The Loud Silence of Francine Green (6 page)

Fade out

I took to wearing my school beanie pulled down low over my forehead. I might have had to sport a crewcut, but I didn't have to flaunt it.

I even wore the beanie in class. It was the only kind of hat allowed, as if beanies were holy or something. I told Susan and Gert and Florence that it was a new fashion, the beanie tipped low over the face. "You know how interested I am in fashion," I told them ironically. Funny thing, Florence and a couple of other girls started wearing their beanies the same way. Sister pushed them back on our heads when she passed our desks, but we just pulled them forward again after she'd gone by. Imagine, the new, popular Francine—a trendsetter.

"
Come and help me
find something to wear tonight," Sophie said when I came to the telephone. She had written a speech for a citywide contest on the topic "What Today's Youth Can Learn from Yesterday's Saints," sponsored by Los Angeles Catholic Youth, and tonight she was saying it out loud in front of students and parents from the whole city.

Sister Basil's face got scrunched and red when she heard that Sophie of all people had been chosen to speak, and the other girls started referring to her as "Sophie Bowman, that shining example of Catholic Youth." I recognized that—it was irony.

Sister Peter Claver seemed fine about Sophie being picked, and she began coaching her in the library after school. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, while I shelved books about elves and horses and dead popes, I heard about the Blessed Martin de Porres of Peru.

"I have chosen to speak about the Blessed Martin de
Porres,'" her speech began, "'even though he is not a saint yet. I think what is important about him is not whether or not he was canonized but that he helped people who needed help, and I don't think he would care if he were an official saint or not. That is one of the best things about him.'"

"But Sophie," I said when she had told me whom she'd chosen, "don't you think you should pick a holy saint who is important, one who performs miracles and has weeping sores on his body and can talk to God?"

"Do you think that's what makes someone a saint?" she asked me.

You could tell that Sophie didn't know much about saints. "Well, sure. Do
you
know anyone who performs miracles and talks to God?"

"I think there are different kinds of saints. Listen." She cleared her throat. '"Martin de Porres was born in Peru in 1579, the son of a Spanish knight and a Negro woman. His father was disappointed that the boy looked like a Negro, and he left the family. At twelve, Martin became an apprentice to a barber surgeon who cut hair and also operated on people.

'"He left when he was fifteen to become a holy brother in a monastery. He worked there as a barber and a gardener, spending his nights in prayer and his days caring for the poor and those stricken with plague, especially the slaves brought to Peru from Africa, even though that wasn't an easy thing to do in those days. He helped found a hospital, an orphanage, and a home for homeless dogs and cats. He even
forgave the rats and mice that stole his food, saying that the poor little things were hungry."'

"But anybody could do those things," I said. "Why Christina the Astonishing could fly, and Saint Simon Stylites lived for forty-eight years on the top of a pillar, and Saint Bernadette had actual conversations with the Blessed Virgin. How come you didn't pick one of them?"

"Because I'm supposed to pick a model for today's youth. Do you think we should be encouraged to fly or live on a pillar?"

I thought a moment. "Of course not, but—"

"Martin de Porres did things that anyone could do to help people. That was his way of honoring God. That's why I chose him. Let me finish my speech.

"We do not call Martin de Porres blessed because he withdrew from the world to fast and pray or beat himself with whips and chains or turned his bathwater into beer like some saints, but because he cared for those in trouble, like slaves and sick people and hungry mice. He gave food to those who needed food and a home to those who had none. He did not care about money or fame but only about what he could do for others. That is why we call him blessed.

"'And that is why we young people should learn from him, to be as kind and generous and compassionate as he was, not to judge people by the color of their skin or the size of their bank accounts, to stand up and do what is right when we know it is right.

"'The Blessed Martin de Porres died in 1639 of a fever, but in a way he never died, for he is still an inspiration
to young people today and a shining example of social justice.'"

My head was spinning. I had never thought about saints quite like that, as human beings like me who did good things and tried to make the world a better place. Trust old Sophie to make me see things in a different way.

Later I wondered what saint I would have chosen to speak about. I considered roasted and tortured martyrs, miracle workers, hermits who lived in the desert on dry bread and bugs, but finally settled on Joan of Arc, who led the soldiers of France against the English invaders, even though she was just a peasant girl and afraid. Last year Ingrid Bergman starred in a movie about Saint Joan, which my parents let Dolores and me go see. I fell asleep, the movie being mostly talk and me being only twelve, but I knew about Saint Joan from religion class.

She was just an ordinary person like me at first, but then she saw something that needed doing and did it. Okay, not like me at all. But that's who I would have chosen. Probably.

By the time the big day came, I knew Sophie's speech well enough to deliver it myself, although the very thought made my stomach flutter alarmingly.

I put on my beanie, pulled it low on my forehead, and went over to Sophie's. Clothes were flung all over her room. Socks hung from dresser drawers, skirts and sweaters tumbled off the bed, and a white scarf patterned with four-leaf clovers dangled from the light fixture in the ceiling. "It looks like an explosion hit the Broadway's Junior Miss department," I said.

"Shut up and help me," Sophie said. "What should I wear? This? Or maybe this?" She held up a flowered dress and a blue nylon blouse.

"No," I said. "Your yellow sweater set. It's dreamy. And your dark-green pleated skirt."

She fished them out, tried them on, and twirled around the room. "Sit," I ordered her, "and I'll make sure the skirt covers your knees. You know how nuns are about knees."

The skirt passed the nun test. Sophie added saddle shoes over white socks that bagged around her ankles, and I tied a green ribbon in her hair. "You look gorgeous," I said, "and you're smart and well prepared. Don't worry."

"I'm not worried," she said. "I know my speech is good. But I didn't want to look like a poor relation at that snooty school."

We went outside to wait for Mr. Bowman, who would drive us downtown. Bitter brown smoke came through the kitchen window. "What's that awful smell?" I asked Sophie. "Is your father cooking?"

She sniffed. "My father's friend Jacob Mandelbaum must be here. He smokes stinky black cigars."

"Is he coming with us?"

"No, he's going to see the Hollywood Stars play baseball."

"You mean the team or actual movie stars?"

"You're kidding, right?"

"Right, Sophie."

"I can't always tell," she said. "I'm not that great in the sense of humor department." I gave her hand a squeeze, meaning
I know, but you're my best friend anyway.

Mr. Bowman drove us to Holy Cross in Beverly Hills, where the speech contest would take place. It was a snooty school, much larger and fancier than All Saints, with its own chapel. A sort of Holier-Than-Thou Cross, I thought.

Sophie gave us a little wave as she went up and joined the other speakers on stage. Mr. Bowman searched for seats for us and then, bowing slightly, said, "After you, Miss Green." We sat.

Suddenly I felt shy. I didn't know what to say to him. He was so old and smart, a real writer and all. We sat in silence for an uncomfortably long time. Finally he said, "How was school today, Francine?"

Ah, good. A question I knew how to answer. "Fine," I said. More silence. I cleared my throat. "And how was work?"

He smiled. "Fine," he said. "But we were talking about you. Do you have a favorite class?"

"English," I said. "Recently we learned about irony and oxymorons." There was more silence. "And we read a poem about the ocean having 'unplumbed depths.' Don't you love that—unplumbed depths? It sounds so quiet yet full of possibilities."

Mr. Bowman was looking at me solemnly. Maybe I had talked too much. My cheeks grew hot. "I'm glad you're friends with my Sophie," he said. "She's a puzzle to me—so much spunk and so little common sense, so much energy and so little imagination. She needs someone like you."

She does? Need me? Doesn't he know it's the other way around?
"I'm glad Sophie's my friend too," I said finally. "I
learn lots of things from her, like about free speech and improving the world and not being so afraid of trouble. I guess we make a good pair."

"Best friends," he said.

"Best friends," I agreed.

The auditorium had filled up with relatives and friends of the students on the stage. There were some priests there, too, but no sisters. Nuns don't get out much.

The Perfect and Admirable Mary Agnes Malone was one of the speakers, of course, and her mother sat in the seat behind me. She leaned forward. "Francine, dear," she said, "how nice of you to come and cheer on the more accomplished girls."

"Francine may surprise you one day, madam," said Mr. Bowman over his shoulder. "Like the ocean, she has unplumbed depths."

Me? I will? I do?
I gave Mrs. Malone a smile full of depth and turned back toward the stage.

Sophie looked so small up there. She twirled a lock of her hair and tucked it behind an ear.

I thought she would have a better chance of winning if she were either the first speaker or the last, but her place was right in the middle of the group. It didn't matter. She won anyway. She got a fake gold cup with two handles and "First Place, Catholic Youth Speech Contest, 1949" engraved on it. Mr. Bowman hugged Sophie and then me, and I hugged them back.

Walking to the car, Mr. Bowman held Sophie's hand and swung it as he sang some big, loud song in a language
I didn't recognize. "German," Sophie said. "Beethoven. 'Ode to Joy.' It's his happy song."

"What would you say to a strawberry sundae?" Mr. Bowman asked us.

Sophie and I called out in chorus, "Hello, sundae!"

"But can we stop at the convent first?" Sophie asked him. "I promised Sister Pete I'd bring the trophy over to show her if I won."

I was a little worried. It was probably just a silly rumor, but I'd heard that nuns had their heads shaved, and I was afraid they relaxed by taking off their veils and running around bald, something I certainly did not wish to see.

The convent building next to the school was quiet and dark. Mr. Bowman waited in the car while Sophie and I knocked at the door. A fully veiled Pete opened at our first knock. Her big grin shone like a quarter moon in the dim light of the convent hall. "I knew you would do it," she said as she clapped Sophie on the back. "Well done, my girl."

Sister Basil joined us at the door. "This," she said, "will be a suitable addition to the school trophy case." She took the trophy from Sophies hands.

"No, it's for my father's desk," Sophie said.

Sister Pete turned to Sister Basil. "I know it's customary for the trophies won by All Saints girls to stay together," she said, "but perhaps—"

"Yes, it is customary," said Sister Basil. "The trophies belong to the school." The convent door closed.

"That's not fair. It's mine," Sophie said, kicking the gravel
path on the way to the car. "You're wrong, Sister Basil the Not-So-Great."

"Dead wrong, Sister Basil the Rotten," I added. We joined Mr. Bowman and went to drown our sorrows in strawberry sundaes.

I pounded on Sophie's door
early Saturday morning. "Sophie/' I called. "Come and look. Look, Sophie, look!"

I shook the newspaper at the door until it opened. A sleepy-looking Mr. Bowman said, "Come in with your earth-shaking news, Francine. Sophie is in the kitchen."

I galloped through the living room to the kitchen. "Sophie, Sheila Graham. Look. Monty. Here. Look. See."

Sophie swallowed a mouthful of cereal and put down her spoon. "Jeeps, Francine, you sound like a Dick and Jane reader," she said. "Sit down and breathe. Then tell me."

I sat down and panted for a while. Then I tried again. "In today's paper." I waved it at her. "In Sheila Graham's column. Tonight. At eight. A premiere." I took a gulp of air and tried to complete a sentence. "It's Monty's new movie,
The Heiress.
At the Carthay Circle Theater. He will be there. With his date, Elizabeth Taylor. Right here in Los Angeles!"

Sophie grabbed the paper and read the item. "Holy
smokes. You're right. But so what? Do you think they'll stop off and visit you?"

"No, but we could go visit them."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. Ordinary people go to premieres all the time. We can watch the stars get out of their limousines, and clap and cheer, and maybe get them to look at us."

"Let's do it," Sophie said.

"Yes, let's."

She looked at me quizzically. "You mean it? Sometimes you don't, you know."

"I know, but this is Monty. I'll do it. I really will. We just have to convince my parents and your father and get a ride somehow. Wally has his father's car on Saturday nights. Maybe he and Dolores'll take us." I jumped up. "I have to go home now and get ready."

"Francine, you goof, it's thirteen hours away," Sophie said.

"Thirteen hours? Is that all? I'll have to hurry. See you at six thirty?"

She nodded.

Mr. Bowman, in corduroys and an old felt hat, was pruning the roses that lined the front walk. "Got to hurry, Mr. Bowman," I shouted as I ran off. "Montgomery Clift is coming to see me!" He saluted, and I ran home.