A Tiny Piece of Sky (9 page)

“Well,” Mr. Stannum said after a few moments of thought, “the only thing to do as I see it is to make the kitchen toilet for whites only, in accordance with the laws of the city, and not to mention the laws of nature, and to put in a new lavatory for the colored staff. Not that I mind so much”—he cleared his throat—“but I'm thinking of
them
. It's just not what they're used to. There's a closet right beside the toilet back there, and we've got ample storage space already.”

“That
is
one idea,” said Daddy. He scratched the top of his head and then smoothed his hair, which was thick with pomade, so that it didn't stick up like a rooster's tail. “Putting in a new lavatory would take some doing, though, not to mention a good bit of money. I just don't think my pockets are that deep, considering all the construction going on in the dining room.” He patted Mr. Stannum on the back. “So it seems to me, the better plan is to use the same one.”

“The same one!” said Mr. Stannum.

“That's right,” said Daddy. “I appreciate your concern for the others, as you say, but no one else has complained, and I shouldn't think the others will be bothered. And since you yourself said you didn't mind, I guess we don't have much of a problem after all, do we?”

“Well, er, but,” grumbled Mr. Stannum. “No, I suppose we don't.”

“Very good,” said Daddy. “Then there you have it.”

“Excuse me,” said Mr. Stannum, heading back toward the
stoves, where Mr. Washington and Seaweed were up to their armpits in grease.

“Oh, wait,” said Daddy. “One more thing.” Then he stepped into the center of the room. “Everyone, give an ear for a moment, please.” When he had everybody's attention, he said, “I'm inviting all the staff and their families here to the restaurant the night before we open. I thought it would be a chance to get to know everyone, and a good way to try out some of the things on the menu.”

“But that's July the fourth,” said Mr. Stannum.

“That's true,” said Daddy. “I know some of you were planning on going down to the celebration on the square, but I thought we could all do some celebrating of our own right here. I know of a place in Baltimore that sells an assortment of fireworks, too. Just wait until you see the Whirling Dervisher and the Marble Flash Salutes. Spectacular.”

Seaweed looked at Amy and grinned. “That sound all right by me.”

“He don't mean us,” whispered Amy. “Don't even think it.”

“Sure he does,” said Frankie, who couldn't help but overhear. “Don't you, Daddy?”

“That's right,” said Daddy. “All are welcome.”

June 21, 1939

Dear Frankie, who I remember very well,

You'll be relieved to know that all of my fingers are working just fine. Aunt Dottie won't let me near the tractor, which is all right by me. Incidentally, you shouldn't make a joke about such a thing. There are people who have lost fingers and other parts in tractor accidents, and I'm sure they wouldn't find that very funny.

Anyway, I'm sorry I haven't written, but I've been so busy settling into my new schedule here I barely have time for myself. Aunt Dottie, as it turns out, is quite strict. I have to get up at six o' clock to feed the chickens and turn the horses out to pasture. Then there are chores around the house, weeding the vegetable garden, cleaning the horses' stalls, and then and then and then and then . . .

My afternoons are free, so I really shouldn't complain, but lately I've been so tired from the morning activities that I fall asleep in a chair and don't wake up until suppertime. I think I now know how it feels to be Grandma Engel. (But please don't tell her I said that.)

Tell me how the restaurant is going. I bet it's really exciting. Will you get to work the cash register or seat the customers? Are you taking good care of Dixie? How's Bismarck?

Give my love to them and to Daddy and Mother, too. And Grandma Engel, of course. And everyone else. Even Elizabeth.

Oh, I miss you so.

With sisterly love,

Joan

P.S. Have you seen that no-good Leroy Price much?

“JOAN SAYS HELLO,”
Frankie told Elizabeth as she folded the letter in half lengthwise and slid it into the front pocket of her dress. She sat on the middle of the living room rug and slipped her shoes into her roller skates.

Elizabeth's head was buried in Mother's latest issue of
Ladies' Home Journal
. “That's nice.”

“She also says that Aunt Dottie has her doing a lot of work around the farm.” Frankie fastened the buckles and tightened the skates with her key. “She hasn't had any time to write before now, she's been so busy.”

“Mmm-hmmm.”

“She wants to know all about the restaurant, so I'm going to write her all about Amy and Julie and Mr. Washington and Seaweed. And that awful Mr. Stannum, too. And how Daddy is throwing a big Fourth of July party and has invited everybody.”

Elizabeth laid the magazine open on her lap. The page, which featured a high-arched eyebrow with step-by-step how-to instructions, draped over her leg. “I don't know what Daddy was thinking.”

“What do you mean?” asked Frankie. “Don't you think all the work on the restaurant will be done in time?”

“I'm not talking about all the work that needs done,” said
Elizabeth. “I mean I don't know what Daddy was thinking inviting
everybody
.”

“Why shouldn't he?” said Frankie. “We'll have plenty of food.”

Elizabeth sighed and shook her head. “You don't understand. Just forget it.” She returned to her page in the magazine.

“Forget what?” said Frankie. “What should I forget?”

Elizabeth put down the magazine once more in a huff. “All I'm saying is that inviting all the staff, you know,” and then she brought her voice down to a whisper, “colored people along with the rest of us, people will talk. And I hope he doesn't get in trouble.”

“Elizabeth Baum,” said Frankie, getting to her knees, “you sound just like a snob talking like that.”

“You take that back right now!” shouted Elizabeth. “I'm no snob. I'm only thinking of Daddy because of what other people might say. You're too young to understand. It matters what other people think.”

While Frankie didn't give a fig about what others thought of her, Elizabeth strove for perfection in all that she did. When people took to calling you Princess since the moment you were born, anything less than perfection might disqualify you in their eyes and cause you to lose your crown. The expectation was set from day one, and Elizabeth worked hard to please everyone so that she could maintain her royal designation.

“And what do you think you're going to do on those skates?” asked Elizabeth, indignant.

“Um, roller-skate?” said Frankie, who wondered why it was that Princess, of the three of them, was considered to be the smart one. Such a question.

“No, you are not,” said Elizabeth. “It's your turn to clean Dixie's shed.”

“I'll do it later,” said Frankie. “I've already got my skates on.” She stuck her feet in the air and shook her wheels at her sister.

“Mother left me in charge while she and Daddy are taking care of some business at the restaurant,” said Elizabeth. “And you need to clean the shed before you do anything else.” She licked her finger and turned the page of Mother's magazine. The page made such a snap that it punctuated Elizabeth's command, and Frankie knew that was the end of the argument.

FRANKIE READ JOAN'S LETTER
to Dixie twice. The pony stomped her hoof when Frankie got to the part about turning the horses out to pasture, and then once again when she said Dixie's name. “I
am
taking good care of you,” she said, but Dixie shook her head back and forth in her stall. “I am too,” insisted Frankie. “You're as bad as Elizabeth.” And then she scooped a handful of oats from the metal bucket they kept in the food bin just outside the shed and held it out to the pony. Dixie immediately drove her nose into Frankie's palm and sucked up every last one of the oats quicker than Mother's Electrolux sweeper.

“Frankie!” yelled Elizabeth from inside the apartment. “Make sure you give her fresh water! And latch the door when you are finished!”

“I know!” Frankie shouted back.

“Last time you didn't and she got into the cider, remember?” yelled Elizabeth.

How could Frankie forget, when Elizabeth brought it up all the time? She made a face in Elizabeth's direction. “And it wasn't the last time,” Frankie said under her breath, “it was last year.” She stroked Dixie along her mane. “Joan will be back before you know it. And in the meantime, I'm as good as a Number Two as far as you're concerned.”

But do you know, that pony shook her head again?

Frankie glared at her.
The Pony With the Human Brain, my word.
“What do you know?” She grabbed the saddle hanging on the wall and laid it across Dixie's back. Then she pulled down the leather driving harness from the shelf and spread it out on the grass. The pony snorted. Even she knew this was going to be a mistake. Frankie slipped the bridle around Dixie's head, grabbed the reins, and led her out of the shed. That part she had done a few times on her own, without Joan, but the driving harness and the cart, well, that was a different story.

For one thing, the driving harness had a lot of different parts and Frankie wasn't quite sure where they all went, how they fit together, and what they hooked onto. That was a lot of things to be unsure about. She tied Dixie to the hitching post by the cart and then stood over the pieces of harness. There was the browband, noseband, and throatlash, which she recognized right away, but had some trouble putting on. It didn't help that Dixie didn't really enjoy having those straps around her head and so kicked up a bit of a fuss. Still, after a brief struggle and some more handfuls of oats, Frankie managed to secure them. “There you go,” she said, smiling. “I told you I could do it.”

Dixie flicked her tail, which Frankie took to mean that she was impressed.

Frankie stared at the remaining pieces on the ground: wither strap with rein rings, breastplate, false martingale, false bellyband, girth, traces, breeching and breeching strap, hip strap, and crupper and dock. These, of course, were the proper names for the harness parts, but Frankie couldn't remember what they were called and didn't understand why they had to have such strange names in the
first place. False martingale? Don't you think that sounds like a bird who tells lies?

Buoyed by her early success, Frankie moved on with confidence, hanging the other pieces of the harness all about the pony like garlands on a Christmas tree. Except that
this
Christmas tree wouldn't hold still and was getting tired of being tied to a post, snorting and whinnying and making enough of a racket that Frankie was sure Elizabeth would hear and come running. And speaking of running, Dixie wanted to very badly. She was itching to stretch those legs and hear the lovely clop-clop of her hooves on cobblestone. There was no sound that gave her as much pleasure, except for perhaps the clang of the metal feed bucket. “Quiet now,” Frankie told her, and stuck the entire bucket of oats under her nose.

Frankie went back to work and was quite pleased with herself when she finished, until she saw two straps with buckles lying by her feet. “Oh,” said Frankie, looking them over. “Where do these go?” By this time, Dixie had finished the oats—her thick tongue polishing the bottom of the bucket—and was back to rearing her head and raising a ruckus. Frankie told her to hush, but she didn't pay her any mind. A pony only has so much patience, and this one had run out of her very tiny supply many minutes before. If Frankie didn't untie her from the post that instant, there would be no telling what she'd do. The cobblestones were calling her name, and by golly, she was going to answer.

Leaving the two pieces of harness by Dixie's feet, Frankie yanked the cart from the corner of their yard and attached the harness traces to the tree of the cart. She tugged at the breeching and then untied the reins. “Now wait until I get into my seat,” she told Dixie. “Just wait.”

Dixie did wait. But only barely. Frankie got both feet on the footboard of the cart but had not yet turned around to face forward or to even sit down when Dixie, who could not possibly wait one second more, started into a trot. Frankie held tight to the reins and was knocked back into her seat as Dixie took off out of the yard and down the alley. Not wanting a repeat of the Hercules Beetle Scab Incident, Frankie pulled hard on the reins when they got to the front of the apartment building and slowed Dixie to a walk. The pony fought against the bit, wanting not to be held back, but to go, go, and keep on going. You can take a pony out of a rodeo but, as they say, you can't take the rodeo out of the pony. Yahoo!

By some miracle, Frankie managed to get by the apartment without Elizabeth noticing or coming to check on her. This was what Ava would call a clean getaway.

By the time the two turned onto Locust Street, there was the steady sound of clop-clop beneath them, enough to satisfy Dixie's itch. She settled down sufficiently that Frankie loosened her grip on the reins, but only a little. They continued through town as the afternoon wandered into evening, and before Frankie knew it, she was heading toward the restaurant. A good plan, she figured, because once Mother and Daddy caught a glimpse of her with Dixie, they'd see her differently. They'd see she was able to do a lot on her own, as much as Elizabeth, even, and perhaps they'd finally see that this Number Three didn't belong in the kitchen. No, sir.

As Frankie steered the pony closer to the restaurant, she could see Daddy's Studebaker pulling away from the curb, heading in the other direction. “No, wait!” she yelled. But alas, there was no point. The tires squealed as he rounded the corner, and a few seconds later he was out of sight.

She pulled Dixie to a stop and thought about whether to turn back home or keep on going. Rodeo pony or not, Dixie was nothing against the six-cylinder, ninety-horsepower motor of the Studebaker Dictator. Frankie would never make it home before Mother and Daddy. That was just a fact, plain and simple. And once she did get home and they discovered that she was gone, she would be in a hefty dose of trouble anyway. (Another fact.) Oh brother, there was no way around it. And so, she reasoned, that being the case, there was no point in hurrying back. She snapped the reins, and off they rode.

Frankie steered Dixie to the side of the restaurant and came to a stop. “This is the place,” she said to Dixie. “Baum's Restaurant.”

Dixie shook her head.

“I know,” said Frankie. “You should see the inside. It's even worse.”

Dixie shook her head again.

“Don't worry, we're not going in.” She sat for a few minutes and stared at the place. Some of the lights were still on inside, which she figured meant that the men were still working on the dining room. They'd need to be if there was any hope of opening on schedule, what with the missing walls and such. Frankie didn't know a lot about restaurants, but people liked to have walls around them while they were eating, she was sure of that much.

Frankie watched the sun sink behind the Hoffman Meat Market building across the street. Then, when she figured Mother and Daddy would just about now be starting to worry, she yanked at the reins and clucked her tongue at Dixie to start moving. But that pony did not budge. Frankie snapped the reins against Dixie's hindquarters and yelled out, “Come on, girl. Giddyup!”

But giddyup that pony did not. There appeared to be no up in her giddy and certainly no giddy in her up.

Frankie had never seen Dixie do this before. She was always ready to get-along-little-dogie. “Dixie!” Frankie pleaded.

That pony had such a belly full of oats, she just preferred at that moment to have herself an old-fashioned rest. Frankie climbed down from the cart and checked Dixie over. She pulled at her bridle with both hands, but the beast might as well have been a statue cemented to the street. Frankie picked up each hoof and examined each leg for any sign of injury, or, well . . . cement. As far as she could tell, though, nothing but a stubborn head seemed to be the matter. “I swear,” said Frankie, “you better get going!”

Then, the thought occurred to Frankie that maybe the animal was thirsty. All of those oats
would
make for a dry mouth, she thought. “Do you need a drink, girl? Is that what you're after?”

Dixie stomped at the ground.

“Well, why didn't you say so?” Frankie told Dixie she'd go inside the restaurant and fetch some drinking water. On her way to the door, she looked back and warned Dixie, “Now, don't you go anywhere.”

But by the looks of Dixie, this was not going to be a problem.

Frankie jiggled the handle to the front door but found it inconveniently locked. She cupped her hands around her eyes and peered into the window, but saw only the bulbs in the chandeliers throwing shadows over the empty dining room. There were no men working tonight, at least not in the dining room, not even a trace of them. She went back to Dixie and checked on her once more, but Dixie flared her nostrils and whinnied, irritated that Frankie had come back empty-handed.

Then, Frankie remembered the door from the kitchen. She hurried around the back of the restaurant and squeezed through the narrow alley. She tried the door to the colored entrance. It swung open with hardly a pull, and Frankie made her way inside. Only one dim light in the kitchen was on, but it was bright enough for Frankie to get to the shelves of pots and pans without running into anything. She grabbed an aluminum saucepan and headed for the spigot at the sink, but as she did, she heard a voice coming from another room. Frankie dove into one of the cupboards closest to her and closed the door. Although once she was there, in the dark, with her knees pulled up to her chest, she wondered why she was hiding in the first place. This was her family's restaurant, for goodness' sakes. There was no reason for her to be inside a cupboard.

She started scooting out, nudging the door open with her knee, but then stopped when she heard another voice, one that she recognized.

“And this is the kitchen,” said Mr. Stannum. He turned on the overhead lights.

Mr. Stannum. Great snakes!
Frankie pulled the cupboard door closed. On second thought, hiding wasn't such a bad idea.

“This is some kind of operation,” said a man, whose husky voice Frankie recognized as belonging to Mr. Price. There was also the musty scent of cigar smoke, which made her sure of it. “What is the total number under the employ of Mr. Baum?”

“Well, uh,” said Mr. Stannum. “I'm not sure . . .”

“What I'm asking is,” said Mr. Price, “just how many people are working for Mr. Baum here, at this restaurant? It's no secret, is it? I'd imagine a person in a position such as kitchen manager, like
yourself, would be entrusted to know these kinds of things. And other things as well.” His voice trailed off.

“Well, I'm not sure of the exact count, and there are more to be hired. Let's see, there's five of us in the kitchen, but we could use a few more good hands, and the bar staff, waitstaff. I'd say at least fifteen, maybe more.”

“I see,” said Mr. Price, writing that down in his notebook. “Like I said, this is no small operation you've got here. With the Depression on, a lot of folks have fallen on hard times. You'd have to wonder where a man gets money to start up such an enterprise.” And then he laughed the way people do when they want you to think they are making a joke but are really as serious as a stiff wool suit.

Frankie didn't like his candor. How did he have the right to question where Daddy got his money to start the restaurant? Slowly and with ever so much caution, she nudged open the cupboard door just enough to have a look.

“Well, thank you for the tour, Mr. Stannum,” said Mr. Price. “Mr. Baum told me to stop by the restaurant anytime so we could finish the interview, and yet once again I find that he's not here. I do hope he's not avoiding me. It would be a pity if that was the case.”

“I'm sure he's not,” said Mr. Stannum. “What I mean is, why would he be?”

“There's been some talk about town,” said Mr. Price. “About Mr. Baum's loyalty.”

“Loyalty?” said Mr. Stannum.

“That's right,” said Mr. Price. “Some say he wasn't born here. His parents were German, you know.”

“I didn't . . .”

“Well, ties to your country run deep,” said Mr. Price. “The question is, in times such as these, which does he consider to be his country?”

Frankie covered her mouth with both hands so she wouldn't let out a yell.

“Now, I'm not saying he's done anything wrong,” continued Mr. Price, “but I guess I'm not saying he hasn't, either. There are a few others in town of German ancestry, of course, but they've all been very cooperative and forthcoming, unlike Mr. Baum. Tell me, Mr. Stannum, have you by chance seen anything unusual around here?”

Mr. Stannum shook his head.

“Strange people coming and going? Witness any strange conversations between Mr. Baum and others?”

“Strange conversations?” asked Mr. Stannum.

“You know,” said Mr. Price, “any talk in German, or any mention of Hitler. I've heard from some contacts, people inside the government, that Hitler is sending spies to America.”