A Tiny Piece of Sky (13 page)

ON ONE ESPECIALLY HOT
and humid morning, following an especially late evening, Frankie woke early. She found Daddy adjusting the knot in his tie at the dining room mirror. She watched him quietly from the hall for a while, watched him pull at his collar and straighten his vest, his good eye close to the mirror and stretched open extra wide.

She didn't know why exactly, but at this moment Frankie didn't feel quite at ease. Daddy looked the same to her, he did, and he seemed the same, straightening his tie and such as he always did each morning. But still, there she was in the hall, just standing there silent and watching, something she had never done before.

As she looked on, Daddy dropped his hands from his tie and for a long and quiet moment stared at his reflection. His mouth dipped down at the corners as he watched himself, his eyes becoming like slits, staring so long and hard that he became almost unrecognizable to himself. To Frankie, too.

Frankie grew uncomfortable there in the shadows of the hall, spying, and not understanding what Daddy was looking at, or looking for. She stepped into the light. Daddy jumped at the sight of her and his hand went to his chest. “Good Lord, Frankie, where did you come from?”

“Back there,” she said, pointing toward the hall.

His mouth and eyes returned to their regular position as he undid his tie for the second time and shook it out to start again. “Well, you really shouldn't sneak up on a person like that. It's uncivilized, you know.”

“Sorry, Daddy,” she said.

He sighed and then got back to the mirror. “Very well.” He looped the tie around his neck and fastened it at his throat after a number of twists and pulls. Then he turned toward Frankie. “What do you think?”

Frankie had been thinking, but not about ties. “Daddy,” she said, “I'd like to try out another job at the restaurant.” Then she added, just to be clear, “One that doesn't take place in the kitchen.”

He frowned slightly. “Honey girl, we're a little short-staffed in the kitchen. That's where we could really use you most.”

“But there's got to be another place where you could use my help,” said Frankie. “I can do anything, you know.” She took a few steps back so that he could see her, really see her.

Daddy smiled, but he couldn't see her, not really. It wasn't entirely his fault, Frankie knew. How could he see her for who she was with only one good eye?

“You do know that, right, Daddy?”

“Of course I do,” he said. “You're a Baum, after all.” Then he squeezed her shoulder. “Tell you what: stick it out in the kitchen just until we get more people hired, and then we'll see what else you can do.”

“But when will that be?” said Frankie. “Today?”

Daddy sighed. “Not likely today, no.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

Daddy shook his head. “Frankie.”

But she was beginning to feel desperate. “When?”

“Patience, now,” said Daddy. “Please.”

But let it be known, it's hard to be patient when you are perpetually last and forever at the bottom.

“Now, I have to get going,” said Daddy. “Tell your mother that I'll see you all down at the restaurant later this morning.” He kissed her on the head as he passed by.

“All right,” said Frankie. But things weren't right. And no one but Frankie seemed to notice.

AT THE RESTAURANT, DADDY
and Inky were admiring the new neon sign out front that read “
B
aum
'
s
R
es
taurant
and
T
avern
” when Mother, Elizabeth, and Frankie arrived. “There you are,” said Daddy, pointing at the vertical sign as the neon lit blue. “Look there; now it's official.”

“Would you take a look at that,” said Mother, gazing up, in awe, as if her name were spelled out in stars.

Inky, who was just about Mother's size and always wore a grin on his face, said, “Guess who's going to be playing the organ during weekday dinners?”

“Who?” said Frankie. Despite everything she knew, there was a tiny place in the center of her heart that felt it might be her, that it could've been her, if things were just a little bit different. Certainly somebody would eventually recognize that she didn't belong in the kitchen, wouldn't they?

“My Margaret,” said Inky.

Frankie's mouth fell open. “Mrs. Inkletter? I didn't know she knew how to play.”

“Oh, sure,” said Inky. “She's been playing since she was your age, Frankie. Though, she don't have much chance to practice these days since we sold our piano. We had to, you know, to make
room for Margaret's mother when she came to stay two years back.” Inky's grin was still there, but it dimmed a little.

“Well, does she know ‘Chopsticks'?” inquired Frankie.

“I reckon she does,” said Inky.

“What about ‘When the Saints Go Marching In'?” said Frankie.

“Certainly does.”

“Well, how about . . .”

“That's enough, Frances,” said Mother, putting her hand on Frankie's shoulder and ending the quizzing.

“Why don't you all go on in,” said Daddy. “They've just dropped off the new cash register, so Princess, you should give it a try.”

Honestly, that is what he said.

“Really?” said Elizabeth, racing to the door.

“I don't believe it,” said Frankie, following right behind. “She gets to work the cash register? How come
she
gets to work the cash register?”

Frankie never did get an answer, but she barely noticed anyway. Because once she got inside, lo and behold, there it was. The glorious cash register practically lit up the whole room. The nickel-plated brass sparkled under the chandeliers, and the five rows of buttons were so round and perfect they practically called Frankie by name.

Did I mention that it was glorious?

Mother stood in front of it and glided her hand along the word “National” etched in the brass on the marquee at the top. Then, ever so gently, she pressed the lever to open the cash drawer. The most delightful bell chimed as the well-oiled drawer slid open, but to tell you the truth, hearing it nearly made Frankie sick. It wasn't
the sound of the bell, of course, but the realization that Elizabeth—not Frankie—was going to be pushing those buttons and counting change, and making that wonderful bell ring.

“Have you worked one of these before, Princess?” Mother asked.

“Sure,” said Elizabeth. “Or something like it. One time Katrina Melvich let me play with the cash register at her dad's pharmacy. I'm sure this register works the same way.”

Mother nodded, as if there was no doubt in her mind that Elizabeth could do anything. If Elizabeth said she could've piloted the
Hindenburg
, for goodness' sakes, no one would think otherwise.

Frankie watched as Elizabeth stood beside Mother and was about to push one of those perfect buttons. It was bad enough that Elizabeth was going to have the job of working the register, but that she was going to get to touch those buttons first, and press them down, well, that was simply too much for Frankie to bear.

Something inside her, you could say, snapped.

Frankie elbowed her way in front of Mother and Elizabeth and clung to the cash register like a starving dog holding on to a soup bone. “Let me” is what Frankie heard come out of her own mouth as she climbed up the cash stand and threw herself on top of the machine. It wasn't her best moment, certainly not her proudest, but she was overcome with the need to do something. And that, dear friend, is what she did.

“Frances Marie, come down off that register right now,” shouted Mother. “What has gotten into you?”

“She's going to break it,” said Elizabeth. “Daddy, do something.”

But Frankie did not hear any of this. Because she was too busy pressing every single button on the cash register, sometimes two at
a time, and then pulling down on the lever to hear that bell ring and ring and ring. The drawer opened each time, and when it did, Frankie slammed it closed again. She wasn't sure how many times she was able to open and close the drawer—thirteen, or perhaps fourteen—before she felt hands gripping her arms and pulling her off.

“She's gone mad,” said Elizabeth.

“Frances Marie,” said Mother, disappointment heavy in her voice.

The hands turned out to be Inky's and Daddy's, but Frankie managed to get in one more bell ring—
Fifteen!
—before relenting to their will. When she had both feet on the floor and they finally let go of her arms, she was feeling somewhat better.

“Frankie,” said Daddy.

But Frankie didn't give him or Mother a chance to say more. “I know, I know,” she said with a shrug. “To the kitchen.”

IT WAS NO SOONER
than Frankie opened the kitchen door that Mr. Washington told her to go right away to Hoffman Meat Market and help Amy bring back chickens. Dead ones, and a lot of them.

“Chickens?” said Frankie.

Mr. Washington nodded.

Seaweed said, “You know, the little birds that run around the barnyard, a-peckin' and a-scratchin' and tastin' real good breaded and fried with a heap of mashed potatoes?”

“I know what chickens are,” said Frankie, indignant.

Mr. Washington said, “Amy done left for Hoffman's a half hour ago, and she might be needing some help getting those birds back here. We got stock to make and freeze. Seaweed and me got to work on that fan that quit runnin' again. And Julie's got a mess of bread she workin' on. Can you do that?”

Frankie nodded and told him that yes, she could. Just like Elizabeth, she could do anything. And maybe, just maybe, word would get back to Daddy.

She left the kitchen and headed across the street to Hoffman Meat Market. Stopping in front of the wide store window, she gazed up at the dead, skinless animals and their various parts hanging
neatly on rows of deep hooks. Below them, a row of signs advertising the price of those parts per pound.

C
huck
roast
, 15
cents
per
lb
!

B
est
steak
,
only
22
cents
per
lb
!

S
pring
chicke
ns
, 12
cents
per
lb
!

And then, between the signs for pork loin and pure lard, was one of Mr. Price's campaign posters. On the poster was a cartoon drawing of a man with torn trousers and an ill-fitting suit jacket, appearing down on his luck. Above him was a man in a hot air balloon—presumably Mr. Price—dressed quite sharply and clutching a sack full of money.
yo
u
can't
afford
not
t
o
vote
for
price.
the
cost
is
too
high!
vo
te
sullen
waterford
price,
esq.,
for
mayor.

In truth, it wasn't clear to Frankie whether the man in the balloon was about to drop the money down to the poor soul, or if he had just robbed him of it and was floating away. That answer depended on whether you were planning to vote for Mr. Price or not, she guessed.

Which reminded her: she didn't see the poster that Mr. Price had taped to Daddy's front window. She'd had other things on her mind when she had gotten to the restaurant, namely the new sign, Mrs. Inkletter playing the organ, and, of course, the cash register. But she thought she would've noticed the poster, if it were still there. The one here in front of her at Hoffman's was hard to miss.

A man came to the window then, and right in front of her he hung a side of beef on an empty hook. Frankie winced. She knew, of course, where meat came from and had been by butcher shops many times before. But she had never stepped foot in one, and from
outside looking in through the glass, she had the advantage of being separated from the death, from the blood, and from—oh my—the smell, and could let her mind imagine that those remnants were merely made of plaster, like mannequins on display from a ladies' department store.

It took a good bit of imagining on her part, for it takes a great deal of effort when you don't want to believe something you know in your heart to be true. But she'd had some help—you can't underestimate the power of three-quarter-inch plate glass.

On this day, however, she had to open the door and go inside.
Inside
, where there was nothing separating her from the recently deceased. She took a deep breath, held it in, and then turned the doorknob.

Quickly, she scanned the room for Amy, careful not to make eye contact with the pig head—that's right, there was a head of a pig—resting on a metal platter behind the counter.

Not real.

Made of plaster.

She told herself.

“May I help you?” said the man who was wiping his hands across the belly of his heavy white apron, leaving red and pink stains.

Tomato soup.

Catsup.

Nothing more.

She told herself.

While still holding her breath, Frankie managed to squeak out “Amy” and “picking up chickens.”

“Ah, for Mr. Baum, right?” he asked. “Across the street?”

Frankie nodded. She was quickly running out of air and really didn't want to open her mouth and let in the same air that shared space with chopped-up animal chunks. She looked around again. For goodness' sakes, where was Amy?

“Are you one of his girls, then?” he asked.

Frankie nodded again.

“Thought so. I saw you over there yesterday. My son is in the same class as your older sister,” he said. “Elizabeth?”

Another nod. Thank goodness for yes and no questions. They could really save the skin of a person who was trying hard not to breathe.

“You helping out?” he asked. “Looks like a lot of work to be done over there.”

Frankie felt like her own head might pop off and join the pig's on the platter. She leaned against the glass display counter for support.

Now, unless you are like Harry Houdini, thirty seconds is about as long as you can hold your breath. Mr. Houdini famously held his breath for more than three minutes before escaping from an oversized milk can filled with water. And what an escape it was!

But Frankie Baum, sadly, was no such magician.

She needed to take in some air soon or she would faint. And she couldn't think of a worse place to faint than a butcher shop. Suppose those butchers saw an opportunity to sell parts of her at 25 cents per pound?

Like the quick thinker that she was, she pinched her nose to at least avoid the smell and breathed through her mouth. “Yes, sir,” she said, although she couldn't remember what the man had asked.

“Good,” he said. “That's good. I saw your father on the street
the other day and welcomed him to the neighborhood. About time somebody breathed some life into that place.”

Breathed. Yes, breathing is good.

“You mind the smell?” he asked.

She shrugged, but continued to pinch her nose. “A little.”

“Funny,” he said, “you get used to it after a while.”

“The chickens?” said Frankie. She didn't want to be rude, but she needed to get going.

“Right,” he said. “We're rounding them up for you. It's not often we get such large orders. A colored girl came in a while ago. She's waiting out back for them.”

“Amy?”

The man shrugged. “I'll see what I can do to speed things up.”

Frankie headed for the back door of the shop. “You can wait in here, young lady,” he said. “It's awful hot out there today.”

Frankie shook her head and smiled. “That's all right; I'll wait with Amy outside.”

Amy was leaning against the brick building, wiping her forehead with her dress sleeve. “What you doing here?” she asked.

“Mr. Washington thought you might need some help,” said Frankie.

“I been waiting out here so long, I coulda hatched my own chickens and raised 'em up,” Amy said.

“The man inside said they'd be ready soon.”

“That be Mr. Hoffman.” Amy shook her head. “Mr. Stannum be real mad as long as I been here.”

“It's no fault of yours,” said Frankie.

“Don't make no difference to Mr. Stannum.”

Minutes later, Mr. Hoffman returned to the door with a crate full of chickens wrapped in parchment. “Here you are,” he said. “A dozen whole chickens.”

“These fresh?” asked Amy.

Mr. Hoffman looked at Frankie when he answered, “They don't get any fresher. That's a Hoffman guarantee.”

Amy unwrapped a corner of the parchment to have a look. Her mouth fell open.

“What's wrong?” asked Frankie.

“These birds ain't been cleaned,” said Amy. “They got the feathers on and everything. Mr. Stannum wanted them cleaned.”

“I don't believe that's so,” Mr. Hoffman said, rocking back on his heels.

“I don't mean no disrespect,” said Amy, “but I placed the order myself the day before yesterday.”

“Well,” said Mr. Hoffman, “we seem to have a difference of opinion.” He adjusted his rolled-up shirtsleeves, exposing his thick forearms. Then he spoke directly to Frankie. “Look here, you want a dozen chickens, here they are. But if you want them cleaned, we can do that for you, for an additional cost. But it's going to take another day.”

“Another day?” said Amy. She looked at Frankie, too.

Frankie didn't know what to do. She'd only been working in the kitchen just over a week, which wasn't long at all. And considering that fact, what difference would one day make to wait for clean chickens?

“What's it going to be?” said Mr. Hoffman.

On the other hand, if Mr. Stannum wanted chickens today, he
would not be pleased if they returned empty-handed. Amy would be in trouble, and Frankie didn't want that. What difference did it make if they were cleaned or not?

“I don't know,” said Amy.

Then Frankie thought of Elizabeth and that cash register and how sometimes you have to act like you know things even when you don't. “We'll take them,” she said.

“We will?” said Amy.

Frankie nodded and grabbed one side of the crate while Amy took the other.

“I don't know about this,” whispered Amy as they lugged the heavy box across the street.

“Don't you worry,” said Frankie, feeling more confident with each step. “It will be all right.”