A Tiny Piece of Sky (24 page)

FRANKIE'S HEAD WAS IN
the sky on the walk home. Never before had she been taken to such a magnificent place.

She couldn't wait to tell Mother and Daddy all about it, especially Daddy. She dreamed that maybe he could see it for himself one day. She didn't know how, but she hoped.

They were just a block and a half away from the apartment, all of them singing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”—Aunt Edith the loudest, incidentally—when they saw the ambulance speed past them with lights flashing and siren screaming. And Frankie knew—she knew, just as strongly as she knew Daddy wasn't a spy—that he was in that ambulance, and that he was already gone.

NEWS OF DADDY'S DEATH
spread quickly through town. By the next morning, Mother and the girls were receiving flowers and visitors at the apartment. Aunt Dottie occupied herself in the kitchen by making custard. Uncle Reinhart sat quietly at Daddy's desk, sorting through papers. Mr. Washington, Amy, Julie, and Seaweed brought platters of food, and Grandma Engel and Aunt Edith helped arrange them on the dining room table. “My goodness,” said Aunt Edith, “this is too much. You shouldn't have gone to so much trouble. We'll never eat all this.”

“Nonsense,” said Grandma Engel. “At a time like this, there are two things you can't have too much of. Company and food.”

“It would've spoiled soon anyhow,” said Mr. Washington. “Just sittin' there in the freezers at the restaurant, goin' to waste.”

“Good thinking,” said Grandma Engel.

“It Amy's idea,” said Seaweed.

Amy smiled as she placed a basket of dinner rolls on the table. “There be a lot more there, too. This just all we could carry.”

“Smart girl,” said Grandma Engel. “But let me ask you this. Did you bring anything from the bar?”

“Mother, please.”

“Get off your high horse, Edith. I wasn't thinking of me,” said
Grandma Engel. “For mercy's sakes, I was thinking of Mildred. The girl is a mess.”

Grandma Engel was right. It was as if Mother's skeleton had disintegrated the moment Daddy died, leaving her in a boneless lump in the living room chair. Sure, she put on a brave face for those who stopped by to pay their respects, but when they left, she fell into tiny pieces that had to be scooped up and reassembled.

Frankie understood all too well. She, too, thought that at any moment, she might dissolve into a puddle on the floor. Yesterday, she had a father. But this morning when she woke up, she didn't. And what's worse was that every minute after this one, every month, every year of her life to come, she wouldn't. That left such an emptiness in her heart that she felt as though someone had hollowed her out like a gourd.

Death may be little more than lifting off in a flying machine and traveling to another world, but what of those who are left behind?

THEY SAY THAT FUNERALS
are for the living, and that very well may be true. But Hermann Baum's funeral? Well, that was strictly for him.

Three days following his death, there was a service at St. John's Lutheran Church. Mother wanted an open casket, and could not be persuaded otherwise by anyone, including Frankie and Joan, who had never in their lives seen a dead body before and did not want to start with their beloved father. Mother may not have been able to lift a water glass without her hand trembling, but on this matter, she was steady as a steel beam.

Elizabeth and Joan each had Mother's arm as they climbed the concrete steps to the door of the church. Frankie followed behind. Even the petticoat she was made to wear, miserable as it was and which plagued her severely, was no match for her grief.

It took all three of them to get Mother up the stairs. Frankie had both hands on Mother's back, just above her rear end, pushing, as Joan and Elizabeth lifted and pulled at Mother's arms. They made it to the top, somehow, and Elizabeth opened the door. Standing there, just inside, was someone who gave Frankie's heart a jolt: Mr. Stannum.

“Mrs. Baum,” he said, holding his hat over his heart, “I, uh, I'm
sorry, I just wanted to pay my respects.” He shifted on his feet and mopped his forehead with a handkerchief.

Mother stiffened. “I'm surprised to see you here, Mr. Stannum,” she said after a long pause. “After what you've done to my husband.”

He swallowed. Shame the size of a cantaloupe, it was that big. “Yes, well, I suppose then you heard what I done,” he said softly.

Mother and all three girls looked him in the eye but said nothing.

Mr. Stannum's knees buckled. “All right, then. Let me just get this out. I wanted to tell you something. I need to.”

Mother waited. Frankie stepped in front of her. She didn't know what he was going to say, but with Daddy gone, she wanted to get between Mother and whatever it was.

“I was wrong about Mr. Baum.” He pressed his lips together, and his mouth disappeared behind his silver mustache.

“Yes, indeed,” said Mother.

“I made a mistake, but I didn't mean any harm to come to him, honest,” he said. “Or to you or anyone. The strange thing is, I thought I was doing right, for the country, for my brother.” He shook his head. “But I guess I knew as soon as I gave over that paper to Mr. Price that I wasn't. And I want to make things right.”

Frankie wondered how on earth he planned to do that with Daddy gone.

How indeed.

Mother just shook her head. “Out of my way, Mr. Stannum. We are burying my Hermann today.” She started on.

But Mr. Stannum did not get out of the way. “Wait, please.” He tapped his fingers together in a steady, rhythmic beat. Then he
looked directly at Frankie. “I lost something a long time ago, and I'm aiming to get it back.”

Frankie watched his fingers and knew he had found her note, and perhaps his heart as well.

“I went to everyone I know,” said Mr. Stannum. “Everyone that Mr. Baum had dealings with at the restaurant, his Elk lodge, the Eagles. Frankie, that's why you seen me in your daddy's office that time. I was looking for names of people he knew, anybody, so I could tell them what I done. Tell them that your daddy wasn't what they said.” He balled his handkerchief in his fist.

Right away Frankie thought of the letters on Daddy's bedside table. So, Mr. Stannum had a hand in that?

“Is that so?” said Mother, after a long silence.

He took Mother's hand. “I know it don't make up, but it was all I could think to do.” Then he let her go and slid his hat back on his head. “That's what I wanted to get off my chest. I'll go now.” He started past them toward the door.

Elizabeth and Joan were in tears. “Come on, girls,” said Mother, heading for the sanctuary.

“Mother,” Frankie whispered. After all Mr. Stannum did to undo what he had done, it didn't feel right just leaving him here at the steps of their church. “Mother,” she said again.

“Where are you going, Mr. Stannum?” Mother slowed her steps.

Mr. Stannum stopped. “I beg your pardon.”

Mother turned. “You're going the wrong way, aren't you? The service is this way.”

He blinked. Then, after a long moment, nodded. “Yes, ma'am.” And he followed.

The girls got Mother to the sanctuary, where half the town, it seemed, was waiting. Mother gasped. “Look at all these people,” said Joan.

“I wish Daddy were here to see this,” said Elizabeth.

Frankie smiled. “I'd like to have seen his face.” And then just before she realized what she had said, she saw his face, along with the top half of his body, in a casket by the altar. All at once the air seemed to leave her body and she thought she might float high up to the painted ceiling or bust through the stained glass and not stop until the sky sent her back in tiny pieces. She reached for Joan's hand so she wouldn't lift off, but she was pulled away by Amy in a hug and could breathe again.

“My girl,” said Amy, “it ain't right. This never should've happened to your daddy. He was a good one.” Her voice was loud, louder than you were supposed to be in church, and it carried across the room and bounced off the windows. People turned around to see, but Amy didn't seem to notice. She kept right on talking about Daddy and how sorry she was as she hugged Mother, then Elizabeth, and then Joan. Amy's mother and father were there, too, in the last pew, along with Katie, Seaweed, and Mr. Washington and their families. They all stood and offered their respects to Mother in the aisle.

Seaweed came over to Frankie. “Don't you worry none about our deal,” he said with half a grin. “I'm lettin' you out.”

Frankie made a face, but before she could get out a clever reply, Seaweed's grin disappeared. He nodded at Mr. Stannum, lurking in the doorway. “What he doin' here?”

Mr. Stannum stepped forward then and extended his hand to
Seaweed, to Amy, and to Mr. Washington. “I'm sorry,” he said to them. For Daddy, for how he treated them, or for something else, they weren't exactly sure, but they shook his hand nonetheless.

The girls took Mother by the arms to their regular pew up front. Elizabeth went to slide in beside Mother, but Frankie stopped her. “Let's leave that space open,” she said, staring at the worn polish where Daddy always sat.

Elizabeth nodded and when she sat, she took Frankie's hand in hers and gave a squeeze. Frankie gave one in return.

Daddy's casket was in front of the altar, covered in sprays of white lilies. His head was resting on a pillow, and his eyes were closed. If you squinted hard enough, you might convince yourself that he was just sleeping and would sit up at any moment and wonder why all of these people were staring at him. Frankie tried that for a while, but then found that, when wanting to imagine he was still alive, looking anywhere but at him lying there was much easier.

Grandma Engel, Aunt Edith, Uncle Hal, and Ava and Martha were in the pew behind them. Just as Miss Fisk took her seat at the pipe organ and started playing some somber tune, Frankie turned to look at Ava and Martha, expecting to see Ava's fingers up her nose or her eyeballs crossed, but instead, she just stared at the ceiling, her eyes red from crying.

Aunt Dottie was there, too, wearing a black, high-crowned hat with a diminutive veil that hung just past her eyes. Uncle Reinhart in a light seersucker suit and bow tie sat next to her, his face in his usual grimace. Only then, after seeing them together, side by side, did this occur to Frankie: Daddy was a Number Three.

Aunt Dottie leaned forward and squeezed Frankie's shoulder.
“You've gotten to be so grown up since the last time I saw you.” Frankie smiled politely and then rubbed her shoulder, for Aunt Dottie had a grip like King Kong.

Miss Fisk played the final chord, and the tallest pipes from the organ bellowed such sadness that it left Frankie with a dull ache in her chest. Then Reverend Martin stood at his pulpit and read verses from the Bible that were supposed to help make everyone feel better about Daddy dying, knowing that he was going to a better place.

Let not your hearts be troubled.

So we are always of good courage.

Death is swallowed up in victory.

But Frankie knew there had been no victory for Daddy. She hadn't been able to keep her promise to him before he died. So where was the victory in that?

After Reverend Martin finished, he invited the family to come to the casket one last time before going to the graveside. Miss Fisk played short, low chords that sounded like some sort of death march as the three girls helped Mother get to her feet. They pulled her slowly, very slowly, toward the altar. Frankie kept her eyes on her feet so she wouldn't have to look at Daddy. From a distance was one thing, but seeing him up close was something else entirely. Mother must have felt the same way, because as they got closer to him, she started to moan.

Moaning, Frankie was fairly certain, was not allowed in church, and had it been Frankie doing that moaning, Mother would have cracked her on the behind until she stopped. But perhaps when
you have lost your love you forget about church rules, or decide they aren't so important after all. In either case, Mother got louder and louder, and the girls tried to get her to stop, telling her everything would be all right, but she kept on. Frankie and Joan looked at Elizabeth to do something. This was much worse than the itchy petticoats, and honestly, a little embarrassing.

“Mother, please stop,” whispered Elizabeth finally.

But that only made her moan more.

“It's all right,” said Joan, patting her arm and trying to soothe her.

Frankie looked at all of the people in the pews, watching them shift in their seats wide-eyed. “Shhh,” said Frankie. “Please be quiet. Please.”

Then Reverend Martin gave it a go. He took Mother's hands and said a prayer—or shouted one is more like it, for he had to shout in order to be heard over Mother. Then he blessed Daddy in the casket and closed the lid.

Mother yelled, “Hermann!” and flung her body over the casket.

Frankie and Joan looked at each other and then quickly grabbed her arms and pulled her back. “For goodness' sakes, Mother,” said Elizabeth, turning red. Frankie and Joan tried to drag her out the side door near the pulpit, but as they did, Mother fainted.

“Not again,” said Grandma Engel from her seat.

Reverend Martin, who was quite experienced with Mother fainting, calmly knelt down and tended to her, while announcing, “Services will be continued at the gravesite, and afterward we hope you will come to the Baums' apartment at 33 East Antietam Street for a reception.”

Perhaps Daddy intervened from wherever he ended up, because
as everyone began to stand up to leave—except for Mother, of course, who was still sprawled on the floor unconscious—Frankie got an idea.

Death is swallowed in victory.

She stepped over Mother and made an announcement of her own. “Hold on, everybody,” she shouted. “There has been a change. The reception will be held at Baum's Restaurant on Jonathan Street. Everybody is welcome.”

Elizabeth and Joan looked at Frankie with their mouths open.

“Really?” said Joan.

“What are you doing?” said Elizabeth.

Frankie stood firm. “What Daddy would have done.”