The Loud Silence of Francine Green

by Karen Cushman

  After a few mouthfuls of brown gravy, I went into the kitchen for a glass of water. I hoped the Chinese had other things to eat besides this or they'd be invading America for the food.

  When I returned to the table, Sophie was holding a spoonful of strawberry Jell-O and saying, "So I asked her, Where in the Bible is there a rule about wearing a hat to church?' and she said, 'You think you're so superior and smart, but you're not. You're going to Hell, and how smart is that?' I tell you, those girls have no brains. I mean, do they think God really cares who wears a hat? Don't these questions occur to anyone else?"

  "Harry? Sophie? Hello?" someone called from the door.

  "Come in, Jacob," Mr. Bowman said. "Grab a plate and join the feast."

  Mr. Mandelbaum came in through the open door and sat down. Ignoring the food, he ran his hands through his hair, leaving it sticking straight up. "The FBI had me in for questioning again, Harry," he said. "Why are they hounding me? I voted for Harry Truman, and I think Stalin is a stinker. I'm a good citizen. Why can they do this? Shouldn't I be protected from—"

  "What do you mean, protected?" Mr. Bowman asked. He shook his head slowly. "Remember, this is the country that imprisoned a hundred thousand of its citizens because they were Japanese, that makes its Negro citizens in the South use separate rest rooms, restaurants, and schools. There is little protection here for those who are different, especially now when everyone is so afraid." He reached over and touched Mr. Mandelbaum's arm. "I'm worried about you, Jacob."

  "The worst of it is, I can't work," Mr. Mandelbaum said. "First time since I was fourteen. Stage, screen, radio, I've done it all. And now no one will touch Jacob Mandelbaum. Or even Jack Mann." He smiled sadly and patted his stomach. "I might get a little hungry from not eating, but I could stand to lose a few pounds. It's my work and my friends I couldn't stand to lose. What else do I have?"

  "Baseball," I whispered. I was scared to death by all this talk, but I wanted to give poor Mr. Mandelbaum some comfort.

  "Ah, Francine, my darling, baseball, yes. Even the FBI can't take that away." He was silent for a moment. I could see his hands trembling. "So tell me, Harry," he asked in a small voice so unlike his regular bellow, "I'm really in danger? They can do this, ask me about my politics? Question my friends? Keep me from working? I broke no law."

  Mr. Bowman got up and closed the front door. "It's happening all over. We're supposed to have rights—the right to work, to teach, to circulate ideas without interference, to protest over bad laws—but it doesn't seem to matter. Be careful, Jacob. Be very careful."

  Fear had come into the Bowmans' house like fog, silent and clammy, making me shiver. None of us wanted strawberry Jell-O after that.

  26. May 1950

  May Day

  We were standing in the hallway, preparing for the May procession in honor of Mary, the Blessed Virgin. The large statue in the vestibule had been scrubbed and polished until it shone. The nuns walked among us, distributing flowers to each girl, to be laid at the feet of the Mother of God, whose month this was.

  Susan Murphy had been elected May Queen, but when she climbed up on the ladder in rehearsal to crown the statue, Sister Basil finally got a good look at the riot of flowers on her uniform skirt and unelected her. In her place Sister appointed—no, not Mary Agnes, thank you—Florence Bush. Her pale face shone as she took her place at the end of the procession.

  The rest of us lined up by height. Sophie stood a few girls ahead of me. I was shocked. I had always thought she was much taller. Had I grown a lot this year, or had Sophie always been shorter than I and I never noticed because she seemed so strong and invincible? I heard her call to Sister Basil, "Sister Rott ... uh ... Basil, may I ask you something?"

  "Not now, Miss Bowman," Sister said.

  "Not ever, Miss Bowman," I thought.

  But Sophie persisted. "It's important and has been weighing on my mind."

  Sister gave her a reluctant wave of permission.

  "Sister, is it wrong of me to participate in this event if I'm not sure I believe in God? Is it a sin or a sacrilege or something?"

  We all stood as still as the Virgin's statue. Not believe in God? Catholic girls aren't allowed not to believe in God. It had never occurred to me to question His existence.

  Sister did not say a word, so Sophie continued. "If I don't believe in God, and I'm not sure whether or not I do, then I couldn't believe in His Holy Mother, and I wouldn't want to offend or insult people who do believe by acting as if—"

  "Miss Bowman," Sister said, hissing the's through her teeth, "that is enough. Go back to the classroom."

  Sophie went, muttering "Sorry" to me as she passed.

  Not believe in God? I didn't know exactly what I thought about God myself. I mean, He wasn't doing such a good job of running the world, letting people invent the bomb and be cruel to one another and kill one another, but I liked thinking someone was in charge.

  When I was little, I thought that God was like Santa Claus, all white and rosy, taking care of us and giving us whatever we needed. Now sometimes He seemed to me like Sister Basil in a beard, punishing people and damning them to Hell. Other times, when the world didn't seem so bad, I pictured God as Mr. Bowman, the way he looked on Saturdays in his baggy corduroy pants, pruning his roses and humming his happy song. That was the God I loved, the one who tended His people like Mr. Bowman tended his roses.

  But whatever God I pictured, I always believed He was there. I couldn't imagine not believing at all.

  Sister Basil clapped her hands, and we girls began to sing "On This Day, O Beautiful Mother" as we shuffled forward to lay our flowers at the feet of the Mother of the God who might or might not exist.

  When we returned to the classroom, Sophie was sitting quietly at her desk, staring straight ahead. Sister Basil did not acknowledge her but walked to the front of the room while we all took our seats. She stood looking at us for a moment, and then she spoke. "They are punished in Hell," she said, "who die in mortal sin. I want you to imagine the worst pain you ever felt. Now multiply it by a thousand, a million, a million million. That is the pain of Hell." She paused a minute to let that sink in. "And even worse than the pain is the knowledge that it will never ever end."

  She paced up and down, swinging her rosary. "Girls, such are the wages of sin. Do not think, 'I will confess and repent before I die and thus be saved from Hell' It may not happen. No one knows the manner or the hour of his death. You say, 'Oh, what does it matter if I miss Mass just this one time?' or 'This meat looks too delicious to pass up even if it is Friday' or 'I will let him kiss me even though it is wrong for it will make him like me,' and the next day you are hit by a bus and spend the rest of eternity in Hell."

  No one said a word. The only one likely to interrupt at this point was Sophie, and she was sitting straight and silent.

  "The consequences of sin are the pains of Hell," Sister continued. "And the worst sins, the unpardonable sins, are doubt, denial, despair—denying not only the goodness of God but His very existence. There is no forgiveness for that.

  "Today one of you started on the road to Hell. Saving your souls is the most important job I have, and in her case, it appears, I am failing."

  She stopped and looked around. We made not a sound. A dark shadow had settled over the classroom, and I could almost smell sulfur and ashes and the singed hair of the damned. "Class dismissed," Sister said.

  Sophie and I grabbed seats in the bus. "Do you believe all those things Sister said about Hell?" she asked me.

  "I guess so," I told her. "All priests and nuns talk about Hell, although only Sister Basil is so, well, descriptive. Nobody who died has come back to tell us for sure."

  I used to think the best thing to do would be to go to confession and then walk out of the church right in front of a bus in order to be sure to die without sin and avoid the torments of Hell. But if you did it deliberately, it would be suicide, a mortal sin, a fast ticket to damnation. One would have to innocently w
ander in front of the bus, truly expecting not to be hit and killed, and then just be lucky.

  "What about God?" Sophie asked me. "Do you believe in God?"

  "Well, sure, I believe in God. I know there's no proof, but still I believe. Otherwise it all seems so confused and chaotic. I guess that's what they mean by faith." Sophie started to say something, but I went on. "Sophie, I want there to be a God, so don't argue with me."

  "If there is no God," Sophie said, "there is no Hell, so I'm going to pray there is no God."

  "Who will you pray to?"

  She shook her head. "I don't know. It's very puzzling."

  27

  Mother's Day at Forest Lawn

  Artie grabbed me as soon as Sophie and I walked into the kitchen. "Francine, a clown tried to eat me!"

  Even feeling as I did about clowns, I wasn't sure I believed him. "How? Where?"

  "Daddy took me miniature golfing and I hit my ball and it was supposed to go in the clown's mouth, but it went far away somewhere instead and I couldn't find it and when I looked by the clown I tripped and my foot went in his mouth and he wouldn't let go." Artie jumped up and down with excitement. "Firemen came and killed the clown with hammers and axes and finally he let me go and he died."

  "Are you okay, Artie? Are you hurt?"

  "No, but we can't play miniature golf there anymore. The man said."

  Ever since Artie's sleepwalking episodes had become more frequent, my father worried that Artie was becoming a sissy. "Too many females in this boys life," he said. "Time to make a man out of him." And he began a campaign.

  The week before, they had gone fishing at the pond in Griffith Park. Artie didn't catch any fish, but he caught a dog. His hook got caught in the curly hair of a tiny poodle and they couldn't get it out. When my father took his pocket-knife and cut the dog's hair to free it, her owner cried. Then Artie cried and they came home. It seemed to me that Artie's road to manhood would not be easy.

  "What are you doing now?" I asked him, examining the mess at the kitchen table.

  He climbed up onto a chair. "I'm making a card. For Mommy. For Mother's Day. See?" He showed it to me and then stuck it under Sophie's nose.

  "Take a hike, squirt," she said, brushing glitter off her face.

  "It's very pretty, Artie," I said. "Go and hide it so Mother doesn't see it until Sunday.

  "Sophie," I said to her after Artie left, "you could be nicer to him. He's just a little kid."

  "You know I don't like little kids."

  It was more than that, I suddenly realized. "You don't much like anybody except in big groups, like 'the poor' or 'the persecuted' or 'those who fight fascism.' People separately you don't like. Come on, admit it."

  "That's ridiculous. I like Jacob Mandelbaum. And Harry." I raised one eyebrow at her as she stopped to think of somebody else. "And I used to like you," she said.

  "And I like you," I said, "anyway." I brushed glitter off my uniform skirt. "Wasn't Artie's card cute, with that crooked heart and the glue all smeared around? Do you remember the cards you made in school? Glitter angels on the Christmas cards. Drawing around your hand to make turkeys for Thanksgiving. Mother's Day cards made out of doilies and paper flowers. Remember?"

  "What I remember is the vacant lot near school where I threw the Mother's Day cards every year because I didn't have a mother to give them to."

  "Sorry, Soph. I forgot."

  She waved my apology away. "I got used to it. I thought once about giving the cards to Harry, since he's the closest thing to a mother I've ever had. But he's not very good at mother things, like cooking or having birthday parties or saying 'You're not going anywhere until you polish your shoes, young lady' So I just threw them away."

  "Is it kind of lonesome, not celebrating Mother's Day when the rest of the world does?"

  "Jeeps, Francine, of course we celebrate. It's Mother's Day." She tucked her hair behind her ears in that way of hers. "Each year we plant another rosebush in the yard. Harry says my mother loved roses almost as much as she loved him. This year after pancakes at the Pig and Whistle, we're going to hear Beethoven's Fifth Symphony at the Hollywood Bowl. What are you doing for your mother?"

  "Who knows?" I said. Actually, I did know, but I was embarrassed to tell Sophie, who was going to the Hollywood Bowl.

  "Can I stay for dinner tonight?" Sophie asked.

  "Dinner at the Greens'? Why would you want to do that?"

  "I like it here."

  "You won't when you hear what we're having for dinner. Liver."

  "I like liver," said Sophie.

  "Oh nausea." I poked her in the ribs. "Come on, we'll ask my mother. I'm sure she'll say yes, but then you'll have to eat her terrible food."

  "You know, Francine, you're pretty unfair to your mother."

  "Ye gods, Sophie, what do you mean?"

  "I mean she's your mother and she takes care of you and wipes your face with a cool cloth when you're sick and tries to cook things you would like. She's sweet and nice, and all you do is complain about her."

  "She's sweet and nice to you, but if she were your mother, you'd know what I mean."

  Sophie was quiet for a minute and then said, "Maybe."

  Sunday was Mother's Day. My mother wore a new hat to church. Navy with a veil and white paper flowers. She made my father go to Mass with us. Usually he spends Sunday mornings asleep in the lawn chair. He says that God is just as likely to be in our backyard as in a building in West Los Angeles.

  I myself like going to Mass. It's kind of like a movie or a play starring Jesus and Mary and the saints, with costumes and music. My favorite part is the ringing of the church bells. Sometimes on clear, still mornings, I can hear them from my bed. The bells are the best thing about Sunday morning, besides Mass, no school, and pancakes with blueberry syrup from Knott's Berry Farm.

  After Mass we ate cheese and crackers and carrot sticks because we had fasted for Holy Communion. We ate them in the car on the way to Forest Lawn. Yes, Forest Lawn. The cemetery. That's where my mother likes to go for special occasions, the cemetery. She enjoys seeing where the movie stars are buried. I may be crazy about movie stars, but I draw the line at dead ones.

  To be honest, Forest Lawn is a lot more than a cemetery. It's like a very clean, quiet city, with churches and museums, trees and statues and ponds. Only the people are all dead.

  We parked the car and got out—all except Dolores, who stayed behind to sulk because she hadn't been allowed to go to the Brown Derby Restaurant with Wally and his mother.

  There were plenty of living people in Forest Lawn that day, putting flowers on their mothers' graves. They walked slowly between the stones, talking quietly to each other. But my mother ran and shouted. "Here," she called as we got to the crest of a hill, "here's Tom Mix. And there, Jean Harlow. And look, Carole Lombard!" She cried a little then because of the tragic way Carole Lombard died, in an airplane crash when she was traveling the country to sell war bonds. My mother sold bonds during the war too. She still wears a baggy gray suit she made out of an old suit of my father's and used the money she saved to buy war bonds. She calls it "the suit that helped win the war."

  "Fred," my mother called, "here's Humphrey Bogart's mother!"

  Holy cow. I sat down under a tree and just waited for my mother to stop embarrassing me. I watched her running from grave to grave, her hair springing loose from her bun and curling around her face. Her face was rosy with joy and the sun. Suddenly I was feeling about her the way you are supposed to feel about your mother on Mother's Day. I smiled at that and lay down in the coolness of the grass.

  When we were all in the car again, she said, "Now, Fred, I would like to go out to a restaurant for lunch." My mother said that. My penny-pinching mother who clipped coupons from the magazines at the dentist's office, reused waxed paper, and canned her own tomatoes. A new hat and out to eat. What was getting into her? If I didn't know her so well, I'd think she had a boyfriend or something.

  "Blue blazes, Lor
raine," my father said. "I'm not made of money."

  "And not the Tail of the Pup, either. Someplace where we can sit down." She smiled. "And I might even have a cocktail."

  "Blue blazes," my father said again.

  28

  Father Chuckie and Sister Pete

  Susan was back in school after her forced vacation for drawing flowers on her uniform skirt. Sister nodded as Susan, in a fresh, clean, undecorated skirt, took her seat.

  "Holy cow, Susan," I said, "did you have to get a new skirt? Did your father blow his top?"

  Susan smiled and pointed to the weasely Weslia Babchuk, whose skirt was a familiar riot of flowers. "Sister will never think to check what Weslia is wearing, and then when she forgets all about my skirt, I'll take it back again."

  "But how did you get the weasely Weslia to agree?"

  "It's amazing how valuable a cute brother can be," Susan said.

  "Scooter the drip? And weasely Weslia? I'm shocked."

  "People change," Susan said, waving to Weslia, who winked at her. I saw Susan fingering the fabric of Weslia's skirt, clearly imagining how much better it would look with a few roses and daisies drawn on it.

  After recess the new assistant pastor at Saint Mel's came to school to introduce himself. His name is Father Charles, but it was Chuckie when he was a teenager and visited his grandparents next door to us. Chuckie was there every weekend, working on his car, singing dirty lyrics to holy hymns, and saying "hubba hubba" whenever a female walked by.

  Father Chuckie is young and very handsome, so the girls in my class think he's drooly. That's because he never held them upside down over the storm drain. He told us he was there for all of us young people, and if we ever had any questions or problems, we could come to him.