writer and all. We sat in silence for an uncomfortably long time. Finally he said, "How was school today, Francine?"

  Ah, good. A question I knew how to answer. "Fine," I said. More silence. I cleared my throat. "And how was work?"

  He smiled. "Fine," he said. "But we were talking about you. Do you have a favorite class?"

  "English," I said. "Recently we learned about irony and oxymorons." There was more silence. "And we read a poem about the ocean having 'unplumbed depths.' Don't you love that—unplumbed depths? It sounds so quiet yet full of possibilities."

  Mr. Bowman was looking at me solemnly. Maybe I had talked too much. My cheeks grew hot. "I'm glad you're friends with my Sophie," he said. "She's a puzzle to me—so much spunk and so little common sense, so much energy and so little imagination. She needs someone like you."

  She does? Need me? Doesn't he know it's the other way around? "I'm glad Sophie's my friend too," I said finally. "I learn lots of things from her, like about free speech and improving the world and not being so afraid of trouble. I guess we make a good pair."

  "Best friends," he said.

  "Best friends," I agreed.

  The auditorium had filled up with relatives and friends of the students on the stage. There were some priests there, too, but no sisters. Nuns don't get out much.

  The Perfect and Admirable Mary Agnes Malone was one of the speakers, of course, and her mother sat in the seat behind me. She leaned forward. "Francine, dear," she said, "how nice of you to come and cheer on the more accomplished girls."

  "Francine may surprise you one day, madam," said Mr. Bowman over his shoulder. "Like the ocean, she has unplumbed depths."

  Me? I will? I do? I gave Mrs. Malone a smile full of depth and turned back toward the stage.

  Sophie looked so small up there. She twirled a lock of her hair and tucked it behind an ear.

  I thought she would have a better chance of winning if she were either the first speaker or the last, but her place was right in the middle of the group. It didn't matter. She won anyway. She got a fake gold cup with two handles and "First Place, Catholic Youth Speech Contest, 1949" engraved on it. Mr. Bowman hugged Sophie and then me, and I hugged them back.

  Walking to the car, Mr. Bowman held Sophie's hand and swung it as he sang some big, loud song in a language I didn't recognize. "German," Sophie said. "Beethoven. 'Ode to Joy.' It's his happy song."

  "What would you say to a strawberry sundae?" Mr. Bowman asked us.

  Sophie and I called out in chorus, "Hello, sundae!"

  "But can we stop at the convent first?" Sophie asked him. "I promised Sister Pete I'd bring the trophy over to show her if I won."

  I was a little worried. It was probably just a silly rumor, but I'd heard that nuns had their heads shaved, and I was
afraid they relaxed by taking off their veils and running around bald, something I certainly did not wish to see.

  The convent building next to the school was quiet and dark. Mr. Bowman waited in the car while Sophie and I knocked at the door. A fully veiled Pete opened at our first knock. Her big grin shone like a quarter moon in the dim light of the convent hall. "I knew you would do it," she said as she clapped Sophie on the back. "Well done, my girl."

  Sister Basil joined us at the door. "This," she said, "will be a suitable addition to the school trophy case." She took the trophy from Sophies hands.

  "No, it's for my father's desk," Sophie said.

  Sister Pete turned to Sister Basil. "I know it's customary for the trophies won by All Saints girls to stay together," she said, "but perhaps—"

  "Yes, it is customary," said Sister Basil. "The trophies belong to the school." The convent door closed.

  "That's not fair. It's mine," Sophie said, kicking the gravel path on the way to the car. "You're wrong, Sister Basil the Not-So-Great."

  "Dead wrong, Sister Basil the Rotten," I added. We joined Mr. Bowman and went to drown our sorrows in strawberry sundaes.

  10

  Montgomery Clift!

  I pounded on Sophie's door early Saturday morning. "Sophie/' I called. "Come and look. Look, Sophie, look!"

  I shook the newspaper at the door until it opened. A sleepy-looking Mr. Bowman said, "Come in with your earth-shaking news, Francine. Sophie is in the kitchen."

  I galloped through the living room to the kitchen. "Sophie, Sheila Graham. Look. Monty. Here. Look. See."

  Sophie swallowed a mouthful of cereal and put down her spoon. "Jeeps, Francine, you sound like a Dick and Jane reader," she said. "Sit down and breathe. Then tell me."

  I sat down and panted for a while. Then I tried again. "In today's paper." I waved it at her. "In Sheila Graham's column. Tonight. At eight. A premiere." I took a gulp of air and tried to complete a sentence. "It's Monty's new movie, The Heiress. At the Carthay Circle Theater. He will be there. With his date, Elizabeth Taylor. Right here in Los Angeles!"

  Sophie grabbed the paper and read the item. "Holy smokes. You're right. But so what? Do you think they'll stop off and visit you?"

  "No, but we could go visit them."

  "Really?"

  "Yes, really. Ordinary people go to premieres all the time. We can watch the stars get out of their limousines, and clap and cheer, and maybe get them to look at us."

  "Let's do it," Sophie said.

  "Yes, let's."

  She looked at me quizzically. "You mean it? Sometimes you don't, you know."

  "I know, but this is Monty. I'll do it. I really will. We just have to convince my parents and your father and get a ride somehow. Wally has his father's car on Saturday nights. Maybe he and Dolores'll take us." I jumped up. "I have to go home now and get ready."

  "Francine, you goof, it's thirteen hours away," Sophie said.

  "Thirteen hours? Is that all? I'll have to hurry. See you at six thirty?"

  She nodded.

  Mr. Bowman, in corduroys and an old felt hat, was pruning the roses that lined the front walk. "Got to hurry, Mr. Bowman," I shouted as I ran off. "Montgomery Clift is coming to see me!" He saluted, and I ran home.

  "Of course not," Dolores said when I asked her about a ride. "People don't take their kid sisters on their dates."

  "But this is really, really, really important," I said. "Name your price."

  She looked at me. "Okay. Dishes for a week. And you'll write my next history paper."

  "Done." And it was. At six thirty Wally Dolores, and I picked up Sophie in his parents' yellow Packard. I had to wear the old beige dress I wore for church and visiting relatives, but I did have new black flats. And I wore a powder-blue beret of Dolores's over my forehead instead of my beanie. It had cost me another week of dishes.

  I bounced and squealed in the backseat until Wally stopped the car. "Pipe down, squirt," he said, "or you're walking the rest of the way." I piped down.

  People were already gathering when we got to the theater. "We're going to play miniature golf and catch a burger at the Kentucky Boys," Wally said as we got out of the car. "We'll pick you up at nine. Be ready or walk home."

  Sophie and I pushed our way to the front of the crowd. "In only one hour Monty will be here," I told Sophie.

  We read all the movie posters and then stood and stared for a while. "In only fifty-five minutes Monty will be here," I said.

  We looked around, watched people walk down the street, and read the movie posters again. "In only fifty minutes Monty will be here."

  "Jeeps, enough, Francine," Sophie said.

  So we waited. And waited. By eight fifteen I could stand it no longer. "Did we miss them?" I asked no one in particular. "Or maybe they're not coming. Oh no, could it be they're not coming?"

  "Take it easy, little girl," said an older woman behind me. "They're stars—they're never on time."

  And sure enough, it was eight thirty before a limousine pulled up. I started to jump up and down and scream, but it was only Olivia de Havilland, who was in the movie with Monty. She got out and waved to the crowd, who cheered, except for me. I was saving my cheers for Monty.

  A few minutes later another limousine came. Out stepped Elizabeth Taylor, gorgeous in white mink and a dress that looked like blue whipped cream. And behind her, standing on the same earth, in the same city, on the same block as Francine Green, was Montgomery Clift. In person.

  He was so small and thin in his tuxedo, like he needed taking care of. I wanted to hold him and tell him it would be all right. My face grew hot, my heart pounded, and I had a funny, fluttery feeling in my stomach. Montgomery Clift. The actual Montgomery Clift, right in front of me. He waved once or twice to the crowd but mostly kept his eyes down. There was no smile on his beautiful face.

  Women around us started jumping up and down, yelling, "I love you, Monty," and "Monty, look at me, Monty," and "Here, over here, Monty." Next to me Sophie, being Sophie, shouted, "Ban the bomb!"

  Monty stopped walking and turned his head toward us. "He's looking at us!" I screamed. "Right at us!" And he was. At Sophie and at me. Montgomery Clift and I were attached, one on each side of his glance. I was overcome.

  We rode home in silence, the way you do after church sometimes. Wally dropped Sophie off, and as soon as Dolores and I got home, I climbed into bed. It had been a momentous day. I had seen Montgomery Clift. I wondered if he would remember me, if he was lying in bed that very moment thinking, "I wonder who that brown-haired girl in the blue beret and new black flats was." The thought made my heart pound and my stomach flutter. I knew I'd never get to sleep that night. In fact, I'd probably never sleep again. But it was worth it. I had seen Montgomery Clift and, even better, he had seen me.

  11

  Pink Underwear

  "Sister Basil the Great," the Perfect and Admirable Mary-Agnes Malone said, "Sophie Bowman was causing trouble while you were out of the room." When Sister was called away for a few minutes, she always left Mary Agnes in charge. And Mary Agnes always squealed on any girl who took a wrong breath or spoke out loud or shared her homework.

  "Ah, the brazen Sophie Bowman," said Sister, shaking her head. "Do you know how close you are to the fires of Hell?"

  Sophie stood up. "Does God really send people to Hell for asking questions? Because that's all I was doing—asking a question. About the religion homework. I wanted to know whether if you crossed the international dateline on a Friday morning and it changed to Saturday, you could then eat meat. And if you crossed the other way on Sunday, would you have to go to Mass again the next day? And if—"

  Sister marched herself down the aisle and grabbed Sophie's hands. "Why are your hands red?"

  "I dyed all my underwear red and the dye won't wash off my skin." Sophie grinned. "It was a protest against the mindless conformity of uniforms."

  A chorus of snorts sounded, and Gert whispered, loudly, "What a weirdie!"
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br />   "You are flirting with danger, you foolish girl!" Sister said. "The communists, the Reds, are at this very moment destroying families, murdering priests, and preparing to invade our country, and you dye your underwear red. Do you want people to think you are a communist? Have you no sense?" Sister turned and examined the room. "You, Miss Mouse," she said to Florence Bush, "I don't have to keep my eye on you. Change seats with Miss Bowman. I want her right here where I can watch her."

  Florence, her face flushed with embarrassment, took her books and her lunch bag and moved to Sophie's desk. Sophie sat down in Florence's former seat, the desk right in front of me. She stuck her red hand behind her and waggled "hello" at me.

  Not ten minutes had passed when Sophie's hand waggled again. This time there was a folded piece of paper in it. I ignored her, but the waggling got more and more frantic, until I was sure both of us would be standing in the trash can, so 1 took the note from her hand.

  Do you believe all that about communists killing priests and trying to take over our country? I don't think it's true. Do you?

  I wrote an answer and stuck it in her hand: I think communists are pretty scary, Soph, now they have the bomb and everything.

  We have the bomb, too, she wrote. Maybe they think we're pretty scary.

  A few minutes later a red hand waggled at me again. Did Susan Murphy ever find out whether nuns wear black underwear?

  I don't know. She never said.

  You told me to ask you my questions instead of Sister Not-So-Great, but fat lot of good you are. I'll just have to ask her.

  No don't, I was writing when Sophie's hand popped up. "Sister, I was just wondering," she said.

  Sister smiled.

  The trash can was but a short walk from Sophie's new desk. I looked at the statue of the Virgin Mary in the corner. Her face was gentle but sad, not only for her son, Jesus, who suffered and died on the cross, but for poor Sophie in the wastebasket, the pagan babies in Africa, and all the rest of us, worrying about Hell and communists and bombs.