A Tiny Piece of Sky (7 page)

“But what?” said Frankie.

“WHACK!”
Mother brought the side of her hand down on the table.

Frankie flinched and tucked her fingers into tight fists.

“Poor boy had to learn the hard way,” said Mother. “Now, doesn't that make you think twice about it?”

Frankie nodded. It certainly did make her think twice—about hiding under the dining room table again, where she could be discovered so easily.

“Now, then.” Mother smoothed her hair in the mirror as if they had just finished talking about the weather and not about some poor boy's chopped-off finger. “Your father's waiting for us.”

“What about Elizabeth?” asked Frankie again.

“Don't you worry so much about your sister. That's my job.” She picked up her pocketbook from the table and made it to the door in five efficient strides, her square heels clicking on the hardwood floor. “Come on, now.”

“Forever a Number Three,” Frankie said under her breath.

Mother turned her head. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” said Frankie. “I'm coming.”

THIS WAS ONLY THE
second time Frankie had been inside the restaurant, and she didn't think it possible for the place to look any worse for wear than the first time she'd laid eyes on it. But man oh day, was she entirely wrong. For one thing, the walls by the bar and dining room were very much gone. Knotted wooden beams stood there instead, like the bare bones of the old place that hadn't seen the light of day for a hundred years and were wondering why all of a sudden they were indecent. Mercy! Buckets of plaster sat in the middle of the floor, where the tables and chairs were just a few days earlier, and men in blue overalls milled about, looking intent on fixing something but not sure where to start.

At the sight of it all, Mother grasped Frankie's shoulder and squeezed. The edge of her gold wedding band dug into Frankie's skin, and thankfully, just as Frankie managed to slip out of her grip, Daddy appeared.

“Come in, come in,” he said, taking Mother by the hand. “And watch your step.” Then Daddy turned to Frankie and said, “Just in time. I think you're just what we need in the kitchen.”

“The kitchen?” said Frankie. She felt that making sure the organ was in proper tune—not working in the kitchen—was the sort of job best suited for her talents. “To do what?” She guessed that she
could see herself wearing one of those tall white hats and nibbling on loaves of warm, crusty bread right from the oven. “Like be a chef or a baker?”

“I was thinking along the lines of a more junior position,” said Daddy.

“Junior?” Frankie didn't like where this was going at all.

“Just to start out, Frankie. The kitchen is the heart and soul of a restaurant, the lifeblood. And you'll be in the center of it. You know, peeling potatoes, snapping beans, washing dishes—”

“Washing dishes!” Frankie yelled, sickened by the notion.

“Frances Marie,” warned Mother. “Mind your tone.”

“You're just not old enough yet for some of the other responsibilities around here,” Daddy explained. “It's not as bad as you think. You'll see.”

Frankie could not see anything past dirty dishes.

“Go on,” said Daddy, nodding toward the kitchen. “Mr. Stannum, the kitchen manager, is in there, and he'll show you what to do.” Then he and Mother headed to the offices upstairs.

Frankie sat down on a bucket of plaster and stared at the kitchen door. She hadn't been sitting very long when there was some commotion coming from the kitchen. She could hear voices, loud ones. Right then she thought about sneaking back home, grabbing her bathing suit, and making her way to the municipal pool. She would be punished, for certain, but she honestly could not imagine a punishment worse than what waited for her in that kitchen.

So, up she stood and quickly got herself to the front door. She would have made it there, too—would have made it outside to the street, even—if not for the colored woman who ran out of the
kitchen then. “I done told you,” the woman said, “I never did work a cookstove like that one before.” She was short and round, with cheeks as plump and friendly as warm apple dumplings. She pulled off a white apron from around her neck, folded it carefully into a neat pile, and laid it on a stepladder.

Then she walked toward Frankie, who stood there dumbfounded, blocking the front door. “Which way you headed?” she asked.

“Me?” said Frankie.

“You the only one here, ain't you?”

Frankie nodded.

“So, you staying or going?”

Frankie wasn't sure. She had momentarily forgotten her plan.

“Amy!” A man's voice shouted from the kitchen.

“If you please,” she said to Frankie, taking a step forward. The woman, who looked to be much younger close up, gave a nervous smile and looked as eager to disappear as Frankie did. And so Frankie nodded, for there was little she understood better than the desire to skedaddle, and she stepped out of the way.

The woman reached for the doorknob and started to turn it, but the kitchen doors swung open and the man attached to the voice was there calling her name once more—this time with less severity, after laying eyes on Frankie. He was tall and skinny as a rail, with a full silver mustache that hung low over his lip. He shifted his gaze from Amy to Frankie, and then, for Frankie's benefit, put on a smile. When he did, the mustache covered his entire top row of teeth, and Frankie wondered how he could live with such a nuisance of a thing, which would surely get in the way of eating an ice cream cone. “Ah,” he said, “you must be Frances. Mr. Baum said you'd be helping out today.”

“Frankie,” she said.

“All right, Frankie,” he said, nodding. “The name's Mr. Stannum. So, I understand you're going to be working in the kitchen?”

Frankie looked at Amy, who was for some reason still standing beside her, and then said, “Well, I guess so, but I'm not sure I know how to work the cookstove, either.”

Mr. Stannum blew air out of his mouth that came out sounding like
ppffffffftttt
, and the fringe on his lip parted like a curtain. “There's plenty to do, plenty to do.” He put his hand on Frankie's shoulder and gave her a shove toward the kitchen. “You can start by unpacking the boxes of pots and pans. Amy here will show you where they are.” He turned then to Amy and waved his fingers at her to follow. His fingernails were long and caked with grease. “Come on. If you think you can handle pots and pans.” There was more exasperation than malice in his voice this time, and perhaps Amy heard that, too, as she did come along, but only after mumbling something that Frankie couldn't quite make out.

Frankie was surprised to find the kitchen in better shape than the rest of the place. Rats no more! The lights worked, for one thing, and the walls, which she was relieved to see were not missing, were freshly painted white. The cupboards, though still gray, were clean, and most of them now had doors on them. This was particularly pleasing to Frankie, for hiding places with doors were much preferred to those without. A round fan mounted to the wall above the stove was spinning at full speed, but only moved hot air around the room and provided no real relief. Stacks of boxes covered the butcher-block countertop and blocked the back entrance.

Speaking of the back entrance—
When did that door get there?
Frankie wondered. Because she hadn't noticed it before. She made
a plan to start with the boxes there, rather than on the counter, so she could clear the way to the door and slip out when nobody was looking.

Besides Mr. Stannum and Amy, there were three others working in the kitchen. Mr. Stannum introduced Frankie to the group as Mr. Baum's youngest daughter, the third one—
he did indeed
—who would be helping for the time being while staying out of the way. He also warned them to watch their language around her and to step up the work, because the restaurant would open in a few weeks' time and there was about two months' worth of work yet to be done. He's seen circus elephants work faster, he told them.

Julie Bulgar, an older lady with her light brown hair pulled into a tidy bun on the top of her head, was the baker. Her dimples were deep and pronounced when she smiled, like someone had poked her pale, doughy cheeks with two fingers just because. “How do you do, young lady?” she said.

Leon Washington, the line cook, nodded in Frankie's direction but didn't speak to her. He was as tall and slender as Mr. Stannum, but colored, and without any facial hair. He had a jagged scar under his right eye about the size of a key and Frankie noticed that he kept his head lowered when he talked, like he was afraid of what he might see in others, or afraid of what others might see in him.

Next to him was Seaweed Turner, a young boy no more than fifteen, the prep cook for Mr. Washington. He was tossing up a washrag by the grill, snatching it out of the air before it hit the ground, balling it up in his fist, and then tossing it again.

“I've got to check on the potato shipment,” said Mr. Stannum. He nodded at Amy and Frankie. “Get to work. No time to waste.”

After Mr. Stannum left, Seaweed grabbed two ends of the washrag and wound it around itself until the rag was the likeness of a rope. Then he unwound the thing and tossed it from one hand to the other.

“That's for cleaning with, boy, not for doing no tricks,” said Mr. Washington. But Seaweed didn't pay him any mind, and instead flashed a wide smile at Frankie and then spun around quick while the rag flew into the air. “Frankie?” he said to himself, loud enough that she could hear. “Thought that was a boy's name.”

This time, Mr. Washington grabbed for the washrag but missed. “Boy, if you don't start working like you playing, you going to be out of a job right quick.”

“Easy, boss,” said Seaweed, waving the rag above his head like he had just dropped his weapon and was surrendering to the other side. “I got you covered.” He flashed another smile at Frankie before dropping the rag onto the soiled grill top and leaning into it with both hands, back and forth.

“I'm not sure a boy called Seaweed has a right to make a remark about anybody else's name,” said Frankie, her hands balled up into fists by her side. She was surprised at how quickly this came out of her mouth, but she was already riled up from having to be there in the first place, and she wasn't going to let a smart-mouthed boy get one up on her.

Seaweed blinked and then his eyes got wide. He stopped scrubbing. Frankie stood firm and readied herself for a comeback, but he just looked at her, and eventually his mouth turned up in a grin.

“She's got you there, Seaweed,” said Julie.

Seaweed went back to cleaning, and after a quiet minute or so,
Mr. Washington whistled and said, “Oh man oh man, see here, see here. The boy's been stumped. That's the first time he's shut up all day.” He hung his apron on one of the wall hooks behind him. “I'm going to the toilet,” he said to Seaweed, “and when I get back, you and me are gonna scrape clean the inside of this here oven.” The lavatory for kitchen help was in the far corner of the room, and as Mr. Washington passed by Amy and Frankie, he said, “Yep, this girl gonna be good, I say.”

“Shoot,” said Seaweed, shaking his head.

Frankie felt her cheeks burn. Amy took her arm and led her to the stack of boxes by the back door. “Don't pay him any mind,” she whispered. “Seaweed just playing. He don't mean nothing by it.”

Frankie didn't know if Amy was worried about Frankie's feelings getting hurt or if she thought Frankie would tell Daddy and get Seaweed in trouble. But Frankie wasn't much bothered about the remark itself—after all, it wasn't the first time somebody had made fun of her nickname, and in truth, it
was
a boy's name. And one thing was for sure: Frankie Baum was no snitch. “I'm not going to tell,” she said to Amy.

Then the doors swung open, and there stood Mr. Stannum, appraising the room and any progress that had not occurred in his absence. He came to a stop in the center of the kitchen, and as he looked around, he began tapping each finger to his thumb on his right hand like he was trying to follow the beat to a drum. “Where is Leon?”

“Toilet,” said Seaweed.

Mr. Stannum craned his neck in the direction of the lavatory. He set his jaw and stared, while his fingers found a steady rhythm.
Beat, beat, beat, beat.
Finally, Mr. Washington emerged from the lavatory and returned to work without fail and without noticing Mr. Stannum watching him intently. But Seaweed noticed. He most certainly did. “Mr. Stannum,” he said, “you all right?”

That seemed to knock Mr. Stannum off his cadence. His fingers slowed and then came to a stop. “What?”

“You just standing there staring,” said Seaweed. “My grandma's got sugar and does that sometime, you know, goes off staring at nothing for no good reason. Most of the time when she been into the cookie jar. You got sugar?”

Sugar was one problem Mr. Stannum didn't have. But he had others. “Why are those boxes still unpacked?” he yelled. “Amy, I suppose you find boxes as hard as cookstoves?” He bit at each word as he spoke them, and his mouth began to produce enough froth so that by the time he got to the word “cookstoves,” a glob of spittle the size of a shirt button flew out of his mouth and clung to his mustache.

“No, sir,” said Amy. She quickly set about opening the box closest to her and pulled out a stack of aluminum jelly roll pans. She kept her eyes on her work and would not allow herself to look at Mr. Stannum, lest she see the thing that was now hanging past his lips. Amy had barely put the jelly roll pans on the counter before she dove into the next box.

Mr. Stannum shook his head—
Do you know that glob of spittle hung on?
—and eyeballed the grill top. “Didn't I tell you that a steel brush is what you need for that?” he growled at Seaweed. “You've got to be hard on it. It's the only way you'll get anywhere, for Pete's sake.” Only he didn't say “for Pete's sake.” He said something worse
and seemed to forget that Frankie was standing right there. His fingers were really moving now, as if he was still trying to follow that drum and keep time to it, but he could barely hear its beat, beat, beat.

“Don't you worry none, Mr. Stannum,” said Mr. Washington. “We'll be ready.”

“We'll be ready,” mocked Mr. Stannum. “We'll be ready. Look around you! Do you know how much there is to do before this is a working kitchen? A couple of weeks. We've got a measly couple of weeks and I've got . . . I've got”—he looked around and threw up his arms—“
this
.” The spittle couldn't hang on any longer. It fell, first stretching into a thin line and then finally letting go of those silver hairs and splattering on the toe of his shoe. Whether he noticed or not was uncertain, but he muttered a few words to himself about colored people, and having to do everything around here himself, and then he left the kitchen once more.