A Tiny Piece of Sky (5 page)

THERE WAS NO NIGHT
air coming through Frankie and Elizabeth's bedroom window, not even as much as a whisper to waft the curtains. Frankie lifted her head from the pillow and kicked off the cotton sheet to cool her bare feet. She rolled over in her bed and found Bismarck next to her, stretched out in Joan's spot. His head was only a few inches away, his mouth open and panting from the closeness of the June heat. Frankie turned back over to get away from his hot breath, which incidentally had the scent of rotted beans. The thin mattress squeaked on the metal frame when she turned, and Elizabeth stirred in her bed across the room.

Frankie didn't know what time it was, or how long she'd been asleep, or for that matter why she had awakened. But the sun had not yet made itself known, so she figured it was either very late or very early. No matter, she decided; she was awake, and so she got out of bed. As her feet touched the wood floor, Bismarck lifted his head and whined. Frankie whispered to him that he shouldn't be bothered with what she was up to and to go back to sleep, which he promptly did. That dog.

Frankie slipped out of her room and down the hall toward the kitchen for a glass of water. The apartment was dark, and she stepped lightly on the floorboards so as to not awaken anyone. Guiding herself
using her hands along the walls, she felt for the walnut dresser that stuck out a good bit in the hallway, the one that she had tripped over more than once even with the lights on. The dresser belonged to Grandma Engel, passed down from her mother, but was too big to fit in Grandma Engel's apartment, too big to fit in the Baums' apartment either, to be honest, but there it sat in the hall serving as a catchall for extra bed linens, holiday candles, and anything else that no one knew where to put.

Daddy cursed the thing on more than one occasion because it sat just outside his and Mother's bedroom, on the left side of the hall, which happened to be in his blind spot. Coming out of his bedroom, he must've knocked his knee on the side of it a thousand times, and after each swore, “Mark my words. One of these days, you will meet your fate with an axe!” Daddy didn't own an axe, so far as Frankie knew, but still, she wouldn't have been surprised if one day she came home and there was nothing left in the hall but a pile of splinters.

Frankie filled a water glass and sipped from it on the way back to her room. She was thinking of Joan and feeling lonelier than she remembered—
do you ever notice how things always seem worse at nighttime?
—when she heard something. She stopped and listened quietly for a moment, not sure what she'd heard or if she'd really heard something at all, for sometimes, as it was in her experience, the ears could play clever tricks. She waited, still listening, until just about the time she would have given up, when she heard another something that was, she was sure, an
actual
something. And it came from the living room.

She tiptoed through the dining room without giving a thought
about what could have made the actual-something noise, which, in truth, was a careless thing to do, for who knows what terrible things lurk in the dark? But still, on she went into the living room, where she promptly tripped over an outstretched leg. A leg! She screamed, understandably, and dropped her water glass, which shattered against the floor.

Daddy yelled then, for he was as startled as Frankie, perhaps more so, as it turned out that the leg she tripped over belonged to him.

“Daddy!” said Frankie after he switched on the lamp. “What are you doing?”

He quickly picked up the handset of the telephone, which he had dropped moments before, then mumbled something into it and returned it to the base. “Quiet,” he whispered to Frankie, looking toward the hall as if he expected to see Mother or at least Bismarck coming to see what was going on. “And I should ask you the same.”

“I was just getting a drink and heard a noise.” Frankie knelt down and started gathering the pieces of broken glass from the braided rug. She glanced up at Daddy still sitting in the upholstered chair and then at the telephone on the side table next to him.

“It was dark and I didn't think anyone was . . . It must've been you I heard, on the telephone. What time of night is it?”

“Close to three, I believe. Now go get yourself a towel,” said Daddy. “I'll take care of the glass.”

Frankie hurried to the kitchen and grabbed a tea towel from the drawer. By the time she returned to the rug, Daddy was on his knees picking up the shards of glass. Frankie pressed the towel into the braids to soak up the spill.

“There, now,” said Daddy, holding the shards in his cupped hand. “I think that should do it. I don't think we need to worry Mother about this, do you?”

Frankie shook her head. Frankie and Joan, and even Elizabeth, went out of their way to keep Mother from worrying. Mother worried about everything, and made a big to-do about the littlest things, which, to be honest, was embarrassing. If it weren't for Daddy, none of the Baum girls would've learned to roller-skate or swim or ride a horse. Mother would've been too nervous to allow it. So Frankie was happy to keep the secret with Daddy, although she wondered if there were other reasons besides the broken glass that he didn't want Mother to know.

Daddy took the damp towel from her and carefully emptied the broken glass into it. He started to get up but fell back to his knees.

“Daddy?”

“Give me a hand, would you, Frankie?”

She gripped his arm and helped him upright. “Are you all right?”

“Fit as a fiddle,” he said, taking some deep breaths. “Now, back to bed.” He kissed her forehead.

“Good night.” Slowly, Frankie padded out of the room, but then turned in wonder. “Aren't you going to sleep, too?” she whispered.

“Soon,” he answered.

Frankie continued on, and looked back once more as Daddy sat back down in the chair and switched off the lamp. She climbed back into bed beside Bismarck, who was moving his paws in a dream chase. There Frankie lay for quite a while, listening to Bismarck's occasional whimper and wishing more than anything that Joan were there. It wasn't like Daddy to be up in the middle of the night, and whom was he talking to at this hour?

“Elizabeth,” whispered Frankie. “Psst, Elizabeth!”

“Go to sleep,” murmured Elizabeth as she turned over in her bed with her back toward Frankie. This was just as well, because telling Elizabeth anything would ensure it got back to Mother eventually.

Frankie hugged her pillow tight, but it wasn't until she heard Daddy knock into the walnut dresser a while later, on the way to his bedroom, and then curse at it, that she was able to fall asleep.

June 18, 1939

Dearly Departed Joan,

I'm so sorry that each and every one of your fingers was broken in a tractor accident at Aunt Dottie's. The pain must be just awful. It's been painful here, too, you know, not receiving a letter from you since you've been gone. Which is why I can only figure that your fingers are all bandaged up on account of some sort of a farming mishap and are preventing you from holding a pen properly. Certainly, if your fingers were working, you would have written me by now.

But, my fingerless Baloney, I do have to wonder why you haven't asked Aunt Dottie to write on your behalf. Maybe because you feel so foolish about the tractor and your clumsiness, or you don't want Aunt Dottie to know how miserable you are in her company? I bet the food is terrible there, isn't it? Egg custards all day long, I'm guessing.

If you can manage to scribble something on a slip of paper, a napkin even, maybe by holding a pen between your teeth, just to let me know that you have received my letters and actually read them, it would come as a great relief.

Your sister, IF YOU REMEMBER ME AT ALL,

Frankie

FIRST THING IN THE
morning, Frankie dropped the letter to Joan at the post office. On the walk back to the apartment, she was feeling a good bit alone and sorry for herself, which are quite frankly terrible feelings to feel, and so with her mind occupied on such things, she didn't see Ava and Martha coming out of the alleyway. They were both in bathing suits and swim caps with towels hung around their necks. Seeing that Frankie didn't notice them, and always up for a good scare, Ava and Martha jumped out at her as she passed. Frankie hollered and stumbled backward, nearly landing on her behind. “What a dirty trick!” she said, after regaining her balance.

“Gotcha!” Ava twisted up her towel and snapped its tail end at Frankie.

What a snap it was, too. It produced a sting on Frankie's arm that made her screech like a gobble-pipe. Ava bent over in a fit of giggles, while Martha continued chewing on a chunk of buttered bread with her mouth open.

“Cut it out!” Frankie yelled, examining the red mark on her arm. “That smarts.”

“You should've seen your face,” said Ava, slapping her knee. Then she instructed Martha to help her reenact the whole scene so
Frankie could witness firsthand the general hilarity of it all. “Martha, you be me,” said Ava, positioning her in the alley. “Okay, now, I'll be Frankie.” Ava backed up about ten steps. Then she slumped her shoulders and put on the most sullen face, as if she'd just been handed a life sentence without parole.

“That doesn't look like me,” protested Frankie.

“It certainly does,” said Ava. “Try looking in the mirror sometime.” She turned to her sister. “Ready, Martha?”

Martha popped the last chunk of crusty bread into her mouth and nodded. Then she adjusted her swim cap and put her hands on her bare knees, readying for the jump. Ava began walking slowly, in the same way that Frankie had, and when she got to the opening of the alleyway, nodded at Martha to do her thing. Right on cue, Martha leaped forward like a jumping frog. Then Ava launched herself into the air, squealing ridiculously and waving her arms around like she was one of Prince John's cronies from
The Adventures of Robin Hood
who had just been stabbed through the heart.

Frankie rolled her eyes at the overdone performance and started past Ava, who was now nearly seizing with laughter.

“Where you going, Frankie?” asked Martha.

Frankie climbed the stairs to the front door of the apartment building. “Inside,” she said flatly.

“Aw, come on,” said Ava. “I was only kidding around. Come swimming with us.”

“Yeah, come on,” said Martha. “Ava is gonna try and sink me. And she's gonna need some help because she told me just this morning that I was so full of hot air.”

“Ain't that the truth,” said Ava.

“I don't think that's what she meant, Martha,” said Frankie.

“Anyway, come on,” said Ava. “I've been on punishment for five whole days, since Mary Jacobs told her mother that I ripped the eyes off her teddy.” She gritted her teeth and said under her breath, “No-good Mary Jacobs.” Then Ava wiped a bead of sweat that was finding its way down her nose. “And I've been itching for a swim.”

“Did you?” Frankie wondered.

“Did I what?”

“Did you pull the eyeballs off that teddy?”

“Of course I did it,” said Ava. “
You
knew I did it. Everybody in the whole school knew I did it. But I gave them back to her the next day, and she
still
told on me.” Ava looked down the street and narrowed her eyes. She stared intently at nothing, her face calm and almost peaceful as she plotted heinous revenge. Poor Mary Jacobs. It would not end well for her. Then, after a long, eerie moment, Ava returned from wherever she was, her mouth tightening at the corners. “So are you coming or not?”

Frankie shrugged.

“Great snakes,” said Ava. “What else is there to do?”

Frankie knew she had a point. It was either swimming with her cousins—which would be sort of fun, although not as much fun without Joan—or hanging upside down on the jungle gym out back until her head filled up with enough blood that she got a headache. “Okay,” Frankie said, after giving both options a good deal of thought. “Let me get my suit.”

Frankie pulled open the door and ran into their apartment. She called into the kitchen on the way down the hall to her room, “I'm going swimming with Ava and Martha!”

Mother, who was pouring coffee grounds into the percolator, called back, “I don't think so, young lady.”

Frankie stopped halfway down the hall, turned around, and marched back to the kitchen. “Why not?”

“Because you're going to the restaurant this morning to help your father,” Mother said. “That's why not.” She put a plate of buttered white toast on the kitchen table and licked a dollop of butter from her thumb. “We're leaving right after breakfast.”

“But why do I have to help?” said Frankie.

Mother raised her eyebrows and cocked her head to the side as if she didn't understand the question. Frankie repeated the question, which turned out to be a mistake. Mother's eyes grew bigger, magnified behind her thick, horn-rimmed eyeglasses. There was indignation swirling inside them, plain as day. “Because you do,” she said, as if that answered everything.

“What about Elizabeth?” said Frankie.

“You don't worry yourself about your sister,” said Mother, grabbing a handful of silverware from the drawer. “She'll be along later, after her riding lessons.”

Frankie shook her head. “No fair.”

“I don't want to hear it,” said Mother. “No one ever said life was fair.” She set the silverware on the table, and as she did, a butter knife slipped out of her hand and landed on the floor. Mother stood over the knife, looking down on it as if she were trying to decide whether to pick it up. “Well, you know what that means.”

“What?” said Frankie. There were so many superstitions that Mother knew of and believed in with the whole of her heart that Frankie couldn't keep them all straight in her head.

“A man's going to visit,” said Mother. Then she picked up the knife, wiped it on the apron of her skirt, and set it back on the table. “I wonder who it will be.”

Frankie trudged into the living room, the dread of the day to come pressing down on her shoulders and slowing her steps. She managed to open the front window that looked onto the street and stick her head out. Ava and Martha were just where she had left them, on the sidewalk playing a clapping game and belting out:

Alice stepped into the bathtub

She pulled out the plug.

Oh my goodness

Oh my soul

There goes Alice down the HOLE . . .

Frankie felt a pang of jealousy seeing the two of them, and now more than before wanted to join them for a swim. She whistled at them to get their attention and then said, “Go on without me. I can't go.”

“Why on earth not?” said Ava.

Frankie just shook her head. “I have to help at the restaurant.”

“Too bad for you,” said Ava. “See you around.” She grabbed Martha's hand, and they skipped away down the block as Frankie closed the window.